Monday, July 20, 2009

Quickie intimacy


The sun and the wind conspired to tease me. The sun glowed in a cerulean sky, and its touch on my skin was like a lover's smile, warming me from the outside in. The wind tickled me, dancing along my skin like my lover's fingers. My nipples peaked, the heat of the sun and the chill of the wind enflamed me, and I sighed languidly there in my lounge chair by the pool. My languor was interrupted by a shriek of laughter from my niece, a green-eyed coppery mermaid whose hair and skin were all of a color now that summer had kissed her. I lifted the edge of my big straw hat in time to witness my lover pop out of the pool, grab hold of my niece, and unceremoniously dump her back into the water. She came back up, gasping and spluttering, and I closed my eyes.

Water dripped on me. I opened my eyes to find him standing over me, barechested and bronzed, gleaming like a god. I moved my legs to make room for him and he sat by my calves, resting his hand on my thigh, just above the knee. It made me gasp, the coolness of his hand on my over-heated skin. My libido surged. My nipples crinkled up so tightly they ached, and my skin pebbled until it felt like every hair was standing on end.

"I miss you," he said to me, and his fingers moved in a minute caress.

"Mmmm," I sighed. I missed him too, missed the feel of his legs tangled with mine, missed pressing my lips to the smoothness of his chest, but my niece had supplanted him as my bed companion and would do so for another few days. Hell!

He was sliding his hand up my thigh when my niece called out his name. His fingers squeezed me and then he rose and with a few quick steps, launched himself back into the pool. While they splashed and played, I lay in the sun and dreamed of love.

* * *

My bedroom. She sat on my bed waiting for me to pull out a change of clothes, and when I turned around she was asleep on her side, limp as a kitten. She didn't wake when I unwrapped her from the towel. I left her in her swimsuit and covered her up, then slipped out of the room and closed the door behind me. I made my way quietly down the stairs with an eager smile on my face, only to find my lover stretched out on the couch, napping. Darn!

In the kitchen, I warmed some sweet almond oil and grabbed a hand-towel. He made sleepy noises when I sat on the couch and moved his feet into my lap, then moaned when my hot, oiled hands touched him. I massaged his feet firmly enough to hit his pressure points but not enough to hurt. He sighed and moaned and stretched his legs out. His fingers laced themselves just below his navel, and his cock moved a bit, thickening.

I poured more oil into my hands and slid them up his calves, massaging him with long effleurage strokes. More pleasured moaning from him as I worked up to his thighs, my hands alternately gliding and pressing into the muscles. His cock swelled and twitched when I reached his inner thighs. I worked his trunks down past his knees and squeezed that nice warm oil on his balls. He sighed and spread his thighs for me then, one leg bent and leaning against the back of the couch, the other draped across my lap. My fingers quested, teased, pulled and pressed. My slippery hands glided along his cock, bringing it to full attention.

And when I could bear it no longer, I straddled him. I straddled him and sunk down onto the thickness that jutted ceilingward and we both moaned at the long slow glide of him into me. Our hands joined, fingers entwined, and I bounced ion him, my white sundress concealing everything. I bounced and rocked and watched him, watched his mouth open, watched each gasp and moan percolate from him. The tension built and eventually his eyes opened wide and unseeing. His body tensed and bowed beneath me and I rose all the way up and slammed back down onto him, loving the feel of him inside me. I clenched on him, clenched and released, trying to find my orgasm in time with his, knowing that I had to come, come now, now now now because it would be days before I could come again.

I released his hands and placed mine on the arm of the couch, one on each side of his head, and I battered myself against him, grinding my clit into the stubble on his mound. His hands rose and he pinched my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, and I convulsed, opening my mouth on a silent scream as I came hard. Pleasure slammed my body again and again, rocking us both. And as I climaxed he bucked under me, bucked a few times, and then he, too, was coming, his face frozen and his dark eyes blank.

I sat astride him for a few minutes, catching my breath and enjoying the tremors and jolts that ran through me like the aftershocks of an earthquake. It was marvellous, a delicious and much-needed intimate interlude that was interruped by a little voice calling for me.

I lept up and tossed the handtowel to him so he could clean up, then headed toward the stairs, our fluids running down my thighs.

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Saturday, March 28, 2009

Pushed

(My photo of ceramic artwork by Sher Grotts)
"Enough!" he said, and still I pushed. Not out of perversity, but because I am a woman. It is our nature to push. If it was not, no one would be ejected from the womb.

His eyes flashed darkly and his face tightened. He did not want me arousing him, and he was angry that I had. He needed to focus.

He needed to focus and I'd let him. I'd helped him. He brought his work home all week, and all week I moved around quietly, served dinner up at his desk instead of the dining table, brought him tea made just-so, massaged his shoulders and neck. I urged him to bed earlier than usual, and every night I snuggled up to him, skin-on-skin, and felt the profound rightness of it, of our bodies spooned together, and willed my body not to react to the wonderful scent of him filling my nostrils. Every night I wanted the feel of him over me, on me, in me, and every night I settled for pressing my lips, open-mouthed, to the skin of his chest, breathing I love you into him, holding that space of safety so he could sleep deeply and well.

And every morning in the shower I used the wand to pleasure myself, the pulsating water vibrating my clit bringing me to delicious orgasm, day after day. A week of that and I was quivering with need. Snuggling satisfied the skin-hunger but not the desire for bliss. I wanted more. I wanted to scale the heights of him and throw myself off the edge, to break the surface tension of our separateness and mingle freely in spirit, to know that flashing eternal moment of enlightenment that is orgasmic bliss.

And so I pushed him, woman that I am. I pushed him, and man that he is, he feinted and took hold of me, and bound me. Bound me to my sybian and tormented me with idle movements of his fingers upon the control box, his back to me, ignoring me. I gasped and moaned as artfully as I could, begging him to let me cum, but every time I reached the edge, he adjusted the vibration and the crest receeded. Again and again. I pushed myself against the phallus, eyes clenched tight, focussing on the sensation that eluded me. I can cum almost by wishing it, but so great was my frustration that I could not.

How long I hung in this state I do not know. But at some point he was there, naked and standing over me, his cock erect and his hands guiding my mouth onto him. And oh! I nearly swooned from the heat of him, from the taste of him, from the scent rising from his balls. My hands rose to embrace him and I drew him into my mouth as far as I could, and I sucked and licked as the intensity of the sybian increased until my body could not bear it any longer. I came with such intensity I threw my head back and screamed my pleasure, and his cock jerked and shot me with hot streamers of cum that burned as they slid down my breasts.

He leaned forward, leaned his hands on my shoulders, leaning his weight into me, pushing me deeper onto the sybian. He pushed me down, held me down on it, and the intensity of the vibration set me off again, and I came between breaths, convulsing silently until my body's air-hunger forced my lungs to inflate and then I became some symphonic instrument, part human, part machine, and I sang--oh how I sang--accompanied by the sybian's insistent buzzing.

I pushed him away from me and slid off the sybian. My legs did not work, but it did not matter. I curled myself up and shivered and twitched through the orgasmic aftershocks, pushed beyond endurance. Pushed.

(The audio version of this and other erotic stories can be found at my AudioSensual Podcast, audiosensual.blogspot.com)

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Tuesday, September 30, 2008

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.

