I was not expecting to be hit by a car. I was not expecting anything at the moment, I suppose. I was driving home, just making my way through one of those immense parking lots that sprawl in all directions, and are always mostly empty.
There was a line of cars parked in the fire lane, and I drove around them. As I did so, the truck pulled out, into the passenger side of the car. My neck was whipped around, and all I could do was utter the words " Oh no, not again." This was not the first car accident for me, and the specter of months in rehab for my already injured back and neck flashed through my head.
I pulled into a parking spot, afraid the truck that had hit me would just drive away. But no, the vehicle pulled up just a few spaces down from me. And that was when I noticed that the driver was Hispanic. It was only much later that I had a chance to think about the upwelling of anger and blame that came into my mind, visions of illegal drivers without insurance, angry men yelling at me, no one believing me. I was frightened, and shaken up, but all my fear and angry were directed at the poor man who had run into me. And, part of it was because he was Hispanic.
Typing this, I'm aware of how it sounds. It sounds awful. It doesn't sound like how I would like to think of myself. It sounds like racism.
But I, mindful of how I was treated the time I accidentally ran into a woman's car, was polite. I may have been a bit short, and insist on calling the insurance companies, as we stood there is the blazing sun, but I tried not to make what had happened worse.
I did the best I could.
The gentleman could not speak English, and my Spanish is almost nonexistent. His daughter translated for us both. There was no screaming, or recriminations. Mr. Martinez (not his real name, of course) was terribly polite, admitted it was his fault, and inquired into my health. He promised that he would pay for the damage out of pocket, if the insurance company would not cover it. We shook hands as we parted, and I continued my drive home.
As I drove, I began to think of how surprised I was at his actions and kindness to a complete stranger, who he may have sensed was upset with him. I found myself thinking that for a Hispanic - I caught myself. It was only then that I started to think about my instinctive reaction, anger, and fear. I cried, both from the events of the past hour, and from the realization that, despite a liberal background, and a host of classes on just this sort of thing in college, I was a racist.
I had made judgments about Mr. Martinez from the moment I saw him, and was amazed when they were proven wrong. I can't do much about my reaction then, but I owe Mr. Martinez an apology. And I owe it to myself to be aware of people as people, rather than react to their ethnic background.
So, now, in addition to my apology, a thank you: Thank you Mr Martinez, for being a wonderful person yesterday after you hit my car.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A memory
Setting: High School
His name was Robbie. The diminutive only made him seem casual, instead of young. He was not child-like, which (come to think of it) might have been part of the attraction. The corruption of innocents came later. He rode the bus home with me, just three stops from the last one, which was mine. I was always at the end of bus routes, it seemed.
He swaggered, and smoked, and had slightly unkempt hair he was forever pushing out of his eyes. We had nothing in common. Yet somehow, I conceived a lust for him. Perhaps is the was the classic air of the bad boy from an earlier day; a greaser, almost, with his muscle shirt, decidedly working class family, slick hair, and pounding music. He sat with his legs spread, and the outline of his cock would brush against the fabric. And I lusted after him.
I had a boyfriend, and had been having sex for almost a year. I wanted all the time, obsessively. I lusted after Robbie. I flirted with Robbie. Some days he would flirt back, and some days... nothing. Which might have been part of the fascination. I found adoration boring. But I wanted to be wanted.
I invited him over, while my mother was at work. He brought over a Metallica CD, played "no leaf clover". We kissed. He tasted of cigarettes, the cranberry juice I had offered, and sweat. Bitter. He touched me for a while, and then I sent him home. Three hours of late night phone calls later, and nothing was said about that night again.
I thought of Robbie today, a song on the radio sending me back to high school. I wonder where he is, what he is doing. But not enough to try to find out. The taste was bitter, and I didn't want more of it.
His name was Robbie. The diminutive only made him seem casual, instead of young. He was not child-like, which (come to think of it) might have been part of the attraction. The corruption of innocents came later. He rode the bus home with me, just three stops from the last one, which was mine. I was always at the end of bus routes, it seemed.
He swaggered, and smoked, and had slightly unkempt hair he was forever pushing out of his eyes. We had nothing in common. Yet somehow, I conceived a lust for him. Perhaps is the was the classic air of the bad boy from an earlier day; a greaser, almost, with his muscle shirt, decidedly working class family, slick hair, and pounding music. He sat with his legs spread, and the outline of his cock would brush against the fabric. And I lusted after him.
I had a boyfriend, and had been having sex for almost a year. I wanted all the time, obsessively. I lusted after Robbie. I flirted with Robbie. Some days he would flirt back, and some days... nothing. Which might have been part of the fascination. I found adoration boring. But I wanted to be wanted.
