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One Sadist’s Consent

syrens:

There’s a heap of good stuff in here, but in particular the parts about survivor desire are ringing really true for me. Go have a read.

Originally posted on Kink Praxis:

My Consent-Seeking Approach

I’m the kind of dominant that carefully negotiates the aspects of control we might play with. The kind of top that lays out a set of tools and asks you to examine and select from them. The kind of butch that asks, politely, if it is alright to flirt with you. My negotiation tends toward lengthy, often occurring over email, and then reaffirmed in person. On the spectrum of consent-seeking, I’d characterize myself as leaning very much to one end—the explicit verbalized continual consent-seeking end.

This quality of my kink practice is not the norm in the kink communities I’ve been part of. Many folks want something faster, something more casual, something with less steps. I’m fairly open about being a dominant sadist and enjoying edgeplay, and some people assume (or perhaps fantasize) that I am going to have a constant air of authority and dominance, or…

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Kink of the Week – Belts (#KotW)

Rightio.
So “belts” is the topic for this half of February’s KotW challenge.
While I appreciate a good hobble belt as a way of flagging (and also hanging stuff upon one’s person), I don’t tend to reach for a belt when I want to give someone a taste of leather.
Part of that is just…. I don’t wear them.
I mean, my wife/property wears them, and I suppose I could take off her belt and smack her with it, but… Meh? I just don’t wanna.
Like I’ve said before, I’m a crops and quirts kind of gal. Single Tails are wonderful things, yes, and I’d love to take another workshop on how to use them. But, by and large, I’m not into long-range toys. I like to make things up close and personal. ;-)
So that’s where I stand on belts.
 
Kink of the Week
 
 
TTFN,
Ms Syren.

Hey there, everybody.
 
So this morning was full of a twitter discussion about what meds are contraindicated for Grapefruit (juice, but also the whole fruit). Pyke Barber dug up this handy list which, if you are on Anti-Depresants or Hormone Replacements of any kind (but also potentially a bunch of other meds that effect your brain) you should probably double-check about, if you don’t already know:
Grapefruit Effectiveness, Safety and Drug Interactions (RxList)
 
Other links of note:
Sophia Banks has this article about C279 and State-Sanctioned (and Perpetuated) Violence Against Trans Folks (esp Women).
 
Here’s an article from Xtra pertaining to C279 that you may want to check out (if you want to read all the hateful shit that comes out of Don Plett’s damn mouth, anyway…) and another one from HuffPo (that is slightly less awful to get through). Amnesty International is deeply unimpressed.
 
On a Sucktastically related note:
Sumaya Ysl, a black, trans, ballroom dancer from Toronto, was found dead last Sunday morning after being seen fleeing a man the night before.
 
If you are a writer of a womanly persuasion, you might considering submitting something to Bitch Magazine‘s “Blood and Guts” issue. Perhaps someone who knew Sumaya would like to submit a piece on intersectional violence? Maybe?
 
Eugh. And, this-just-in: Her Name was Melonie – Another Trans WoC Has Committed Suicide.
FFS. Hey, cis people, maybe we can all email Don Plett (again…) and tell him off for his abject failure to protect women and kids from violence? Let’s do that.
Note: When you email him? You’re going to get a shitty, condescending, mansplainy piece of bullshit back for your efforts. Do it anyway. What a hateful man. :-(

Think of the children

syrens:

This from a Queer Femme Mama in my neighbourhood.

Originally posted on Queer Femme Mama:

Pro-choice, always Pro-choice, always

I started to claim the title of “Mama” before I even gave birth. Even though I am devotedly pro-choice, I did this strategically. Because I knew that the “concerned parent” moniker was powerful and that I needed to mobilize it for good, not evil. I attended a counter-demo to the March for Life when I was about eight months pregnant, holding a sign that said, “Mama for choice.” And when I was only a few weeks away from giving birth, I presented to a provincial committee studying Bill 13, which compelled all Ontario high schools to allow gay-straight alliances (including the Catholic board).

