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Archive for the ‘fears’ Category

I was going to write a whole bunch of stuff about the awesomeness surrounding this picture, but like all of the days there is so much of it constantly being replaced by right-now awesomeness (and wow-that’s-hardness) that it slips away. All of the words and confusion and fears and revelations and recognition and skin-on-skin melting into the next and away into a fast-growing mountain of thick-bondedness.

You can't see my pussy-full-of-cum in this picture, but it's down there.

Actually I was just going to write about the sex, but hours (and more sex) later, the picture means something much fatter than that.

Note: Hunter is going to get an iphone soon and then I think there will be more me-and-Delia and Delia-and-Hunter and the-three-of-us pictures. It’s pretty scary what buying a phone can signify, fyi. Anyway . . . I sorta want to post a picture of Hunter and Delia together from today too, but I don’t think either of them like the pics I took enough to want them posted. *I* love them, though.

Before my webcam show today:

My boobs pressed against the glass of the cabin door.

After my webcam show I went shopping for some Christmas presents for our nephews while Delia and The Hunter had some private time at home alone. A guy hit on me while I window shopped, but I was enjoying being alone too much to try to get a free dinner out of it (yes, I do think that way). Instead I treated myself to a solo Mexican dinner.

Christmas mannequin I saw tonight

All of these years that it was just the two of us — Delia and I — when I chose to spend time alone I always felt like we both missed out on sharing something together. One of the things I love about The Hunter living with us is the feeling of freedom I have to be alone, like nobody is missing out on anything if I eat out by myself or take a walk by myself or spend the night by myself.

Of course they are quick to point out that they are missing out on time with me, but I don’t care or feel I’m doing something stingy the way I did when it was just Delia and I. I was able to walk up and down and up and down and up and down the streets tonight with no regard for time or preoccupation with “what is my girlfriend doing now? Is she waiting for me?” No automatic decisions against doing something nice by myself because I would rather do it with her.

We did everything together. Barely spent any time apart, really. In lots of ways we were isolated together against the rest of the world. I wanted everything to be safe and stable and predictable and routinized at home with no surprises or discomfort. Experiencing that was important, for both of us, I think. But right now it seems important for us to grow relationships with other people and restore some of our independence from each other without growing apart.

I didn’t think I wanted or needed to spend more time alone and with other people, but The Hunter and his relationship with Delia and the upsetting of my soothing routines and space cushions have been catalysts for me to seize time alone and talk to other people more, including inviting a lady friend to go to the movies with us! Except for four couples we’re friends with as a couple, I really haven’t cultivated relationships with people as an individual. I felt like I only had energy for three relationships: my relationship with Delia, my relationship with work, and my relationship with myself with a tiny bit available for my family and the friends we have in common.

I believe in brain plasticity. I believe I’m becoming more capable and flexible by intimately sharing our space and time with a third person we care about. And on an observable level I can now see that I have more opportunities instead of less by our being in a close relationship with a third person. Not just any third person, but this particular third person and everything that he brings to the table.

I’m not adjusting to everything with the greatest of ease and I know I will never be a social butterfly or able to juggle work and a hundred relationships and home life with the kind of energy and skills other people do, but I do think I’m changing for the better even if I’ve had a handful of immature outbursts. I also can’t say that any one of us in this new triad has been devoid of jealousy, but I think it’s okay because we’re talking about it openly and it’s kind of exciting/stimulating.

I’d be lying if I said I feel 100% safe in our new relationships. What I do feel is wholly alive. Every day is different, like we’re kids who don’t know anything so every 24 hour period is crammed full of measurable huge growth. Like 25 new vocabulary words a day.

Check out this blog entry from Delia for some more background on The Hunter.

After getting into a big fight with my mom last Christmas in front of my nephews (ages 2 and 5) I really didn’t want to spend Christmas proper with her and my sister’s family again until I can learn to be less of an asshole/accept that my mom is crazy (and so am I). But we’re going to do it again this year anyway!

Note: this means we’ll have our members-only group webcam shows on Thursday and Friday that week instead of Friday and Saturday.

Here’s the email exchange between me and my sister:

ME: We will drive up on Christmas Eve and stay the night so we can be with you all, provided it’s safe to travel.