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Sunday, October 28, 2007

The sexual is spiritual


It had been 6 weeks since I'd felt him moving inside me, and as always, that first time it was difficult to fit him in. Even kneeling astride, juicy with longing, my weight pressing down, I struggled to fit him in. A few inches and I wanted to start moving, to rock on his cock, but he likes to savor the feeling of being fully engulfed. So I worked myself down on him, feeling him stretching me open, feeling the upward glide of his heat. I stopped and moaned. "Almost," he said, and turned himself into a bow, his body arching, pressing the arrowhead of his cock deeper. I gasped, winced a little, my body stiffening. I love the place we were approaching, but getting there is not without discomfort. "Almost," he said again, and we pressed against each other and I tilted my hips a fraction and then, ah then, I felt like swooning. "There!" he said, and smiled up at me, and his eyes glowed. "You can feel that?" I asked him, as I ground myself against him, as I ground that spot inside me against the head of his cock. "How can you tell?" I wondered in awe. How could he tell that where he was, right there, gave me so much pleasure that my nipples tightened and my entire being felt like it was balancing on the point of orgasm. "It fits like lock and key," he answered. I smiled, knowing the analogy to be an apt one. We stayed that way for a full minute, at least, and I worked my muscles around him, and he purred with pleasure, and then I started moving, posting on him, up and down, the thickness of him charging through me, forcing me open again and again. I came, hit an orgasmic plateau, and rocked with a series of orgasms that hit in waves, one after another. My body tingled, I felt light-headed, the way I would after a fit of sneezes, and I rode him still, sliding the key home in its lock, over and over again, until my throat was raw from my cries and I was swaying atop him, all equilibrium gone. I slid off him and sprawled on the bed, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling. "Water, please," I whispered, and he got up and brought me a glass of blessedly cool water and helped me hold it to my mouth. He put the glass aside and got back into bed. "Mmmm... thank you," I purred and moved to snuggle up to him. "I'm not finished yet," he said, and fit himself between my thighs. I said hello to the gibbous moon on my way to the stars. Our heavenly bodies moved together, slowly at first as he gave me time to adjust to the different angle of penetration, then faster and harder, until his sweat fell on me like divine rain. Little sounds and changes in breath, harbingers of male orgasm, alerted me, and I worked my muscles around him, clenching and releasing, worshipping the divine spark in him, intent on maximizing his pleasure. We kissed as he climaxed, and it tasted of salt, and he pulsed inside me, and moaned incoherently, his sounds a benediction, his seed a sacred gift. Love was the afterglow, spreading through me even as he continued to gasp and twitch on me and in me. Tears pricked my eyes. I was reminded that beyond the urgency of orgasm, sex grants access to the sacred. Love is sacrosanct in all its forms of expression, and the sexual, in particular, can be deeply spiritual.

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Wednesday, July 04, 2007

You don't get what you don't ask for


In an email, a friend said: "I already knew you'd ask for what you wanted when you wanted and expect to have it granted too."

My response to him was: "Do I seem the demanding type? Hmm. I'm not, really. It is just rare that I really want something that I cannot provide myself, and if I do find myself in such a situation, if after thinking about it, I really do want it, I will ask. And you are right, if I do ask, I do expect it granted, mainly because I rarely ask. And since I so rarely ask for anything, the people in my life usually go out of their way to give me what I ask for. Being aware of this, I am careful not to abuse them or make excessive demands, nor to have unrealistic expectations. I feel good when I can do what someone asks of me, and I like to think it is a pleasurable experience for those whom I ask, as well. Without reciprocity, without exchange, why bother?"

I typed it quickly and sent it off, and then re-read it. Something about the circular nature of the statement niggled at me. Something about this is familiar, an echo of something else I've recently read. He had written something circular a few weeks earlier, something that reminded me of...

Ah, yes. I reached my right hand out to the bookshelf near my desk and drew forth the slim volume of poems by RD Laing, "knots". And there, on page 32, I found part of it:
I never got what I wanted. I always got what I did not want. What I want I shall not get.
Therefore, to get it I must not want it, since I get only what I don't want.
What I want, I can't get, what I get, I don't want.
I can't get it because I want it, I get it because I don't want it.
I want what I can't get because what I can't get is what I want.
I don't want what I can get because what I can get is what I don't want.
I never get what I want, I never want what I get.

And then on page 50:
She does not get what she wants from him, so she feels that he is mean.
She cannot give him what he wants from her, so she feels that he is greedy.
He does not get what he wants from her, so he feels that she is mean, and, he cannot give her what she wants from him, so he feels that she is greedy.


Dr Laing did have a gift for describing complex interrelations.

As for me and my wants and asking for what I want... Hmm. Yes, if it is something I really want, I'll ask. I'll ask, and I'll expect, well, I'll expect a response, at the very least. But I'll hope, really hard, that I get it. Because if I didn't think that person couldn't give it, I wouldn't have asked him or her.

But that is a pretty safe approach to geting what I want, I realize, so I've been practicing something else recently, too. I've been practicing asking for something even when I am pretty sure I won't get it, when I am sure the answer will be NO. Like when I asked my Dutchman if he would give me any hints on what is inside the package he shipped me. He said "no" and I expected he would and I was not bothered by the "no." I risked very little in asking. And I'm sure he enjoyed my asking, and enjoyed saying "no", knowing that he was prolonging my anticipation. And besdies, if I hadn't asked, he might have thought I wasn't interested or curious, and that is so not true.

Lately, I've noticed that I've been surprised by how often I've heard "yes" when I've asked for something that I expected to hear a "no" on. And it reinforces for me that old adage: "You don't get what you don't ask for"--and more than that, it makes me wonder how many things I would have heard "yes" to but did not because I was afraid to ask. Because I was afraid of "no." Why am I afraid of such a little word? What power in the world is an imaginary no? I am no longer a child afraid to reach for something because I don't want the humiliation of getting my hand slapped with a loud "NO" for emphasis. No, I am an adult, and my reach often surpasses my expectation of what I can grasp. Surprise!

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Sunday, April 15, 2007

Women as objects of love and desire

The Sandstone Pudendum in Kolob Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah, USA (c) KR SilkenvoicePhoto: The Sandstone Pudendum in Kolob Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah, USA (c) KR Silkenvoice
This is an essay about women as objects of love and desire. It is long and rambling, but it does have a point. Hopefully you will get it.

I tried to deny it for years, but I finally came to accept that my earthiness and sensuality can be powerfully attractive to people--regardless of gender. I am open, warm, relaxed, and most people feel comfortable around me--and feel comfortable talking to me about things they normally wouldn't dream of discussing with someone else. Due to the type of work I moonlight at (that is, writing & recording erotica) I come into contact with a lot of people who are already primed for conversation with sexual content. Especially men. Especially online.

Often, when I am conversing with a man, it becomes apparent that he is married or otherwise partnered and looking for a vicarious sexual outlet. Now, I'm not interested in wrecking homes or stealing husbands. Nor am I looking for another lover. I've never had an interest in marrying, and my chosen love-style, polyamory, is one that most people cannot handle well -- they're conditioned to the possessiveness and jealousy and insecurity which the socially-approved institution of serial monogamy engenders. So men talk to me. And depending on my intuition, on their responses to my questions, or the ideas I put out there, I'll often guide them towards erotic objectification of their partners -- instead of (or at the very least in addition to) me.

Now, I should state that I've observed that when men have been with their women for an extended period of time, their women become 'self' instead of 'other'. Which is a good thing, right? Well, mostly. The problem is that when a man internalizes a woman -- takes her identity into himself and begins to see her as an extension of himself -- she is no longer an object of mystery, novelty, denial, teasing. She is no longer a stand-alone individual -- instead, she is his, a part of himself, loved as he loves himself -- and thus she is no longer an object of erotic desire.