Because whether I like it or not, being a parent lends me some sort of credibility and authority to speak on issues that are relevant to children. And it gives me an opportunity to disrupt the bigots who use ridiculous “think of the children”…

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So, quite some while ago – actually, a whole year ago, give or take a week or two – I was in Toronto for a conference that included a workshop on exploring gender through visual art. It was a grand old time, and I was surprised to see how much of my sense of gender was rooted specifically in femme rather than woman and, additionally, how much teary, shaking, rage was built into it.
I don’t know why that is.
I mean, I have theories. The little voice at the back of my brain singing girl, girl, girl was never told to shut up, never silenced. Whereas femme was something I had to find and, to some extent, fight for. I’m cissexual, so any time I gravitated towards a thing that was culturally coded as “girly” or “feminine” I got a big old “YES YOU ARE DOING GENDER RIGHT” from everyone around me (and, yeah, backwards much? But there it is) and, because I tended not to gravitate towards “boyish”/“masculine” things I didn’t get much “Yer Doing It Rong”. Except when I did what I now think of as “femme stuff”.
Which I guess means I need to offer up a personal working definition of Femme, how I was introduced to the word, and what it means for me.
I started finding femme – the word, the possibility that it might fit me – during my first marriage. I was shaping up to be a whole lot gayer (and kinky, and probably non-monogamous) than I’d originally thought, and the social expectations around being a hetero(normative) wife – with all the stuff that goes along with that[1], the expectations of modest-but-not-too-modest officially vanilla (but unofficial/unspoken submissive) heterosexuality, desire for kids & motherhood, even religious/political views and career aspirations (which starts digging into class stuff, but it’s tied up with the idea of “wife”, too), of not rocking the boat, of knowing when to keep quiet – was really, really uncomfortable. I spent a lot of time at family functions escaping to the bathroom so that I could let my shoulders come down from around my ears.
So finding femme – a word that is intimately tied, for me at least, to (a) being Girl, (b) being feminine rather than masculine, (c) being openly sensual & sexual, but also and very importantly (d) owning my own body & having physical & sexual autonomy beyond a Yes/No switch that could only be flicked once – was kind of a massive big deal. Like “Wait, that’s an option??”
I’ve heard Femme described as “broken femininity” and also – frequently – as a femininity that is “too much”.
I’ve always been “too much”. Too big. Too loud. Having been hearing the Social Disapproval version of STFU about things like my voice and my body and my sensuality since I was about ten, maybe a little younger.
So finding Femme was like “Wait, I don’t have to be masculine on some level to be all of myself at once? And not get punished for it? ZOMG!”
I wrote a poem, years ago now, where I talked about how becoming femme had been a process of unraveling the strictures of Mandatory Femininity that had been knit around me from birth so that I could be the feminine person that I am without having to squeeze myself into a garment that had always been too small, too constricting. Yes, it was a total metaphor-fest. Welcome to Poetry. ;-)
It’s not that woman isn’t a significant part of my identity. It’s is, very much so. But what I am, this galaxy-sized creature that I am, bombastic that I am, can hold “woman” in its core and still be too big, too much, to be contained by it. Femme can stretch and mould to the whole of me. Femme actually fits.
 
 
Cheers,
Ms Syren.
 
 
[1] The day we went out to buy wedding dress fabric, my mom took one look at my tattered and patched army boots and told me I should replace them specifically because “[…] You’re gonna be a bride”. Brides, apparently, do not wear army boots[2].
 
[2] Tell that to my wife, who wore them on our wedding day. <3 :-)

The idea of Stone, the idea of Femme. I’ve heard descriptions of “stone femme” wherein the femme in question is The Queen of Cups – receptive, reactive, responsive, the partner whose moan, shiver, arch, pushes the energy back, completes the emotional/energetic/erotic loop so that it can cycle through again. In this context (in any context?) Femme Bottom (any bottom?) is all appetite.
But so am I.
I read Xan West’s writing about Stone, about the gaze, about desire and how a partner’s responses can make them come, just with breath, with sound, with need. And this is so familiar to me.
I’m not stone. My clothes can come off when I fuck, am maybe at my most powerful, most “toppy”, when I’m in nothing by sweat-slicked skin and high heeled shoes; I crave touch, hunger for it, too, but it’s scary as fuck and hard to stay in my body to accept it, let alone welcome it, without overthinking everything or flinching/freezing pre-emptively. I’m seven years (twenty years? thirty?) into trying to navigate my way through this minefield of fear, body, and performativity, towards the pleasure, openness, sincerity, the offering that I want to give in vulnerability, in desire, but also towards my own ability to accept the offering I want to receive, crave receiving, as a dominant bottom.
I’m femme.
When Tara Hardy writes “I, too, have a mouth”, about wanting to taste the world; when Leah Lakshmi Piepzna Samarasinha writes about femme hunger and needing to be cautious when it comes to sharing the gulf of that ravenous need… That’s me.
As a femme top, as someone who is all appetite, who is all mouth, I am not the Queen of Cups. Following you with hungry eyes, I want you to see, and respond to, my desire. At my purest, I am the Great Devourer: I want to eat you alive. I want you to like it. To offer yourself up to my hunger, to the tongue that would taste every quivering, shuddering inch of you.
Xan writes, in “Where Pleasure Resides” (same link as above), a lot about cocks. I don’t have one of those. It’s not a word that fits me. But I deeply understand the yearning to get energetically inside someone, to find her mouth of fire, coax it open with the red, red pulse of my tongue – physical, energetic, or both – until I am so deep inside that I can lap at her heart and coax that open, too.
This is what I want.
This is also what I dread.
I don’t know how much of it is conditioning – my mother telling me, in my teens, that once you’ve fucked someone your heart goes with them, too – versus how much of this is true to the actual connection between touch and trust, between sexual vulnerability and emotional vulnerability, that exists in my body. But, yes, if I let someone fuck me, get inside me, even just feed me – though it’s easier to avoid when I’m topping (“less direct” is the wrong way to say it, but… riding a response is not the same as generating that response, and there’s an emotional buffer in that difference) – the chances that I’ll fall in love with them, want a deep, lasting emotional connection with them, rise dramatically. And that’s scary. Terrifying. And also yearned for.
I’m hungry and afraid to eat.
What a damn silly place to be.
 