I invited him over, while my mother was at work. He brought over a Metallica CD, played "no leaf clover". We kissed. He tasted of cigarettes, the cranberry juice I had offered, and sweat. Bitter. He touched me for a while, and then I sent him home. Three hours of late night phone calls later, and nothing was said about that night again.
I thought of Robbie today, a song on the radio sending me back to high school. I wonder where he is, what he is doing. But not enough to try to find out. The taste was bitter, and I didn't want more of it.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
New loves, and new directions
I admit that the title of this post is, perhaps, a bit of a misnomer. After all, this is not the first time I have posted verse to this blog. Indeed, since I made my confession about the hidden nature of my poetry, I have, somewhat paradoxically, been far more willing to share it.
But, there is new love in my life! Not a new love for me, but rather, a new love for my love, Mazzikin. While I have not talked at length about polyamory, and how I do it, I have mentioned ere now that I have several people whom I love very much in my life, and am involved in relationships with to varying degrees and permutations.
Mazzikin and I are secondary (yes, we use the dreaded ranking system). For us, that means we are not only not exclusive, but do not exercise veto powers over each other's partner choices. He lives an hour away, and visits most weekends. Mazzikin is extremely respectful of the relationship between Paradox ( my primary relationship) and I, and he and Paradox have a firm friendship between them.
Recently, Mazzikin had attracted the attentions of a lovely girl, and was, in fact, quite smitten with her himself. The chemistry was undeniable, at least to those of us observing. Indeed, both Paradox and I felt compelled to remark on the sizzling nature of the attraction. And, what with one thing and another, things have fallen into a lovely poly tangle. As Paradox is fond of putting it: "My girlfriend, and her boyfriend, and his girlfriend."
Recently, Mazzikin wrote about the process of this all coming together in a private post. He remarked that it would be nice if I commented on it (I'm a truly horrible commenter. I feel that unless I have something truly brilliant to say that I should not even bother, and hence, mostly don't), as the lady might like to see an affirmation of my support for this budding romance.
I agreed that it was always nice to have a bit of affirmation, and sat down to write something out. What came out was verse.
Beloved of my love
Know that it is better
than fine,
this new thing
you are weaving,
with a man I love.
We know that love
spreads, and grows, just so:
strawberry plants
with innumerable fruits
all
on the same stalk.
When you look
at each other
you glow, twin suns in an evening sky,
each the other's light.
And I'm still here,
my own light, dancing in reflected glow
of constellations lighting up the sky.
We will be called
"The Lovers"
a cluster of tiny dots
and
intangible lines
drawn together.
But, there is new love in my life! Not a new love for me, but rather, a new love for my love, Mazzikin. While I have not talked at length about polyamory, and how I do it, I have mentioned ere now that I have several people whom I love very much in my life, and am involved in relationships with to varying degrees and permutations.
Mazzikin and I are secondary (yes, we use the dreaded ranking system). For us, that means we are not only not exclusive, but do not exercise veto powers over each other's partner choices. He lives an hour away, and visits most weekends. Mazzikin is extremely respectful of the relationship between Paradox ( my primary relationship) and I, and he and Paradox have a firm friendship between them.
Recently, Mazzikin had attracted the attentions of a lovely girl, and was, in fact, quite smitten with her himself. The chemistry was undeniable, at least to those of us observing. Indeed, both Paradox and I felt compelled to remark on the sizzling nature of the attraction. And, what with one thing and another, things have fallen into a lovely poly tangle. As Paradox is fond of putting it: "My girlfriend, and her boyfriend, and his girlfriend."
Recently, Mazzikin wrote about the process of this all coming together in a private post. He remarked that it would be nice if I commented on it (I'm a truly horrible commenter. I feel that unless I have something truly brilliant to say that I should not even bother, and hence, mostly don't), as the lady might like to see an affirmation of my support for this budding romance.
I agreed that it was always nice to have a bit of affirmation, and sat down to write something out. What came out was verse.
Beloved of my love
Know that it is better
than fine,
this new thing
you are weaving,
with a man I love.
We know that love
spreads, and grows, just so:
strawberry plants
with innumerable fruits
all
on the same stalk.
When you look
at each other
you glow, twin suns in an evening sky,
each the other's light.
And I'm still here,
my own light, dancing in reflected glow
of constellations lighting up the sky.
We will be called
"The Lovers"
a cluster of tiny dots
and
intangible lines
drawn together.