The happiest couples I know, the ones who are powerfully in-love after years and years together, seem to have one thing in common: a heathy sex life centered on her erotic objectification. For him, she is a fetish object, a talismanic creature radiating mystery and sensuality -- a Goddess. For her, he is the Summer King, her lover and acolyte, eternally in her thrall. They re-enact the ages old rites of worship between male and female, seeking to penetrate the barriers of their solitude in order to become as one, even if only for those few moments of orgasmic bliss.

Otto Kernberg wrote a book on love relationships which contained an analysis of a Hindu text known as the Ramayana, and in this book he stated: "...the beloved presents himself or herself simultaneously as a body which can be penetrated and a consciousness which is impenetrable. Love is the revelation of the other person's freedom. The contradictory nature of love is that desire aspires to be fulfilled by the destruction of the desired object, and love discovers that this object is indestructable and cannot be substituted."

At some point we all make this discovery, realizing, at least subconsciously, that the object of love and desire is both within our grasp and eternally beyond it. At this point, one of three decisions is made: one, to abandon the object and go in search of one that can be fully possessed/internalized, two, to hold on to the object, internalize what we can of them, and ignore/deny/attempt to destroy what we cannot possess, or three, celebrate the oft-times conflicting duality of love and desire, taking as much of the other as we can into our selves, and enjoy the mystery and delight of trying to grasp what can never be held -- no matter how hard we try. The way in which we cope with this love conundrum determines how well our relationships work, and how long they last.

End of spiritual and psychological analysis. Lets get back to sex.

So, as I established earlier, when men are with women for a long while, the women become 'self' instead of remaining 'other', and in order to re-eroticize their partners, men seem to need to objectify them -- to restore the mystery to the object of their sexual fulfillment. And for some reason I want to help make this happen.

How? Well, I'll sometimes guide conversation or role-play towards erotic objectification of their partners... sometimes the fantasies will be woman-woman, asking questions like, "Would you like to see her face between my thighs? Watch her press her lips to my bare pussy?" I sometimes invite them in..."Would you like to slip up behind her, and fuck her nice and slow while she eats me?" Once I have made the decision to re-eroticize someone's partner, I rarely, ever, suggest sexual intercourse between myself and him. I do not want him to focus on me as an erotic object, but on his wife. In general, my goal is for him to get 'off' thinking about HER, not ME. If he has D/s leanings, sometimes I'll suggest that I'll make his wife submit to me, and allow him to watch -- so long as he does not move or speak unless given permission -- regardless of what I do to her or what she says. This suggestion is powerfully erotic to many men. Sometimes I'll guide him through use of his wife in such a way that will 'please' me.. get him all worked up and then tell him to go to bed and wake his wife and take her... and report back to me on her responses. This has had spectacular results for some couples, results that have amazed the men... they wonder how I know that their wives will respond well to x or y or z, and I tell them its from what I learn from them about their wives...

I am sure a lot of women would freak out about this type of exchange... and here is where the humour of it all comes in. I am a woman who understands men. But I also understand women -- as much as it is possible to understand women. And women, well, we are raunchy. We tell our girlfriends things that make grown men blush. Our girlfriends tell us things that make us roar with laughter, make us horny as hell. We tease each other, flirt with each other. We talk about the best places to buy lingerie and sex toys, about the latest things we tried on our lovers. But heaven forbid if our lovers talk about it. Especially if the person they are talking to is another woman. Heads will roll. Tears will fall. Words like 'betrayal' and 'violation' will resonate in the air. And its ridiculous, the hypocrisy of it. Because for women, their lovers are also no longer 'other', they are 'self' and so talking about their lovers to whomever they choose is their right. But heaven forbid their lovers show an ounce of individuality and discuss such deeply private and personal things with someone else--especially another woman! Oh my.

It is illogical. I call it fuzzy feminine logic. And unfortunately, we're stuck with it. But we can work with it, keeping in mind that simply because women often defy logic does not mean they are irrational. I mean, part of what makes women an eternal mystery to men is this fuzzy, nuanced, emotional logic -- men don't 'get' it. In the everyday world, women are nuts and men are baffled. What men need from women is very simple, and what they want from women is very simple, but women are not simple. We are complex. We think that what we want most is to be understood, but really, we do not. We are complex and what we want from men is not that they understand everything about us, but that they understand that our natures dictate that we be true to the moment, and that this is both valid and rational. We like change, we need change, we are change. We are the source of creation and sustenance. We are mystery incarnate. We are objects of love, of desire, of denial, of fulfillment.


I suppose, when it comes down to it, my argument is that 'objectification of women' is a good thing. Perhaps the feminist movement's efforts to change the fundamental tendancy of men to eroticize women needs to take into consideration the archetypes which this touches upon, the deep-seated psychological reasons for objectification, and how it benefits both genders. Because as I see it, if romantic relationships between women and men are going to be fulfilling in the long term, women need to find ways to continue being erotic objects -- and men need to find ways to continue being enthralled by the objects of their love and desire.

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Saturday, January 06, 2007

Interview with a Pornographer (me?)