MY SISTER: The baby Jesus thinks that’s swell.  We will have hot meat fondue, because nothing says Christmas like boiling oil.

ME: Are you trying to give Mommy and I an anxiety attack with that boiling oil plan? That doesn’t sound very child-friendly . . .

MY SISTER: We’re starting a new holiday tradition,  where each child gets to try to be the Bearer of the Boiling Oil.  Whichever one can successfully carry a fondue pot of boiling oil around the Christmas tree three times gets all the presents under the tree, and the loser gets, well, skin grafts I guess.   We’re looking for a name for it…

After so so much talking, we parked under the trees with him still not knowing what was going on.

I asked him about music and he showed me a cd folder filled with things he’d gotten for free or found because he has no money and he gave away everything he owned. I picked out a disc with music I had on vinyl as a kid and loved in the seventies: the Clockwork Orange-y Disney Electrical Parade music.

He put the disc in to play and noticed everything was weird, and we were parked and “it seemed like we should be making out.”

Then I said, “well actually . . . ”

And then BLAH BLAH BLAH consent talk consent then I was on him and we were kissing and groping and grinding and the next 90 minutes were awesome and surreal, and not just because of this music which played the whole entire time:

It really made hearing a guy talking about fucking me so deep I’d feel it in my ribs / throat / skull even more fantastically absurd and mind-altered than it usually is. And by “usual” I mean that I usually only hear that in phone sex or camshows. Maybe I’ve heard it in real life once or twice? Not sure.

The next day he asked me if I liked that particular line of dirty talking. He said it was a girl who told him to talk like that once, because “it’s just so visceral“. I just told him that I do love hearing dirty talk.

I’m sure I will never ever again use that music as a sex tape, but just this once it made it an extra-magical event.

*****

For three days in a row he told me he really only wants to have sex in a relationship, and since we can’t have (his kind of) a relationship, I guess we can’t fuck or something?

The trouble is that when he says he wants to be friends, he REALLY REALLY MEANS IT. He says he has to think about what this is/I am doing FOR him, versus what I am doing TO him.

I guess I’ve now officially entered the realm of predatorial cougarhood.

*****

So I talked to (let’s call him) my spiritual advisor about this situation. My spiritual advisor told me there is a rule (number 13!) in our fellowship not to fuck certain people, and this particular guy is certain people. So I should not fuck him.

My spiritual advisor also told me “HE IS NOT A MACHINE, TRIXIE!” And the guy has complained over and over about being objectified. Which I guess somehow made me objectify him more? I don’t know. I thought I was being really loving and sensitive about it.

I knew this might be messy, but I didn’t plan on it being so confusing for me.

I’m so torn between not wanting to be a horrible person and REALLY WANTING THE COCK. And the kissing. And to get him to make porn with me.

And a tonic to ease my fear of death, as my spiritual advisor also pointed out.

I’m almost forty, you know.

*****

More trippy music, this time with 80’s strippers, thanks to Kat:

On my way to the cabin this morning, I almost hit a wee little fawn. It may actually have bounded into the side of my wheel but still been okay enough to bounce off and go away in a safer direction.

One block later I saw some crows feasting on a dead rabbit on the side of the road which made the idea of killing a deer less traumatic, even if a spotted baby. Especially when I think that it’s highly likely (or am I exaggerating?) I will someday hit an animal while driving. Better something small that won’t also kill or injure us upon impact, right?

I’m actually not even sure it’s the idea of killing an animal that bothers me. What I think I’m really anxious about is what I’m supposed to do afterward. Ideally the animal would obviously be dead and clearly not somebody’s pet so I could just leave. I mean, I *think* you can just leave or can you? I’m also not sure if it would be genuinely hard for me to put an animal out of its misery or if I’m just afraid someone will catch me doing it the wrong way. And what the fuck am I thinking I would do? Would I stomp on a baby deer’s head or what? I wouldn’t even know where to look in our vehicle for an implement to deliver a killing blow. What if I bashed in a baby deer’s head when all it had was broken legs and another person would have taken it to the wildlife rescue people to put four long skinny white casts on it? What if someone sees me walking away from something they think it’s wrong to walk away from? What if it turns out I don’t know the difference between right and wrong at all?

There are way too many deer in our town. What difference does it make in the grand scheme of life, anyway? Why do I spend time thinking about cradling deer heads in my lap while I watch the light go out of their dumb pretty brown eyes?