 
TTFN,
Ms Syren.

Alright, folks.
This is another old Kink of the Week topic, but it’s one that’s dear to my heart, so I’m going with it.
I am, as-you-know-bob, an exhibitionist. I suppose, when you’ve been getting stared at since you were fourteen, or whenever it was that I topped six feet tall, you tend to decide that you might as well make it work for you and give ‘em something to stare at.
The reality, though, is that I’ve actually spent a huge amount of time trying to make myself smaller, less intimidating. I took a burlesque class (years ago, now), and I remember the look of fear – like, “Oh, god, is she going to run me over??” – on the face of of a class-mate (who, at that point was acting as A Member Of The Audience) when I started taking up the amount of space I’m capable of during performance.
 
Now… I’m a (performance) poet, a long-time singer, and a professional naked chick who makes her living taking her clothes off in front of strangers. I’m not sure that I don’t qualify as an exhibitionist just because of that.
But… As an exhibitionist, I’m maybe a little weird? Or possibly I’m calling it “exhibitionism” when it’s really something else… It’s not that I crave a audience – though having been a performer of one sort or another pretty-much since I was seven, I’m kind of used to having an audience around, and enjoy putting on a good show – it’s that, sexually speaking, I like being so “swept away” by desire that the random bystanders stop mattering.
Yes, I like public sex.
But I like public sex for reasons like “I like sex with clothes on” and “I like making out up against a wall or a bar”. And, sure, I also like the idea of my lover’s hand sliding up under the hem of my skirt, of grinding together on a dance floor or in a shadowy corner, getting each other off – or at least really, really on – in a big crowd of people. But… I don’t actually want the Big Crowd of People to be watching. I want them to be happily going about their business while my sweetie and I get it on in a little world of our own.
Is that still exhibitionism?
I’m not sure that it is.
I like that something can be so public, so easy to spot – convenient alcove, or bathroom stall[1], or whatever notwithstanding – and yet so intimate and personal, so “our little secret”. It’s delightful and really titilating… but I’m not sure that it qualifies as exhibitionism… Hm…
 
Kink of the Week
 
 
TTFN,
Ms Syren.
 
 
[1] Re: Bathroom stalls. As mentioned, I’m quite a bit over six feet tall. Most bathroom stalls aford zero privacy for folks of my stature, at least from a fucking-while-standing perspective. I think I’ve come across two whole washrooms that allowed for this – one was in a government building, and the other was in a dance studio. Get with it clubs. Seriously. O.O

syrens:

Reblogging this because fuck yes to all of it. Go read.

Originally posted on Decolonization:

By Naomi Sayers

As I sit here drafting this, I am wondering what can I write that I haven’t already written, or that other people haven’t already stated elsewhere? There isn’t much more that I can say, or that we can say collectively. It is now 25 years since the first march in Vancouver’s downtown east side called for action to the issue of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls. And now, 25 years later, we still march, we still write, we still shout…who is listening?

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So this week’s Kink of the Week topic is Blood Play.
Woohoo! :-D :-D :-D
Seriously, I saw this topic, and what popped into my head was “YAY! Jade and I actually have a kink in common!”
Not so much, apparently. But hey. Onwards!
 
So blood play – and knife play, and biting, and vampirism (which is a whole other topic, though I will definitely be touching on it here, possibly a lot) and scarification, and all the other stuff that goes along with blood-letting and why you might want to do it – is kind of my bag. My jam. My rich, oozing, red, red, jam.
:-D
Yum.
 