From a recent IM interview (bold type is the interviewer):
-As I mentioned in my email, I am working on a master's thesis on pornographers, particularly purveyors of written pornography / erotica. I have read your stories and your blog. I would like to ask you some questions, if I may?
-You may ask. I may even answer :)
-Fair enough. How long have you been writing erotica?
-I remember writing some fantasies down when I was 16 - 18 years old, then I stopped. I don't remember why. I started again, about 18 months ago.
-Do you consider what you write 'erotica'?
-Yes... much of it. I try to write about the sensual and the sexual in a way that allows people to feel positive about their sexual arousal, rather than 'dirty' or 'bad'. I've gotten feedback on one of my stories, in particular, that it was one of the few erotic stories out there that did not depict the submissive in a negative, simplified, or objectified manner. I was very pleased to hear that.
-Do you consider what you write 'pornography'?
-The word 'pornography' has pejorative connotations. As I recall, this is a compound word that derives from the greek or latin word for 'prostititute' combined with 'graphor' to mean something like... "one who depicts prostitutues and what they do." I am not associated with any prostitutues, I do not depict any prostitutes, nor am I one. That said, I would remind you that in Greece and Rome, and many other ancient cultures, temple prostitutes were highly regarded and thus it is quite likely that we've twisted the word, its original meaning, and the depictions themselves from something sacred, into something profane. Its all subjective, isn't it, wavering as it does in the winds of collective morality?
-Would you consider yourself a pornographer?
-I suppose I could. I suppose on some days I might. I guess I would be in good company: It wasn't so long ago that works by Vatsayana, Hong ji, Ovid, Sappho, James Joyce, DH Lawrence, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Mark Twain, etc were considered 'pornographic. '
-Based on my criteria, you qualify as a 'pornographer'. How do you feel about that?
-I suppose it is apt. *shrug* It is a word. Your word. I don't really care. What is important is not how I feel about it, but how you or those who use the word with derogatory intentions feel about it.
-Ok, lets get back to your writing. Why do you write?
-Ah. Now that is a question I have not been asked before. Very astute. I write because I feel compelled to, I suppose. I was reading and writing by age 4. I wrote my first story when I was 5. I still have it somewhere, my grandmother saved it for me. I have noticed that writing helps me think, helps me organize my thoughts, sometimes even helps to purge my mind. I have a memory for details and a systematizing mind... sometimes I just have to get the stuff out of my head by writing it down.
-I've noticed that what you write tends to be 'sensual' as you noted on your blog, and yet your style is very peculiar. A single entry can contain spiritual, sexual, and psychological elements that are elegantly expressed on the one hand, and dissonantly coarse on the other.
-Yes, this is something several people have pointed out to me. Someone recently told me that my writing is "refined and raw at the same time". Apparently this style of expression tends to keep people off-balance, particularly in person. I'm not quite sure why I communicate this way... perhaps it has something to do with the fact that most people find my voice very soothing, often hypnotic, andmy using an occasional jarring word keeps them awake?
-So your writing style is similar to your conversation style?
-I think so. I suppose you would have to ask my family and friends if the way I converse and the way I write are similar if you want an objective opinion. My speech and my writing are both expressions of the same thing: my thoughts/feelings. While I occasionally filter what I say, I rarely edit what I write. I can say that I do tend to make people shake their heads during conversations. It is not unusual for me to be told I am outrageous.
-Why do you write what you write?
-Why... hmm... I write what I write because it turns me on, and because I hope in sharing it, it will turn others on, perhaps even give them an opportunity to vicariously explore things they otherwise would not experience. What I write on my blog is generally my thoughts on my daily life. When I have the time and a thought that might be worthy of sharing with others, I sit down and write it. Failing that, I write about something most people forget about.
-What is that?
-The sensual immediacy of every day life. I've been told that I seem to experience my senory input more intensely than most people, and that I express it in a way that makes people more aware of the sensuousness of their own lives.
-Ah yes, I should have expected that: your subtitle. So... you write about sexual and sensual topics because... why?
-Because I am a sexual and sensual being. Because we all are, only I seem to be more aware of it myself... Because too many people are hung up on sex. They have made pariahs of their sexual selves, rather than integrating their sexuality into their daily lives. And by that I don't mean daily sex. I mean... hmmm... people are socialized to think that there is a correct time and place to be sexual, and that 'feeling sexy' at any other time is inappropriate. That is bullshit. That is the kind of socialization that creates sexual psychopathology. Feeling sexy, feeling sensual is natural. We are human animals, we have senses and flesh. We evolved to avoid pain and seek pleasure. What sick fuck decided that controlling another's sexuality not only socially but intrapersonally, was a good idea?
-Interesting... so would you say that you consider writing erotic stories and sensual diary entries a sort of public service?
-Heh. I suppose so. My therapist once told me that I have the healthiest attitude towards sex and my sexuality that she had ever come across. It made me sad to realize how many people are so hung up on sex. It made me think. It made me want to change things. Between that and conversations with some friends whose opinions I respect, I decided to 'go public', so to speak.
- That is a good lead in to my next question...How do you chose what writing you will make public?
-I dont really know. I write for me. Anais Nin said " We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection." Sometimes I want to share what I write with a select few, sometimes with the public, sometimes with no one.
-Do you read erotica yourself?
-Oh yes! The first naughty book I was given was Little Birds by Anais Nin. I was perhaps 10. From there I read Delta of Venus, Lady Chatterly's Lover, The French Lieutenants Woman, Twain's 1601, and Janet Morris' Silistra series. As an adult, found and read the Fanny Hill story, Ovid's Art of Love, Anne Rice's Beauty series, and Anne Bishop's Dark Jewels series.
-Why did you start reading it so young?
Well, it was partly environmental. I grew up in a free-love environment. The act of sex was no mystery to me, but the reasons behind it were. Also, where most people have a fundamental desire to be understood, I have a fundamental desire to understand. I wanted to understand what made people want to do that with each other.
-Do you think that having access to erotic material made you more or less likely to be promiscuous growing up?
-Oh less so. But again, 'promiscuous' is one of those pejorative, emotionally- and morally- loaded words. In general, what is considered promiscuous is defined by the society one is in. I am not prone to indiscriminate sex --which is my definition of promiscuity--and I never have been. And since my curiousity about sex was both tickled and satisfied by the material I read in my youth, I wasn't all that interested in 'playing doctor'. I'd seen the real thing often enough, and I'd read enough to understand that it really was something best left to 'grown-ups'.
-Do you sell your erotica?
No. I've not submitted any of my stories to any organizations that pay to publish. A friend has a couple of my audio stories for sale on his site, but I don't think it has enough of a market share to generate many hits. I've been solicited by a few people wanting to work together, etc, but its been a hectic year for me personally, and I've not had much time or energy to put into it. Its been more of a hobby for me, than anything else.
-Do you think you would find more time to write erotica if it was lucrative?
-Of course! Writing and recording erotic stories is quite a lot of fun. They come very easily to me, once I set aside a block of time to write them down. Its just that there are so many other things I like doing, too, and though they don't make money, either, they are much better for my social life :) Seriously though, it would be great to make a living at producing erotic material. I'm too practical to do the starving-writer thing, but I may yet try some e-commerce / e-book / digital download venture -- if I can determine there is a market out there that would pay enough to make the effort worthwhile.
What would you like to see happening in erotica in the next decade?
I'd like to see more material out there for women and couples. Women can be quite raunchy. We like our romantic, sweet, hint-at-but-don't-describe-the-details fiction, but--just as we like to be bent over the couch and fucked hard and fast once in a while--we also like to read hot, steamy stories that make us want to reach into our sex-toy stash and play. And the stuff out there for the general male audience is just too... dry. Or too short. Or too unrealistic. Its funny, I'v had several men contact me, asking for help with their wives. They say their wives are frigid, or reluctant, or too perfuctory in sexual relations, and they wish there was something they could do to make their wives more like me. c Sometimes I recommend sensual massages or discission of fantasies. Sometimes I tell them to try to find a way to introduce their partners to one of my stories, like Check and Mate. Or one of my audios, like Picnic Beneath the Willow. I've heard back from some that the stories have gone over very well, much to their surprise. I think people would be surprised to know how many women would enjoy erotica more if they could find good erotica, with the right balance of romance and raunchiness. So, mainstreaming quality erotica for women and couples is something I would like to see, sometime soon.
And, with that, I've got to call it a night. I'm tired and I've got a long day tomorrow. I hope you don't mind?
-No. I understand. You've given my far more of your time than I had any reason to expect. Thank you.
-My pleasure. May I use a portion of this interview for on my blog? I think it would be interesting reading.
-It is mostly your material... I just asked the questions, so I don't see why not. Sent me the link if you do post?
-Sure. Goodnight!

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Friday, January 05, 2007

Word-choice nuances


What is the difference between childlike and childish, between impulsive and spontaneous, between sensual and sexual, nevermind sensual and sensuous? What is the difference between acceptance and passivity, between aggressive and assertive, between creative and inventive, between religious and spiritual, intelligent and intellectual?

And then there is love. In English we have just one word to use. Sure, we can add modifiers such as maternal, filial, erotic, romantic, and platonic to describe who we love or what love or how we love them -- but love is such a deep and yet broad-spectrum emotional state, how can we possibly find the words to describe how we feel, and if so, how can we be sure that the words we use mean to others what they mean to us?

I was asked by CW today how I felt about someone.
I said, " I love him."
He asked, "Could you be more specific?"
I said, "He's one of my dearest friends, the friend of my soul."
He said, "But he's your lover, too..."
I made a face at him. "Yes, sometimes, but that is not the focus of our relationship."
He said, "I know you say men and women can be friends, but then you break the rules by having sex with your friends. Isn't that confusing?"
I looked at him and smiled. "Sometimes."
"C'mon Kay, talk to me."
"What do you want to know that won't violate his privacy?"
"How can you be friends and lovers?"
"Look, its not romantic. There is none of that new relationship energy, none of that passionate 'oooh baby I want you' stuff. I love him. He loves me. Sometimes... sometimes being sexual is a natural extension of the intimacy and affection between us, a natural progression of sharing ourselves."
He thought about it. "If it is so natural, why doesn't it happen more often between friends?"
"That is a good question. I will answer it with a question: how often do you think friends want to make love to each other, but refrain?"
"I think quite a few. More than people would willingly admit... I know there are a few times I've been really curious."
"Ok. So..there is curiousity, and there is desire. And then there is trust and love and sharing. I've got friends that I would never have sex with--mainly because I'd worry one or both of us getting 'romantically' confused.... It happened to me a couple of times, and... well... I like to think I've learned enough from those experiences that I do not need to repeat them again."
"How do you decide then?"
"Decide?"
"Which friends to sleep with and which ones not to..."