I know you’re supposed to call the cops to “dispatch” the animal, though. I don’t want to sit around with a hurt animal waiting for help, but I guess if it’s in town it wouldn’t take that long. But what if we’re in the middle of nowhere? What if we have no phone reception? What if I don’t have a phone at all? Do I pick it up and take it somewhere to be euthanized or doctored up if mendable? What if it’s too big to move or if it’s so broken up it’s all falling apart in chunks? Is that how I relieve it of its pain? By ripping it in two? Or is that the effort that brings the reality of the situation home? When is it worth it to be covered with an animal’s blood and guts? Would I tell somebody, “I’m sorry I left your pet on the side of the road but I’m allergic to cats and couldn’t pick it up to bring it home to you?”

Why do I waste time thinking about things? Why is my mind so occupied with fears?

Why don’t we have a gun in our car? Why don’t I have emergency numbers programmed into my phone? Why don’t I know the name of the road I’m on and the cross street and my location on the map?

*****

Last night on a longish drive home I  wondered out loud to Delia, “have we seen any owls this year?”

No.

Three minutes later an owl flew across the road in front of us into the trees. With her wings rowing through the air the headlights made a strobe effect because of the white of her body and under her wings compared to the darker on top.

I hope I never hit an owl. But for some reason I feel like I know exactly what the right things would be to do if that ever were to befall us.

Why don’t I always have a thick blanket with me to wrap around someone that’s hurt and scared so they won’t bite off my nose or scratch off my skin when I try to help them?

*****

Sometimes I think I’m really helpless and stupid and don’t have the answers to anything useful or important or the right tools for the job.

I don’t even know where the fuck I am.

*****

Someone we know died last night and in the interest of making “normal” conversation I forgot that her death is finally a good thing, and nobody needs or wants us to be sorry that her friends were with her as she left. I forgot that it would have been okay to smile with relief when our friend told me and to hug her with celebration instead of loss.

*****

Yesterday our friend showed us something really complex he’s been working really hard on for months. It’s a teaching tool to help people make better decisions under trying conditions to dispatch the enemy with as little collateral damage as possible. In the example they are trying to maintain freedom of movement on a key route.

This is a metaphor for the rest of it but a whole lot more than that, too.

I’m incorrectly paraphrasing our friend, but most people like us have no idea what most people like them go through and what they’re like, and maybe don’t even think of them as people in the same way they think of each other, which makes them pompous hypocrites.

I’m still learning a lot from yesterday and today and right now. I even just cried and I think it was good for me.

Now I’m just going to try to “do the next right thing” which is probably a lot easier (and definitely more useful) than fantasizing about things I’m afraid of and listing all of the things I DON’T know how to do or fix or heal or change or bury.

I dreamt of a crowded seniors-only trailer park vacation spot where we went to get away from it all but then we were in my grandma and grandpa’s trailer or something (note: in real life my grandpa is dead and they never lived in a trailer park). I had to pee but every bathroom I went to was full of specialty handicapped nursing home toilets with heightened elevator-seats made of yellowed plastic, and equipment like stainless steel rails, hoses, sprayers, etc. I didn’t want to sit on any of them and a frustrated old black man (I think he was sort of like my dad, who was a deeply tanned Irish in real life but not black) was chasing me (slowly, with a hobble) out of his bathroom(s) that were for him to use, not me.

I came into a bedroom with a hospital bed. My grandma was in it, sort of gyno-exam style, with two female assistants handing her implements on a tray. My old old grandma had a pair of tongs or forceps, a long piece of sinew or thick brown dental floss or something and different needles to thread it through, and a scary circle of metal she was fashioning into a clamp (diameter: between a nickel and quarter). She was in pain but focused on the task at hand which was customizing the thin metal circle to act as a cinch on her cervix to keep everything inside. One of the women held a mirror between her legs and I was horrified by how painful this procedure was going to be for my grandma who apparently had to do it every night before bed and try to sleep with a sharp metal clip digging into the tender flesh of her insides.

