Excuse Me, Mister. You Just Did Jazz Hands in My Inbox

This morning on my walk, a man baled on a bike because he was ogling me too hard. It was cute. It was klutzy. Klutzy is not a bad thing, even in a first Fetlife message. I don’t care if you make spelling mistakes. I don’t care if your grammar looks as though it got dragged through Manik_Monk’s bedroom by the hair. If we all had to communicate using mathematics instead of letters, my tekst wood B the ekwivelant of this, so I won’t judge your crappy syntax.

I will judge you for text speak, though. That’s just plain lazy.

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Cleverness doesn’t impress me. Not unless it’s served up without a side dish of real personality. I know a few glib, arrogant assholes who magically become awesome men as soon as they turn off the text-based strutting, but I don’t always take the time to find out. When you find a clever sentence in your head, check if it’s a gateway drug to a thousand phials of pretension. That shit reeks so hard I can smell it through my monitor. If you’re saying something in order to impress, we will notice. You just can’t slip that stuff past us.

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Three Deaths, Three Shards of Grief

Lionel taught me what it meant to be alive in a dead body. He also taught me how to write and how to love. Most of all, he taught be how to grieve. After his death, I put down my pen and lived the kind of dead life he’d railed against for all 76 of his years.

His posthumously published book arrived three months later. It seemed to raise him from his very grave and bring me back to life. That was the beginning of what became a grand search through all his writings. Then I found the key: a passage in an old book: He wrote that he didn’t want us to remember him. He wanted us to remember the things he’d rejoiced in, to affirm all he had valued and fought for. That’s how he would have his continuance, so that’s what I began to do. It didn’t erase the grief, but gave me the connection with him that I craved so much. That made the feelings tolerable.

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Grief is an odd process. One death doesn’t prepare you for another. You must start again from scratch each time and navigate it in a new way. When my mother hit fourth stage cancer, pre-emptive grief floored me for over a year. Mourning someone who’s still alive comes with no closure. The long goodbye was the most brutal of my life. I ultimately pushed myself into a voluntary denial.

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A Cage Went in Search of a Bird

My sexuality is a constantly evolving organism—a kind of Kafkaesque extremophile that changes its DNA at least once a year until it ultimately eats its own tail.

I stumbled onto kink in my first relationship, but it took almost 20 years to find *my* kinks so I was essentially vanilla-by-ignorance. The fetishes I dug up in those first years bored me so much that I rarely bothered with them.

In that era, Cosmo defined kink as ‘kitchen sex’. I’m as serious as a broken condom. I never had sex in the kitchen, but I did have it outside a grannies’ prayer meeting next to a trampoline once. The security guard wasn’t really watching. It was actually the trampoline that had him so fascinated. It’s true.

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I was an epic slut from the start. I fucked who I wanted when I wanted as long as nobody was cheating. The only thing I couldn’t bring myself to do was swing and quit being morbidly heterosexual.

Within a few years of the new millennium, I was raped.

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The Fetlife Stepford Zombie Apocalypse

Fetlife’s precious and vital few are made entirely out of awesomeness, but much of the site takes kink so damned seriously their rules could circumnavigate the globe if laid end to end.

I’d personify their attitude as your annoying Uncle Frank who tells you’ve dished up enough cheese sauce for fucksakes and why do you always let your kids run amok at family gatherings? It’s the stranger who walks up to you on the street to lecture you about your smoking. It’s Mabel who wears fur and leopard print but tells you your dress sucks anyway.

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Wondering about your role in your sex life? Fetlife knows who you should be. Just make sure you treat your sub label with all the seriousness of a religion. Do you think we don’t notice you treating kink as though it’s meant to be fun? That’s precisely the attitude that will make BDSM evaporate from planet earth and set all the zombies loose to destroy the paraphilic universe.

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America: Land of the Brave and Not-So-Free

While South Africa was barring A US pastor who’d expressed his bigotry towards the LGBT community from entering our country, the US was voting out an amendment that bars discrimination against employees on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. And this happened before Trump. America, land of the brave but not-that-free, is lagging behind. From my vantage point all the way on the other side of the world, discrimination seems like a way of life over there.

I voted for the first time in South Africa’s first democratic election in 1994. I watched my country transform from an apartheid state into a rainbow nation, and in that time, I began to notice a few odd things about the USA: You were nowhere near legalising gay marriage even years after we had made it a constitutional right, and your racism has been frozen in a dark stasis for a quarter of a century.

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A 2015 study revealed that the median Caucasian household had a net worth that was 17.5 times that of the median black home. South Africa’s Caucasians have a net worth that’s 15 times that of black families. Why the comparison? Because black Americans have been voting without disenfranchisement since 1966. South Africa only broke free of segregation in 1994, yet we’ve achieved more in 20 years than the US has in almost 50.

Worse: the US’s wealth gap is only increasing.

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My Sexuality Lives in the Mud, Not at the End of a Rainbow

I love pretty rope, but the only bondage that I appreciate is the unnecessary. I’ve been tied up by tops who had no power over me, and I’ve been tied up by a dominant who had so much power that he pushed it to absurdity. The one who didn’t need rope to control me was the only one who made it hot. He used it as an accessory for his filthy imagination, which didn’t hurt his cause either.

I value a depraved mind over any of the exquisite things the tops in our community are capable of. There’s so much beauty and talent to see in the kink world, but if I had to choose one trait over any other, it’d be debauchery. Nothing is sexier to me than a dominant who has the imagination and curiosity to bring all his depravity to life. Rope is a tool that can achieve that, but dominants who are disinhibited enough to roll around in their own grimy brains can use any old tool—or none at all.

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Practised talents give me an artistic thrill, but my sexuality lives in the mud, not at the end of a rainbow. I appreciate perversion, which isn’t at its peak until it’s exercised creatively. When I’m considering a relationship, I’m actively looking for an imagination and a willingness to cast away all the bondage that society places on sexuality. In other words, I’m looking for a man who has untied the ropes that constrain his mind.

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Submission and Strength are Like Green Eggs and Ham

Submission and sex are inseparable for me, but so are service and love. I like interesting sex. I adore kink, but I don’t identify with 90% of what I see in other D/s relationships. This makes me a crap sub, but it also makes me a pretty satisfactory SpanishRed, so I think I’ll stay this way.

I don’t want a dominant to enhance my existence. I haven’t spent the last 20 years cobbling together the life I have today only to have a partner meddle with it. I’m all grown up, I swear. I have no intention of giving anyone the power to reduce something that’s already perfect, and my lifestyle is as close to that as they come. If you want to snuggle, though, I’m definitely available. I also really like sex. Did I say that yet?

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I don’t want a dominant to be my therapist either. I’m a sub, not a child. Making myself happy is one of my greatest talents, so I don’t need your input on that score. I’ll tell you all about my internal life, though, but only because you’re my equal and because I like talking (after sex, obviously). A therapeutic relationship requires boundaries that are impossible to form in a sexual relationship, so I’ll stick to my awesome shrink and leave you to handle the spankings.

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