I swear, the groan I let out came all the way from my hara. Why is it that so much boils down to sex? I don't get it. I will never get it. Sex itself is an act we are programmed to desire to repeat as often as possible, partly for reproductive purposes, and partly for pleasure. It alleviates a need, like any other, like eating alleviates hunger and pissing alleviates a full bladder. And yet, sex, with love, can be so much more. It is a gateway to the spiritual, I find, and that is what gives it significance beyond reproductive and pleasure drives.

"Its more a matter of spontaneity. If, in the moment, it feels right, and there are no reservations, I act on it," I tried to tell him.
He looked surprised. "You're not the impulsive type."
"Ah, but there is a difference between spontaneity and impulse. Impulses are internally motivated, often subconsciously. Impulsive is going shopping when one does not have the need or the funds. Spontaneity is responding naturally and appropriately to the present moment."

And so we went round and round about nuances and verbage and his insistence that I need to remember that though I may choose my words to express exactly what I mean, that those hearing me are catching the words through their own emotional filters, adding their own nuances. Since I've been told the same by others, I suppose I should give this point more thought. It doesn't help my efforts to communicate if other's are not understanding what I mean.

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Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Nietzsche on Love and Avarice

The things people call love.— Avarice and love: what different feelings these two terms evoke!—nevertheless it could be the same instinct that has two names, once deprecated by those who have, in whom the instinct has calmed down to some extent, and who are afraid for their "possessions"; the other time seen from the point of view of those who are not satisfied but still thirsty and who therefore glorify the instinct as "good." Our love of our neighbor—is it not a desire for new possessions? And likewise our love of knowledge, truth, and altogether any desire for what is new? Gradually we become tired of the old, of what we safely possess, and we stretch out our hands again; even the most beautiful scenery is no longer assured of our love after we have lived in it for three months, and some distant coast attracts our avarice: possessions are generally diminished by possession. Our pleasure in ourselves tries to maintain itself by again and again changing something new into ourselves,—that is what possession means. To become tired of some possession means: tiring of ourselves. (One can also suffer of an excess—the lust to throw away or to distribute can also assume the honorary name of "love.") When we see somebody suffer, we like to exploit this opportunity to take possession of him; those who become his benefactors and pity him, for example, do this and call the lust for a new possession that he awakens in them "love"; and the pleasure they feel is comparable to that aroused by the prospect of a new conquest. Sexual love betrays itself most clearly as a desire for possession: the lover wants unconditional and sole possession of the person for whom he longs, he wants equally unconditional power over the soul and over the body of the beloved; he alone wants to be loved and desires to live and rule in the other soul as supreme and supremely desirable. If one considers that this means nothing less than excluding the whole world from a precious good, from happiness and enjoyment; if one considers that the lover aims at the impoverishment and deprivation of all competitors and would like to become the dragon guarding his golden hoard as the most inconsiderate and selfish of all "conquerors" and exploiters; if one considers, finally, that to the lover himself the whole rest of the world appears indifferent, pale, and worthless, and he is prepared to make any sacrifice, to disturb any order, to subordinate all other interests—then one comes to feel genuine amazement that this wild avarice and injustice of sexual love has been glorified and deified so much in all ages—indeed, that this love has furnished the concept of love as the opposite of egoism while it actually may be the most ingenuous expression of egoism. At this point linguistic usage has evidently been formed by those who did not possess but desired,—probably, there have always been too many of these. Those to whom much possession and satiety were granted in this area have occasionally made some casual remark about "the raging demon," as that most gracious and beloved of all Athenians, Sophocles, did: but Eros has always laughed at such blasphemers,—they were invariably his greatest favorites. Here and there on earth we may encounter a kind of continuation of love in which this possessive craving of two people for each other gives way to a new desire and lust for possession, a shared higher thirst for an ideal above them: but who knows such love? Who has experienced it? Its right name is friendship.
- Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science (Book 1, § 14), 1886.

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Saturday, November 04, 2006

Absent the need for certainty: growing a friendship

Farmer's Market 2006 (c) KR Silkenvoice
Absent the need for certainty: growing a friendship. Enjoying being present. Facing and discussing what arose. Struggling to remain open and vulnverable. Allowing energy to flow.

I had an interesting evening with a friend-in-the-making who asked perceptive questions that made me think, and because I was open to him, often triggered emotional responses.

Opening to possibility (Me: One of the first things I tell some one when we get into a relationship is: "I promise I will hurt you. I also promise I will never hurt you intentionally." He: Wouldn't a better choice of words be "I may hurt you.." The way you word it you are guaranteeing it will happen instead of allowing for the possibility of it. Me: Its a certainty. Miscommunication happens. Things happen. No matter how hard we try, the ones we love still feel hurt by things we say and do. So, that choice of words is deliberate. He: But wouldn't you rather chose an option that allows for the possibiltiy of not hurting the ones you love? Me: That is possible, but improbable. He: Still, we're not talking about statisical probabilities here. We're talking about relationships and allowing for the possibility.. why do you feel it necessary to set those expectations? Me: I am pragmatic. Its a warning, an acknowledgement that at times I will hurt the ones I love unintentionally. And a reminder to myself that the ones I love will hurt me, as well. Hmm... I will consider what you are saying. You are right that such wording does negate the possibility of not hurting someone.)

Opening to fears (He: Are you afraid of connection? Me: Yes. He: Why? Me: *hesitation*. He: Don't think, just answer. Me: Some of it is that childish abandonment issue from my mother disappearing when I was 9 or 10. Some if it has to do with Love. Some people stop loving, and I don't. The relationship may change but the reasons I love people are still there. I still love them. I don't understand how people can just stop loving someone, loving me. And that hurts. But more than that, it confuses me, baffles me, rocks the foundation of my inner-reality (love). So I'm very cautious about who I build connections with.)

Opening to what we want or need from each other. Expectations of our relationship, or more suitably, lack thereof. What we sense can grow between us -- there is a sense of boundless intimacy. That question I have--will he become a friend of the soul? I would like that.

Talking about the difference between being terse and being succinct, and my tendancy at times to be the former in an attempt to be the latter. Discussed Polyamory and Monogamy. His desire to educate not only the monogamous masses, but those struggling to make polyamory work for them so they don't participate in a string of divorces or serial monogamy. Awareness that one person cannot be all things to another, and even if they are, that such a state is unsustainable. Jealousy, and my statement that I do not feel it or experience it, and how this hinders my ability to understand it in others.

My face pressed to his chest, hot tears for no real reason. Simultaneously knowing it was alright, and fearing this release would be too much for him. I fiercely hate crying. But he is far more comfortable with tears and emotions than I am, and he did all the right things. And in that moment, one of the petals of the lotus unfolded. And that first petal was trust.

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Sunday, September 17, 2006

Thought for a Sunday Morning



In a world in which
The desire for intimacy
Is a chronic longing
Which few fulfill
My heart is open to many
My arms are open to many
And because of this
So many assume
My legs are also open to many
Should I change my heart?
Or will the world do it for me
Against my will?