A cat jumped up on the bed and its tail swished against the implements. I expressed concern over this, worrying that the implements weren’t sterile and Grandma would get an infection. She brushed me off and prepared to reach into her vagina and pinch off her loosely-gaping cervix. I saw hair and blood on gauze. I protested to one of the nurses “what about rubber or silicone or something softer . . .” as the nurse just shook her head, letting me know that YES, there were alternatives to all of this daily torture but the medical community didn’t care about my grandma. They had bigger fish to fry.

Then an overweight trailer-parky lady won an opportunity to confront the HEAD of the doctors. We walked into his operating theatre where she started yelling at him about what my grandma had to endure and that he had the power to help her and stop withholding the special silicone rings.

He looked at me with utter disdain as he snapped on latex gloves and reminded me that we need to think about the soldiers on the front lines and THAT was what he cared about and how dare I be so selfish when there is a war going on. The men, the heroes, the stupid stupid women crying about their soft trivial cunts, lying in cozy beds. I couldn’t get the words out about how she couldn’t possibly sleep, the agony she was in. I wondered how he could treat us this way when she’d won the contest; how could he humiliate the winner on national television and not even LISTEN? Did this happen to all of the winners in their confrontations? Maybe it was my fault for being there with her. Maybe my presence made it null and void.

We were loud and fat and the other doctors in scrubs didn’t even look at us. I felt ashamed. Our place in the world and the futility of struggling against it was very very clear to me then. We were the cats contaminating the sterile atmosphere, endangering the lives of the heroes and progress in the war just by distracting them with our voices, needs and complaints. Stupid and selfish.

*****

Not a dream: my cousin died of cancer at the end of April and I never cared much one way or the other whether we were to kill Osama or not. But I do seem to care how and that even though I see people talking about it, I haven’t randomly seen anybody worrying about us killing his “human-shield”/wife or killing three of Qaddafi’s grandCHILDREN-under-twelve. I know this is nothing unusual, “good” guys killing kids and other civilians and apparently only the stupidest of idealistic bleeding heart peacenik liberals would question whether or not its worth it to the point where I had to google it to see whether or not I dreamed that, too, since it seems to be a matter of so little concern that I haven’t seen any mention of these murders in my social network though I HAVE seen plenty of OBL talk. It seems pretty obvious that we (as a general population) don’t consider those kids human or valuable or much of anyone to mourn. WE’RE FUCKING HEROES BLAAAAAHHHH! Do you feel safer now? I don’t. Not at all. I don’t believe anybody is safer anywhere; there is no army or bomb we can trust not to kill kids and the other people we pretend we’re helping. BUT OH MY GOD WOMEN WHO HAVE ABORTIONS SHOULD GO TO JAIL (if you google the Qaddafi grandchildren story get a load of how few stories even MENTION these kids were under twelve – not that if they were thirteen or over it would be a-okay, it’s just hilarious when the pro-”life”rs don’t seem to mind these things, but sucking out a blob of cells is MURDER)!! Fuck the world.

So I’m kind of depressed and just want to watch Star Trek, that much-ridiculed series of shows that actually has a fucking moral compass. What would Jean Luc Picard do? None of this bullshit, that’s for sure. Though the whole Robin Hood redistribution of Qaddafi’s wealth plan sounds sort of cool. Definitely a Captain Janeway kind of move.

Note: I am not writing this to change people’s minds or get in arguments or anything, I’m simply sharing my feelings with those who are curious. Because this is my blog. I understand why some people have different feelings and perspectives on this/these issues.

Also, I feel much better after sitting on this post for a day. I’ll try to post something more jolly soon, I just wanted to make a record of this nightmare.

9/5/2010 Cabin Day #3: word count: 955

The girl in the big house has a dog. A big dog I was afraid of when I first saw her and didn’t know who she was or why she was there, giving me a low woof. My heart started pounding and I hid around the corner from my own cabin door on the deck, wondering what to do. Because I’m afraid of dogs even if they have friendly benign-looking spots.

But everything’s okay now; I learned her name and already love her and am happy she’ll be here. I miss our dog and it felt so solid to pet this big new girl.

Don't want to turn on the heat yet so wearing thick hoody.