Monday, January 12, 2009
An Egg in my Hand.
I hate eating breakfast when I first wake up. My mother made this a moot point: I would eat, or I would not leave the breakfast table. But after I went off to college, like a fledgling bird turning her beak up on the early worm, I slowly stopped eating breakfast.
I knew it was good to eat food in the morning, that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and all that jazz. But I stopped.
I had tea, instead, with cream and sugar.
Then, I started again. Because I was working real jobs, and couldn't just stop when I was finally hungry and have a much belated breakfast. But it was still hard for me, to wake up that little bit much earlier to make sure I had time to make and eat something.
So I boiled a half dozen eggs, one night, and for the rest of the week I walked out the door with an egg in my hand, to be eaten at my desk when I got to work.
An egg in one's hand is a satisfying thing. It is pleasantly curved, ovoid in shape, light brown in color. It is cold, but slowly warms. An egg in my hand reminds me of being a child, living on a farm. We had chickens, and I would carry each egg like a precious thing in my hands into the kitchen. An egg in my hands reminds me of my mother, and my childhood, and being fed.
An egg in my hand is breakfast.
I knew it was good to eat food in the morning, that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and all that jazz. But I stopped.
I had tea, instead, with cream and sugar.
Then, I started again. Because I was working real jobs, and couldn't just stop when I was finally hungry and have a much belated breakfast. But it was still hard for me, to wake up that little bit much earlier to make sure I had time to make and eat something.
So I boiled a half dozen eggs, one night, and for the rest of the week I walked out the door with an egg in my hand, to be eaten at my desk when I got to work.
An egg in one's hand is a satisfying thing. It is pleasantly curved, ovoid in shape, light brown in color. It is cold, but slowly warms. An egg in my hand reminds me of being a child, living on a farm. We had chickens, and I would carry each egg like a precious thing in my hands into the kitchen. An egg in my hands reminds me of my mother, and my childhood, and being fed.
An egg in my hand is breakfast.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A poem about sex.
If you you don't want to read about sex, please exit now.
I've always had a hard time writing about sex, both in general, and specifically in verse. It seems to easy to slide into cliche, to say something so metaphorically that all impact is lost.
Sex, for me, at least, is not metaphorical. It is not fireworks, or burning loins, or amazing flower laden bliss. Sex is raw, and naked, and silly, often. Sex, if I'm doing it right, is where I get to be my most honest, naked, uncomplicated self.
And that self might mangle a metaphor, or two. But I'm more likely to talk dirty by saying "Fuck me." That is how I want to write about sex.
I think I may have done it this time.
Without further ado, the poem:
I wake from my dream
just long enough to
turn off the alarm,
curl back into blankets
and wait for you.
When you come home,
I beg you
to fuck me
like you did in my dream.
You lay
your head on
my thigh, hidden under blankets
and you're looking at me
while your
cold, cold hands
slide up my legs.
I'm wet, and warm,
and writhing on your hands, fingers in me
warming slowly.
Until I beg you
please, please
to fuck me
and you do.
I've always had a hard time writing about sex, both in general, and specifically in verse. It seems to easy to slide into cliche, to say something so metaphorically that all impact is lost.
Sex, for me, at least, is not metaphorical. It is not fireworks, or burning loins, or amazing flower laden bliss. Sex is raw, and naked, and silly, often. Sex, if I'm doing it right, is where I get to be my most honest, naked, uncomplicated self.
And that self might mangle a metaphor, or two. But I'm more likely to talk dirty by saying "Fuck me." That is how I want to write about sex.
I think I may have done it this time.
Without further ado, the poem:
I wake from my dream
just long enough to
turn off the alarm,
curl back into blankets
and wait for you.
When you come home,
I beg you
to fuck me
like you did in my dream.
You lay
your head on
my thigh, hidden under blankets
and you're looking at me
while your
cold, cold hands
slide up my legs.
I'm wet, and warm,
and writhing on your hands, fingers in me
warming slowly.
Until I beg you
please, please
to fuck me
and you do.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Psst. Anyone still there?
"Well, Shadowedge," (I say to myself), "where have you been?"
"ummmmmm... On the Moon. With Steve.* "
"Oh really? And the Moon, I suppose, has no Internet?"
At this point, I realize that things have degenerated into silliness, and stop. But here I am, at long last.
Did'ya miss me? Did you notice I was gone?