[audio entry]

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Monday, August 21, 2006

Thoughts on order, chaos, and contemplative inquiry

I have a highly developed sense of order and symmetry. I have a very strong drive to systematize, to organize, to understand. At college, I was fully indoctrinated in the scientific method, spending 5 years hypothesizing, brainstorming, designing experiments, objectively observing, collecting and analyzing data, troubleshooting, proving or revising hypotheses. One might say that mine is a typically masculine mind.

And yet, I am also a 'feeler'. My senses are acute. My capacity for pleasure is boundless. I am conscious of things most people find beneath notice. Unless I am thinking deeply, I am aware, both physically and mentally, of every moment. My physical sensitivity to my environment, combined with a talent for systematizing, creates conflict and opportunity. I am (almost) always analyzing the output of my sensory array (the body), sifting, sorting, ranking, keeping the bewilderment of sensory bombardment at bay.

In my need to create order from chaos I am extremely aware that I use symbols (words) to describe my experience of life, and that the words I choose have nuances for others that are not present for me. The best example, I suppose, is that when I use 'sensual', people hear 'sexual'. And when I use words to describe my experiences, I am conscious that words are symbols ascribed to meanings, and that the world is so saturated with the meanings given to it that those meanings seem to reside in the things, people, and places themselves. I habitually assume that the world presented to me via my senses exists just as it appears to me. But that is preposterous, because what I sense is filtered through the unconscious mind. How I experience reality is coloured by the attitudes, conditioning, and habits of my emotional/psychological self long before it reaches the rational higher mind. In other words, the unconscious is tossing out the undesired variables so that the higher mind can do what it does best: create order out of chaos.

One of the benefits of meditation is that it brings me to the level of the unconscious, making me aware of all that 'white noise' it filters out for me. Breathing becomes something miraculous, really. I can feel my clothing touching my skin, my hair tickling my neck. I can hear the click of the freezer, the hum of the neighbor's TV, the sound of the river flowing by. The details of the moment flow one into the next and I am aware of the interconnectedness of things. My sense of myself deepens as well. I become conscious of my self-isolation, my insistence that I am this or that, my attachment to the idea of a fixed, 'core' self. As I breathe, as I 'listen' with all my senses to my body, to my environment, to my mind, it becomes oh so obvious that each moment is created out of the moment that preceeded it, and that I create myself in response to and interaction with my experiences, moment to moment. And it becomes oh so obivious that my responses are often conditioned by habit, by training, by the systems I have created, so that in my daily life, I am not really living today, I am experiencing a slight reconfiguration of the past.

Which is very comfortable and convenient, even predictable. It is much easier to think of conditions and consequences as 'things' with their own intrinsic (and manipulatable) identities, rather than as processes with no independent reality of their own. The reality is that no matter how much I want to make things singular, straightforward, absolute, and ordered, life is a matrix, a complex flow of interconnected processes. It is fractal, ambiguous, fluid, dynamic, imminent, transient, intertwined, unpredictable, and immediate. And I have choices as to how I respond to this reality. I can respond with fear, with the desire to create a mental map based upon past experiences that I can use as an overlay for present and future contingencies, thus shaping my perceived reality to suit an increasingly brittle, inflexible, habit-bound self which feels less and less comfortable with change.

Thus, the kind of 'order' that we humans create engenders tension. While it is natural to our ego, it is unnatural to our self. The ego is the 'I', the false-core, the part of us that denies change, denies unpredictability and impermanance. The ego clings to habitual behaviours and routines as a means to secure a sense of 'self', of wo we are, distinct from others; whereas the true self is comfortable developing the integrity of our identities aswirl in the transient, ambiguous, continually transforming world, knowing our selves as integral parts of a dynamic, inter-related whole, and thus free to create our reactions and ourselves moment to moment, letting reality teach us, instead of shaping our perceptions of it to fit inside our nice and tidy psychological boxes.

And the tension is more obvious to those of us who rise to challenge unconscious self-absorbtion with contemplative inquiry. We can continually question the assumption of the immutable 'I' at the core of our experiences. We can compassionately query ourselves about the validity of the emotionally charged notions we have of others. We can objectively observe our reactions to people and situations, examining the appropriateness of our responses to determine if we reacted to what actually occurred, or if we acted habitually, out of our preconceptions. And we can undermine the order of things with the responsive echos to these questions. Once we have gone to all the effort to put something in order, the last thing we want is for something to change. And so it is that even the seekers and the askers find themselves fighting against the habitual resistance to change.

In sum, order is not the enemy. The universe has its order. But neither is chaos something to be reviled. It is causal and creative; it provides opportunities for growth and spontanaeity that would otherwise be denied. There is always a tug between the two, between order and chaos, and tension in the minds of humans who want nothing more than to abolish the one in favor of the other.

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Monday, July 10, 2006

On population decline in First World countries


Robert J Samuelson posted an op-ed column in the Washington Post called "Behind the Birth Derth."
It is an intersting commentary on Putin's incentives to get Russian women to have more babies, as well as addressing the larger issue of plummeting birth rates in First World countries. This is not an issue I have given a lot of thought to, but as I read the article, a few thoughts percolated up.

That this is not a new issue. A hundred years ago, Teddy Roosevelt urged native-born Americans, especially those in New England, to make the sacrifices necessary to raise larger families, because (if I recall correctly) 'eugenics' was on the rise and there was a perception that the "superior" Northern European race would eventually die out as a result of low birthrates. And this, long before the widespread availablilty of birth-control devices and pharmaceuticals.

That, while he posited various possible reasons as to why the birthrates are so low in industrialized countries, Samuleson missed a few things, either becasue he did not think of them, or because they are too 'hot.' They are as follows:

One, education, particularly a socially liberal education, suppresses the desire to reproduce. In grade school we are educated on the causes of so much poverty and disease and infant death in Third World countries, the primary culprit being over-population. The same thing with envrionmental degradation: over-population--too many people and too few resources. People who are aware of the world and their responisiblities toward their fellow man are not going to go on a breeding binge. It is perceived as a very selfish thing to do. Additionally, the availability of education and career paths to women created options they did not have before. Women, particularly those who choose not to reproduce, are no longer economically dependent upon men, and are no longer pitied as 'spinsters' and 'bluestockings'.

Two, those religions which stress abstinence from sex until marriage, consider birth control a sin, and relegate women to child-bearing, child-rearing drudgery have been falling out of fashion the last couple of centuries, again, partly as a consequence of the growing liberalization of society and the increasing availablity of information across socio-economic levels. Religion, supersition, poverty and ignorance would appear to go hand-in-hand with a brood of runny-nosed kids who themselves are having children while their mothers are still pumping out their younger siblings.

Three, the rise of the "nuclear family" in Western culture has destroyed the incentive to reproduce which one would think that a higher standard of living might give. Really. Lets face it, It takes two people working full-time++ in order to support a First World household, with or without children. We like our high standard of living and want to maintain it, and we don't have the internal or external resources to earn our bacon, fry it, and serve it up to our children without feeling overwhelmed.

By this, I mean that raising children responsibly is time-intensive and financially expensive--health care, child care, the necessity to take time off work to care for them when they are ill, the cost of keeping them educated and participating in supervised and "age-appropriate" activities, the cost of keeping up with compulsive consumerism of the pop culture which is driven by children and teens who lack purpose and meaning in their lives... Until relatively recently, children were raised in a more communal/community environment--they lived in the same house, neighborhood, or town as their extended families, of whom grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles were the primary caretakers of young children. But with industrialisation and increased mobility, it is much more common for adults to live separated by hundreds of miles from their families--and raise their children themselves in a small, nuclear, family. This creates a lot of financial and emotional stress, and the observation of this stress by others who have not gone the 'child' route tends to raise doubts. I know this from personal experience: I am known to say that "I like other people's children" or that "I like being an auntie" far more than I would enjoy being a parent, myself.