*****

I feel weird and self-conscious about the fix-it man and the girl in the big house knowing that I’m not actually LIVING in the cabin, but coming here to write. It sounds so fucking pretentious, but these people are nice so they are respectful, trying to make genuine curiosity as non-invasive and supportive as possible.  This town is full of  “artists” and other people who are totally full of shit, fanciful dreams, and beliefs in astrology and revolution. I’m not fully committed to being one of them, and every single position on the spectrum of fancies-herself-a-writer is an embarrassing place to be seen. Even with this cabin I’m nowhere near invisible.

9/3/2010 Cabin Day #1: 0 (zero) words

Loading stuff up in the van to take to the cabin I worried that the neighbors would think I was moving out and leaving Delia. Maybe that worry was just a projection of my own discomfort over making time alone/away a priority. Because there aren’t good models affirming pursuing time alone away from home unless it’s to do regular work that regular people do in the midst of whole bunches of other regular people. People who desire as much time alone as I do are widely regarded as unhealthy freaks or suspected of having other motives besides a simple need for solitude. Whatever the reason, I wanted to keep running back inside to hug Delia and get reassurance that whatever I‘m doing it‘s not what it might look like to the neighbors.

*****

At the cabin the wind blew and I wondered how come the skinny tall trees here don’t fall down. I amazed myself by not being annoyed that there’s a daycare with kid sounds a block away. I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I gazed at the crescent moon with breakfast around noon. I scratched up my arm and the back of my thigh on blackberry bush thorns. I figured out where I can stand and lie in the cabin with the blinds open without being seen by the girl in the big house or the people next door. I made a note to buy a couple of curtains to further hide myself when desired in those couple of places where I can be seen. I caught up on all of the pooping I didn’t get done while we were away from home for three nights.

I started to stop thinking about how to get down the ladder from the loft  (how do I mount it under the slant of roof? Do I turn around and climb it back down or just walk straight forward like I’m going down stairs?). I lit a candle. Then I blew it out when we left to get gas, but only $15 worth because we’re almost out of money until Tuesday so we didn’t reset the mileage on the odometer because our fuel gauge is broken/stuck on full.

*****

Things didn’t go exactly as planned, meaning I didn’t have time to plan to make things perfectly prepared.

Want to read more about Day One at The Cabin? I’m hiding the minute details after a break so as not to bore or overwhelm folks who don’t want to read about my zero word count day:

Read the rest of this entry »

Have you noticed us getting up earlier and going to sleep sooner on our cams? That’s (partly) because starting September 3rd I’m going to get up early to head over to the cabin we’re (good news!) officially renting to do off-cam no-internet work sans distractions. Normally I quickly grow disgusted with a morning-person routine, but now it seems totally different knowing there’s a purpose to it.

It rained heavily on Thursday. If I hadn’t gotten up at seven in the morning, excited about the possibilities of such early rising once the cabin time begins, I’d have never known there was any blue sky to be had that day. I’d have missed seeing this moon:

Blessing Bestowed from the West

There’s a place – a real live place – where women artists can apply for residencies. Actually, there are lots of places like that, where those kinds of people can get free lodging in inspiring locations to focus on their work, but the one I’m thinking of is SUPER DREAMY . . . fucking storybook-land perfection in terms of its tiny private artfully-crafted houses (each resident has one all to herself) and woodland setting.

Most shockingly dreamy of all is the way the women are catered to; the small handful of residents (women, all of them!) have a chef who prepares crazily wonderful dinners for them every night. There are pictures proving how thoroughly stocked the kitchen is with racks of zillions of containers of spices and rows of carefully labeled provisions and specialized pots and pans used to make what appears to be an ABUNDANCE of food every night just for these six or seven women. Meats and comforts and fresh green things and berries and sauces and fanciness and desserts and lots of colors and textures on big plates and side dishes.

On top of all that, the chef ALSO prepares individual baskets for each resident full of her favorite foods to help sustain her throughout the day while she works in her perfect little house. And there’s a garden full of plants someone else tends that each resident gets to pluck and cut flowers and leafy things from. FOR INSPIRATION AND SHIT!

I know that being there wouldn’t be actual utopia, but it does provide a model to ooh and aah over. I think it’s awesome that a very teeny-tiny percentage (wish it were more) of talented women in the world get to experience opportunities like that, to be told that their own self-directed art is so valuable as to warrant a few days . . . maybe even a whole month(!) . . . of concentrating on nothing BUT the work she most wants to do and that she will be sheltered and reliably fed to delicious excess if she likes so she can take care of her work while someone else takes care of her basic needs with sensual generosity.