I’ve been interested in vampires since I was about seven years old, so that’s bound up with it somewhere. I’ve read those pulpy anthologies of lesbian vampire erotica (Blood Sisters and that sort of thing) and… the formula there is so far from what vampirism means to me. It’s not a Power Exchange thing in the D/s sense of the word, for a start – although I won’t argue that my Domme wakes up sniffing the air when there’s blood to play with and in – it’s a Power Exchange in the sense of an energetic feedback loop where we are feeding into each other (like being in a really good dance club where the music is fantastic and everyone’s moving) and on each other. It’s so far from “Oh my god, she bit my clit” (although I think I’ve probably done that, or something like that, at least once) that the trope is straight-up laughable. Drinking from another can be worship and gratitude, and it’s always about trust, about welcoming. “I will make you my own[1]”, take you in, devour you, make you part of my body. We are both letting someone get under our skin, in different ways.
That’s what biting is – a kiss that goes deeper than skin.
I remember, when I was about 20, thinking “Blood sharing is more intimate than sex, because you need a lot more trust to do it, you can’t put a condom over a vein”.
In retrospect, this was, perhaps, a little simplistic. But my feelings about the intimacy of blood-sharing haven’t actually changed. I mean, yes, you have to do your homework, be aware of how to avoid getting sick – gloves, drop-sheets, STI tests – and usually, when I’m doing blood play (the exception being my wife, because: fluid bonding) I don’t actually get to drink anything, much as I might want to follow those enticing crimson rivers with my tongue. Rather, I tend to opt for the much safer second choice, which is running my hands through my Person’s blood and feeding it to her, dripping from my fingertips.
Ng.
I’ll be in my bunk.
 
Anyway. So that’s part of it. A big part of it.
But some of it is just straight-up predatory Monster Food.
The hiss and the tremble and way the blood beads bright on broken skin, there’s no red like it, no smell. My voice teacher used to tell me to imagine smelling something wonderful, in order to get me to breathe properly, and what I imagined was the mingling of blood and sex. Not that I ever told her this, because that’s got to be a little disconcerting coming from a 16-year-old, particularly one who doesn’t yet know she’s kinky. But that’s what I was imagining and, yes, since I hadn’t even kisses another person at that point, the smell I was thinking of was specifically menstrual blood. When that stuff’s fresh, it’s the best smell on earth. (Three minutes after the fact, though, it’s really, really not. Pro-Tip for those who want to save their own. Although once it’s completely dried out, it smells like honey. For real. Such sweetness under hte iron).
 
Moving along. Some of it – touching back to that energetic feedback loop – exists at the Sex Magic end of S/M. I love to carve words into my Person using a scalpel or an 18-gage needle (if you want more tearing and, thense, more pain), to carve them in mirror-script so that they can be read specifically in the mirror. It’s magic like that pen in Harry Potter – write it until it sinks in:
Hope
You Are Loved
You Are Mine
My Horse, My Servant
[2]
 
It’s all intimacy, when you get right down to it. Yes, beauty. Yes, emphatically, lust. Yes, Woo, on a number of levels. But it’s the sharing, the deep and gracious vulnerability that is offered, entrusted, accepted. That’s why it matters to me.
 
Anyway.
So those are my FEELINGS on blood play.
 
Kink of the Week
 
 
TTFN,
Ms Syren.
 
 
[1] That line is from a poem called Leatherwood Honey by Amal El Mohtar – from her book The Honey Month, which you should all buy. Go on, I’ll wait. :-)
 
[2] P.S.: It’s our 5-year service-versary today. :-D

syrens:

An article about white activists using the term “settler”, among other things. Maybe go read it?

Originally posted on Decolonization:

by Scott L. Morgensen

This article is also available in mp3 format.

White settlers who seek solidarity with Indigenous challenges to settler colonialism must confront how white supremacy shapes settler colonialism, our solidarity, and our lives. As a white person working in Canada and the United States to challenge racism and colonialism (in queer / trans politics, and solidarity activism) I am concerned that white people might embrace Indigenous solidarity in ways that evade our responsibilities to people of color and to their calls upon us to challenge all forms of white supremacy. This essay presents my responsibilities to theories and practices of decolonization that connect Indigenous and racialized peoples. I highlight historical studies by Indigenous and critical race scholars — notably, those bridging black and Indigenous studies — as they illuminate deep interlockings of white supremacy and settler colonialism. I call white settlers to become responsible to these, and…

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