Fourthly, there are social and environmental ills in the world that provoke people to refrain from reproducing, if they have a choice. The world is so full of murder and rape and molestation and extinction and pollution and scarcity and neglect--why pass that on to children? Many feel that we should first make the world a better place to live in, before bringing more people into it. Why add to the epidemic of suffering?

Lastly, those who do not examine history are doomed to repeat it. It is obvious to me why Europe's birth rate is much lower than that of the US. Sure, the US has a far more religious population, in general, than European countries, and thus more children (heck, religious states like Utah have birth rate that is something like triple that of states such as New Hampshire), but that's only part of it.

Europe is more crowded, it has fewer resources, and its people are still living with the consequences of World War I and II in ways that the US is not. Much of Germany's aggressiveness in the early 20th century was attributed to a growing population that was feeling crowded and resource hungry, a population that, having purged its country of most of the immigrant and non-Arian resource competitors, began looking at expanding their territory to give themselves more room to grow.

To quote Samuelson quoting Wattenberg:
"The forthcoming and dramatic depopulation of Europe and Japan will cause many problems," writes Ben Wattenberg in "Fewer," his excellent book on the subject. "Populations will age, the customer base (for businesses) will shrink, there will be labor shortages, the tax base will decline, pensions will be cut, retirement ages will increase." All plausible. In 2000, one in six people in Germany and Japan were 65 or older; by 2050 the projections are for one in three.


Is opening borders and allowing immigration from countries that cannot support their populations a solution to the above-mentioned consequences of de-population? Probably. But immigration is a real sore point in most First World countries, as illustrated by immigrant riots and demonstration in France and the US. And the reason (I think) is because we socially-enlightened First Worlders do not feel it is right to maintain a second-class of laborers supporing a social and cultural elite---and yet, as a whole, we do not want to comprise on our standards of living in order to help raise others up...

There. I'm done babbling. Really. Now that I've emptied my mind of such dark thoughts, I'm going to wash my hands, brush my teeth, and retire to my delicious bed with a yummy fantasy involving me, a man who knows how to use his mouth and fingers, and restraints. Mmm.... yes.... I feel much better already.

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Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Weekend with a friend

San Francisco, between the Cathedral of Peter and Paul Parish, and Coit Tower (c) Kayar SilkenvoiceI spent the weekend in San Francisco with a friend of mine, M, who is one of my three closest friends. We have a deeply intimate relationship, one which he describes as nebulous. He's been there for me in so many ways the past two years, my biggest supporter, the one I leaned on the most the first year after S and I broke up. During my period of celibacy he was a sexual sink for me, as well, which definately crossed a lot of male-female friendship lines. But at the time I did not have a female friend I felt intimate enough with to talk about the more erotic thoughts and feelings that were flowing through me as I practiced my libidinous brand of celibacy.

And so our intimacy developed and deepened until he was friend and confidant and lover-substitute. I have a talent for complicated relationships, I admit it. Particularly with men, as I prefer the compay of men as friends as well as lovers. But some of my hetero frienships are fraught with tensions, tensions I will not go into as I already posted my thoughts on the subject here. Suffice it to say, however, that the levels of intimacy that M and I achieved created problems when I started dating, because we come from opposite places with regards to loving relationships. I have no problems being mentally, emotionally, and physically intimate with my friends, be they male or female--to me it is a natural extension of my affection for them. Its not about romance or desire or passion... its about the deeply pleasurable sharing of self.

Dating, sexual activity--these created strain, not necessarily because he wanted me all to himself, but because he is territorial, and male, and normal (vanilla), and because suddenly my sexuality (now that others were involved) became a topic he was no longer comfortable discussing. Which hurt. I tried to respect the new boundaries, but kept running into his, because I don't have them. I am not a labyrinth of internal boundaries like most people. Anyway, we both made choices, we said and did things, we tried being there for each other, through our various crises, and slowly, over a six month period, we found ourselves saddened by the gulf growing between us. Physical distance was starting to translate into emotional distance, despite our best efforts at communication.

I love him. I love him like I love few people in my life. His happiness and well-being are important to my own. And the well-being of our relationship, whatever form it takes, is important to my own. And so I invited myself down to San Francisco for the weekend, determined to show us both that we can enjoy each other's company sans sexual tension. I masturbated like a fiend Friday night--drained my libido so completely that it really didn't start bouncing back until Monday night. I was so well-sated that it was safe to massage him awake Saturday morning, sitting at the foot of his water bed with the sunlight pouring over me and his wonderful sleepy scent filling the air. And Sunday I woke him up with a cuddle, spooning myself against him, letting love fill me and hoping it would seep into him, reassuring him of his importance and place in my life.

We visited the Exploratorium, walked through gardens and parks, ate sushi and dim sum, watched Princess Mononoke and a couple of Ghost in the Shell episodes. Lake near the Exploratorium, San Francisco (c) Kayar Silkenvoice We savored the perfect weather, walking the hilly streets in the North Beach area, wading through the people who jammed the blockaded streets for the festival, and stretched out in the grass at the park to listen to music. We had some good conversation and comfortable silences, and as he drove me to the airport I knew we would both be ok. That the entity that is 'us' would be ok.

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Thursday, May 25, 2006

Compelling Question

Individual, apart from the rest of the world,
Hyper-aware of flaws and imperfections,
Tantalizingly, undeniably incomplete,
Openly closed.

Flooded with need,
Seeking to claim and to possess.
Yet feeling this need,
Ever unfulfilled.
Struggling blindly,
Unable to see
The chasm between self and other lies within,
A rift which Desire alone cannot bridge:
There must be Love,
Demonstrations of erotic passion,
Dropping of ego-barriers.
Physical attempts to unite with one
Proves they are eternally beyond our grasp:
Another's consciousness is impenetrable.

Are we objects of gratification and denial,
Or numinous, uncontainable symbiotes
Mutually nourishing our souls?
The answer infuses Life with meaning.
this is an audio post - click to play

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Sunday, May 21, 2006

How not to help a friend who is depressed

I have a friend who is very dear to me. And he is going through a rough patch, and he is feeling down, and he has his good moments and his bad moments. I've tried knocking him out of his blues by attempting to awaken him to his senses, to the beauty of his surroundings. I've given him a book on meditation, The Calm Technique, a very clear, non-mystical book that makes mediative practice very accessible. I've sent cards, sent him puns via SMS, told him I love him and he is not alone. I don't know what else to do. I guess I don't understand depression--I don't really feel it, I suppose, because whenever I feel down, I just open myself to the beauty around me, and the cloud passes.

I suppose, where I am going with this, is that perhaps being a sensualist handicaps my abiltity to empathize with friends who are depressed.