Same time as picture above, but looking 80 degrees to the south.

What an exquisite fantasy! But it seems so decadent, like I know that I personally could never warrant such treatment. It’s a nice daydream but it actually makes me nervous to think about having such a giant privilege bestowed upon me. I’m nervous enough about the idea of renting this cabin, feeling like I need to prove that I “deserve” it. That I’m worth blowing more money on when I already have so much.

And then I remember that my grandma made my grandpa dinner every night to his specifications. Dished it up and brought it out to him. It wasn’t fancy, but she SERVED him. And every day she fixed him a box lunch even on the days when he was only working in his garage out back, a one minute shuffle away from the back door. I know times have changed, but when I was growing up I never fucking once saw a man prepare and serve a grown woman food. NEVER ONCE outside of restaurants (which I rarely saw) and pancake breakfasts at the Masonic Lodge where it was a wonderful novelty to see the men with aprons on, coming out to the long tables to pour coffee and bring us our hotcakes.

It wasn’t just my family that was like that. Most people my age and older grew up seeing men (and children) waited on at home and women NOT.  I suppose gender-blind egalitarianism is the ideal I should desire (and I do in some ways) but part of me needs to experience the balance of intimate privilege tipped dramatically towards women to undo what I learned by watching. I wasn’t brought up to BE that kind of woman who waits on men — not at all; I wasn’t taught with words to do it  — but that’s what all the women in my family DID to one extent or another and the men DID NOT. You have to be crazy to think that kind of learning is something you can just erase with your intellect when you grow up or even along the way with words of “you-go-girl” encouragement.

Looks promising upwards and eastwards

Even though I never grew up wanting to be a woman who takes care of a man, once I outgrew the entitlement of childhood I came to FEEL that having someone take care of me wasn’t something I deserved or could expect the way a man in my grandparents’ and parents’ generations could and that the only way to live my life just-so, to my specifications, was to live alone. I didn’t think this on a conscious level, but I think the past ten years (and then some) of webwhoring have involved more conscious efforts to recognize and reconcile this conflict; I want to work — to do MY work and do it MY WAY — and have someone else take care of the housekeeping and cooking. For my work to be the most important thing I do and everything else to be relegated to the distraction pile which I should be able to demand someone else pick up and put away. To believe that my work is so important that I should be angry and frustrated when I do not have the tools or environment to do it properly. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN OLDER THAN I AM GREW UP EXPECTING AND DOING. And so what if their work wasn’t important or they would bankrupt the family with their business schemes? You didn’t fucking criticize the work, jobs or dreams of men. You just didn’t unless you wanted to be the evil villainous bitch in the story.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have as many places to do my work alone as my grandpa did: a garage, a basement, a toolshed, a closet where he kept his Black Velvet and other private treasures, and a windowless office he hardly went into that nobody else was allowed into that was always at least 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house. My grandma didn’t have any place in her house that was her own like that, just like my mom didn’t have a special place in our tiny house for herself like my stepdad had a whole room for his model train. And if Grandma fucked up some shit in the kitchen Grandpa would go ballistic on her ass. So I guess maybe I SHOULD feel guilty about wanting all that man-privilege since being an abusive asshole came with the territory. I don’t know. But on Friday morning I’m going to work alone in the cabin AND I CAN HARDLY WAIT!!

Also? I’ve drafted a new personal ad for a slavey-houseboy type. Not putting it up for awhile though as that’s a whole time-consuming process in itself. I also keep wanting to blog more about how going to college totally distorted my idea of money and assessing the worth of an investment in myself, perhaps making me approach financial risk-taking in a more “manly” way than I would have otherwise.

More morning moon pics to come?

*****

So. I don’t anticipate members and fans seeing a noticeable change in focus on our sites because of this and will probably see more exciting stuff on cam rather than less since we have to cam more to pay for everything. One of the good things (in terms of “earning” my cabin keep) is it’s already making me more disciplined and focused in how I prioritize things, clarifying what needs to come first (which is really REALLY challenging when you have boatloads of everything to do and have an easily-overwhelmed mind like mine). Right now at the top of the list is simply getting ahead on shooting and getting updates lined up, so that’s what I’m going to get back to work on right now.