And why am I posting tonight, of all nights? Well... I've been contemplating hope. The last evil in Pandora's box, after all the others were released into the world. I could use a little hope. But I'm trying, according to Slovotsky's** law (the number of which I cannot remember) : "When you really want something, try to want it a little less. "
This is my second presidential election where I have been of age to vote. After my first attempt to elect someone I liked failed miserably, I'm crossing fingers, toes and everything else that can be crossed. Yes, that includes my legs. But if things go well, there will be some celebrating. If things go badly... well, there is a lot of rum with my name on it waiting for me.
Wait... Really? Obama won? While I was writing this?
McCain is making his concession speech...
Oh my. A rush of relief breaks over me. And that is enough for now.
Thank you, everyone who voted.
* This is a bit from an Eddie Izzard show. I recommend it highly.
** From Joel Rosenberg's "Guardians of the Flame" series.
"ummmmmm... On the Moon. With Steve.* "
"Oh really? And the Moon, I suppose, has no Internet?"
At this point, I realize that things have degenerated into silliness, and stop. But here I am, at long last.
Did'ya miss me? Did you notice I was gone?
And why am I posting tonight, of all nights? Well... I've been contemplating hope. The last evil in Pandora's box, after all the others were released into the world. I could use a little hope. But I'm trying, according to Slovotsky's** law (the number of which I cannot remember) : "When you really want something, try to want it a little less. "
This is my second presidential election where I have been of age to vote. After my first attempt to elect someone I liked failed miserably, I'm crossing fingers, toes and everything else that can be crossed. Yes, that includes my legs. But if things go well, there will be some celebrating. If things go badly... well, there is a lot of rum with my name on it waiting for me.
Wait... Really? Obama won? While I was writing this?
McCain is making his concession speech...
Oh my. A rush of relief breaks over me. And that is enough for now.
Thank you, everyone who voted.
* This is a bit from an Eddie Izzard show. I recommend it highly.
** From Joel Rosenberg's "Guardians of the Flame" series.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A post in which I talk about being "nice."
This was originally a comment on Unspeakable Axe's post about the disparity between the number of books and other resources aimed at introducing female to topping, versus introduction males to bottoming.
My comment turned into an essay against the concept of "nice." So for posarity, and on the off change I have any readers left after the long summer hiatus I'm reposting it here.
My comment turned into an essay against the concept of "nice." So for posarity, and on the off change I have any readers left after the long summer hiatus I'm reposting it here.
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I’m going to try and explain all the thoughts that are fluttering around in my head on this issue, but since I’m on day #3 of a horrible headache, it may not go so well.
I could really get to hate “nice.” I, like most females I know, was raised to be a “nice” person. The definition of “nice” shifts from person to person, but a few things seem to be constant: “nice” girls don’t hurt people , and “nice” girls don’t like sex. Needless to say, getting hot and bothered from hurting people while having kinky sex is right out.
Sadism is the refined art of being not nice. Exceedingly not nice. (And yes, not all tops are sadists. But let me get to that.) So is it any wonder that there are fewer female sadists around?
Now, as I said earlier, not all tops are sadists. But tops do take control of the power dynamic, sort of by definition. And that’s not “nice” either. Telling someone what they are going to do, to you, or for you, or in general is not “nice.”
“Nice” is putting up and shutting up, and doing what needs to be done, and not enjoying one damn bit of it. Or, at least, this is my understanding of the phenomenon.
To enjoy sex at all is breaking the “nice” paradigm. To enjoy kinky sex, more so. To admit to oneself that one enjoys things that hurt (oh so good!) is to warp “nice” all out of perspective.
But let’s be clear here. The glass (a little more honest) MY glass is only half full. Because for all that I like to think of myself as having broken the “nice” paradigm it lingers.
I’ve been reading Ellie Lumpesse’s (http://www.lumpesse.com/) masculinity interviews with great interest. In several of them, the men talk about the need to make peace with topping. This consensual power play we do SEEMS to go against the egalitarian feminist sensibility that most of us (I do hope!) hold. It doesn’t, I think we can agree. We do it from a place of informed consent, often warping the cultural perceptions around gender, power and sex, and it is a fulfilling part of many of our lives.
Take the feminist angle, and a dose of “nice” and no wonder there are not female tops coming out of the woodwork. Admitting that one likes to hit people and listen to them gasp on that edge of pain/pleasure: that is scary stuff. Even if the people you are hitting want it as much as you do, consented to be there, and are enjoying the heck out of it.
Getting out of “nice” is work. Work: reading, and thinking, and reading some. Finding a voice to say what one wants. Finding other voices who think like you.
And even then, even if you get that far, you find yourself back at “nice” sometimes, wondering if it will ever feel like it’s alright to want to what you do.
I could get to hate “nice”.