I think I turned one of my friend's bad moments into a 'worse moment'. It makes me sad. I am feeling sorry for myself, my failure as a friend. I recognize it as a very selfish, self-absorbed thing, making this about me, instead of him. I should be feeling sad for him, and I am, but I am also feeling helpless, and that makes me a bit angry. I'm not very good at doing helpless... except in bed, and only if it is sexy ;)


[23:18] Amicus: I'm having a bad evening..I'd rather wait to discuss this when I'm in a better mood.
[23:19] Kayar: Which means it will never be discussed, which is quite alright. All you have to do is say you do not want to discuss it again, Amicus. That is what 'wait to discuss later', really means.
[23:19] Amicus: why can't you just take me at my word sometimes?
[23:21] Kayar: Because I have learned that you mean well, you have the best intentions, but you...you don't follow through with what you say you will do. Other things, other sexier or more pressing things, come up, and such things are buried.
[23:23] Kayar: Its ok, Amicus. Its not a bad thing, its how you are. And I love you just as you are.
[23:24] Kayar: You can pick this conversatoin up again, if you want to. But I have no expectations of that occurring. Ever.
[23:25] Amicus: Guess I should be glad you set your expectations so low
[23:25] Amicus: Especially after I specifically said today that I wanted to talk about things (or was it yesterday)
[23:25] Kayar: There is expectation, and there is acceptance. The former gets in the way of the latter.
[23:26] Kayar: You said you did. And then you didn't. And that is ok. *shrug*
[23:26] Kayar: When you really want to, you will.
[23:26] Amicus: umm, you were afk at the time I sent the messages ;)
[23:26] Amicus: and then I had to turn off my computer to deal with getting the computer done
[23:26] Kayar: And I am always just a phone call away. A promise I made, that if you called or messaged and really needed to talk, I would drop everything to be there for you.
[23:28] Amicus: I guess that's just it
[23:28] Amicus: I'm just completely trying to avoid it
[23:29] Kayar: I have no desire to influence you to do something you do not want.
[23:29] Kayar: I did it once, somehow, to our mutual regret.
[23:30] Kayar: Obviously, you need to talk to someone, and obviously, I am not that someone.
[23:30] Amicus: I knew I should have logged off when I said I was
[23:30] Amicus: Because this discussion is just getting me more and more frustrated
[23:31] Amicus: So goodnight.

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Monday, May 15, 2006

Desire as something sacred

I think that 'desire' is perhaps the singlemost misunderstood concept in the world today, so before I write any more on the subject, I should probably clarify what I mean by 'desire'. In the context of what I am thinking, desire is more than just sexual longing... Desire is the energy that strives for transcendance. It is the unending quality of yearning that drives us to persevere, regardless.

I am coming to see Desire -- the energy that is Desire, not the act of desiring -- I am coming to see it as something sacred. I am shifting from an ego-based identification with desire into a more reflective consciousness that permits an appreciation of what is sacred in the mundane world. In learning to see Desire as sacred, there is a transformation in the way I view and experience a lot of things...

Society teaches us that it is wrong to desire, but I've realized that all my life I've keep my desires too small. Too limited. There is this division in the world, this belief that we have to conquer desire in order to become better people and better the world, that desire is wrong or bad, that it controls us.

What created this 'division'? The belief that the seeds of suffering lie in the nature of our endless pursuit of our passions. That there is virtue in disengaging ourselves from desire, because desire can lead to obsession. But that is the wrong tactic! Oh, we can try not to come into contact with our desires, we can push them away, we can deny them. But they will be there, pressing at us ever stronger--and that is how they become unhealthy obsessions. It is not that desire should be controlled... it is that what we desire should not be internalized to the point that we cling to it for fear of losing it, or grasp desperately for it when it comes into range.

And so it is that I believe that the separation of the spiritual from the sensual, of the sacred from the experiential, and the enlightening from the erotic, is a mistake.

And so it is that I believe it is important to understand Desire as something sacred, to accept and explore Desire in a love-relationship. I am beginning to recognize the importance of experiencing desire as something sacred in a relationship that is intimate emotionally, mentally, spiritually and sexually.

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Thursday, May 11, 2006

The sensual is spiritual is sexual

this is an audio post - click to play

There are important links between the spiritual and the sensual and the sexual.

I have almost always used the sensual as the entrance to the spiritual: for there are ways that the sensual and the erotic experiences can be transcendant, just as spiritual experiences can be erotic.

I know this: the Tibetan Buddhist model for the awakened mind is -- orgasm.

Ideally, the sexual is an expression of the sacred, it is an act of worship of the divine spark in my partner.

There are those out there who remain unconvinced of the spiritual dimensions of sexual pleasure, who are in doubt that the heights of which I have spoken are actually possible. Indeed, most advocate a temperate, low-key "it feels good bodily function" status for sex -- I know and understand this perspective because much of my own sexual expression has been a rational exercise in the mechanics of arousal and orgasm -- and yet I have also experienced the magical, spiritual aspects of sex.

I also know that it can go beyond what I have experienced, and I Desire that. And I will have the transcendant consciousness I have experienced with my most intimate friends, only it will be with a lover who is my match, and together we will traverse those peaks and valleys, and it will happen because I Desire it.

Why do I desire it? Because I am wired for it. Because I am a sensual creature, like many others in the world, and there are multiple points of access to spiritual transcendance, and the path of the Sensualist also has a Gate which opens upon that spiritual level... it is just a far more pleasantly distracting, winding, and branching path than most who seek enlightenment would choose to walk.

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Friday, May 05, 2006

On intimacy, reality, and disappointment

Moon Gate, (c) KR Silkenvoice 2006
this is an audio post - click to play

I watched Good Will Hunting the other night and there is a scene in the movie in which Robin Williams is talking to Will about Will's reluctance to date Minnie Driver's character because he is afraid to learn more about her and find out she isn't perfect afterall. The line Robin William's character said stuck with me. It was something like "I've got news for you, sport. You're not perfect. She's not either. The question is, are you perfect together? That is what intimacy is all about."

It made me think about love/desire/intimacy and fear. It seems that it is one of the age-old truths about love, that while it does offer unique opportunities for union and the lifting of ego boundaries -- at the same time, it faces us with our loved one's 'otherness'. That we desire this other, that we yearn for him or her, does not eliminate the disappointment that is inevitable as we strive to know and possesses them. Why? Because we cling to our expectations of completion and wholeness and perfection when none of these is possible in the ways we have imagined. Our minds are too limited.

And so it is we ourselves who are the creators of our own dissatisfaction, for we cling to the hope, to the ideal, that some one or some thing will be ultimately satisfying to us. And before long, we are faced with the disappointing truth: that wonderful or perfect-seeming as the object of our desire appeared to be, it is flawed. But it has occurred to me that it is our disappointment in love/desire and how we come to terms with it (or don't) that is truly interesting. It deepens our inner lives, makes us grow, and illuminates the true nature of reality in contrast with the ideal.

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Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Quarry (poem)

this is an audio post - click to play

Predator, you scent prey,
doe-eyed quarry strolling meditatively,
musing upon the cud of her thoughts
Prowling behind, your covetous eyes follow
the languid shift of muscles under skin
the color of milky quartz, lucent
within the praying hunter's reach
Your fingers curl, longing to reap a harvest
of agonized cries and pleasured moans
To draw nourishment from the flesh
of the doe-eyed one whose heart
resembles uncut stone,
If you can

Sculptor, you surely pray,
you could make of your cock a chisel,
of your body a hammer, pounding,
Splitting stone from the doe-eyed quarry
walls pitted with scars from picks and rails
Acts of violence necessary to elevate
the heart of stone, inviolate
to the rim, within the preying artist's reach
Your fingers curl 'round rasp and burr
eager to harvest dust and chips
To carve your dream from the living flesh
of the uncut stone,
If you can

Lover, preying, praying
your fingers explore the quarry's mossy ledge
seeking the shaded twilight depths
of the woman-shaped canyon
flooded with nectar for which you thirst
Soul saturated with esurience,
tongue craving the taste of sunbeams enfleshed
Will you assault it with your tools, attempt
to conquer and shape the stone like so much clay
Or will you drive, sleek and fine,
into the quarry pond, hoping to surface,
spent, upon the shore of your desire,
If you can
(-K.R)

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