G is for Glory Hole

We are in the big smoke. This city. Chinatown. The red light district. We are sitting in a bar and they are so young and wide eyed. They stare out into the passing parade. Women dressed like men. Men dressed like women. Prostitutes dressed like men dressed like women. The place across the road is called the Glory Hole and I chuckle, but they have never heard this term before. I find this endearing. This two young men, so clean in the dirty city.

I tell them about the holes in the wall and the play of random genitals, penises drooping through the holes like flowers, rising to the sun when people kneel and touch and suck at them. They are incredulous. It is charming. This is a world that they have not had contact with. I am no seasoned hand at sex shops and peep shows but I have seen and heard and visited. I am a voyeur. I watch with interest. I suddenly feel elevated to a place of wisdom in the eyes of my two young friends, these men who have grown up in an age of free porn on the internet, but who have kept themselves safe from it naive, and ultimately sweet.

G is for Gang Bangs

When I watched the Annabelle Chong story I was disturbed. It was a moving documentary, a well executed piece of work, but I wondered particularly, about her relationship to sex, her public embracing of what we usually keep private. She was starring in a Gang Bang and I watched the male 'actors' sitting in the auditorium waiting their turn. Each one of them was there for their own particular set of reasons. Each one waiting for the man before him to finish so that they might step up to the body on the table, the thin Asian lady, the piece of flesh smelling of other mens' sperm and sweat and pheramones.

Am I like Annabelle Chong? Am I the same feisty but fragile creature, daring the waiting hoards to step up to the plate? Am I using sex as a shield, a red rag, distracting the bull from the truth of the situation. And what is the truth?

The truth is that I am invisible under this veneer of sexuality. I am somewhere inside and sometimes it is impossible for anyone, including myself, to find me. Sometimes I am unsure if there is really any 'me' to find at all.

bicycle handle

He gave me the handle from a bicycle and settled against the wall. He wanted to watch. I suppose I knew that this would be the last time for us. There was no kiss hello, no hug, just a handing over of the implement.

"I want to watch" he said and settled, just like that.

"You want me to masturbate?"

"Yes."

"You want to watch?"

"Yes."

I could have said no, I suppose but this was an adventure I had never been on. I was always up for an adventure.

"Open them," like the bodiless voice intruding on a scene from a pornographic movie. "Now spit."

And I glared. As if the boy could direct me towards orgasm better than I could direct myself.

"Be quiet," I told him, "or I won't be able to come"

"I don't care if you come or not."

And so the line had been drawn. I raced him, from my position perched on the edge of his bed. I watched him fully clothed, but with his penis a ridiculous protrusion, and his hand around it. No spit for him. He had the bottle of lubrication and he used it liberally. I would make this about me, I thought, about my orgasm. I would use him equally as well as he would use me. I watched him stroke himself in that halting a-rythmic way he had and I wanted to get off on it, but I found myself hating him instead. Just a little bit more with every stroke.

He directed me from his lazy lean, removed from the activity, yet involved in it. When he was close the directions stopped. He closed his eyes andd I watched his whole body tense and I watched him catch his ejaculate in the palm of his hand.

I sat on the edge of the bed with the handle from a bicycle inside me and I didn't want to continue. We would not continue. He wiped his hand in a tissue and zipped himself up and he looked unruffled.

"Thanks for that."

When he walked out into the loungeroom to get a beer I knew that I would never see him again and that was Okay too. I didn't particularly like him with his nice clothes and his fetish for nurses. I liked the sex which was always detatched and slightly angry, but I didn't like waking up beside him and I had rarely slept over for this reason.

I left the bicycle handle on his clean black bedspread where it would drip and stain and he would have to wash the whole thing which would annoy him. He was expecting me to stay for a beer, but I gathered up my things and then I left.

F is For Fetish

From Dictionary.com

–noun

1.	an object regarded with awe as being the embodiment or habitation of a potent spirit or as having magical potency.

2.	any object, idea, etc., eliciting unquestioning reverence, respect, or devotion: to make a fetish of high grades.

3.	Psychology. any object or nongenital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation.

Krissy:

1. Before bed there is a ritual. To speak of it is to lessen it's potential to protect me. It is enough to say that this has kept me from night terrors since I was a child. Perhaps this all began with the thing I did with soft toys, giving them magical potency that would protect me from myself. I am my worst enemy. I chase myself through dreams, hopping from one horror to another without let up. I use my ritual to give myself some meger sense of control over these terrors. Still my dreams are filled with death and severed body parts and a sense of powerlessness. I perservere with my private ritual because perhaps I am keeping out some even greater terrors with these repetitions. Of course the heart of this fetish is sexual. Sex is the single most powerful tool I call my own. I therefore shake my sexual fetish at the gathering dark and hide under the covers, weathering the storm till the breaking of each new day.

2. You have a pedestal set under you. I am old enough to know better. I set one person or another in this elevated position from which you might fall. You have been fetishised and I appologise in advance. I know that you will dissapoint me and I will prove this to myself one sacrificial angel after another. The sound of youf tumble makes me sad and satisfied all at once. If you can fall then so can I. And so I do. One dull thud after another as I continue to dissapoint myself, tumbling from my unrealistic expectations again and again.

3. Variety is the spice of life. A cliche, but an accurate one. Some of us have the tenacity to develop a fetish for one thing or the other. It is true that even fetishists need some kind of escalation. Higher and higher heels, stronger and stronger pain, longer and longer moments of strangulation. There is an incremental creep towards more risky practices and I see the appeal, I do, but I have no committment to it. I am more scatter-gun in my approach, rubber one day, leather the next, humiliation, domination, missionary and doggy style. I am the victim of my own whims which I change daily like my socks or underwear. I would like to throw myself into one fetish or another, but I am afraid I lack commitment or the ability to finish what I have begun.

F is for Furious

Furious. A joke because you are so calm with everyone.

Except me.

And I make you mad sometimes. I make you grit your teeth and snap like a turtle. I make you the furious being that you are not by nature. And you disturb me furiously from time to time. I am surprised, small dog easily spooked to a yelping rage, excited by your presence, briefly, then galloping off to nip and worry at someone else. But always I return to you. Dog to bone, worrying at the inanimate fall of your shrug. I am something to you but nothing of great consequence and occasionally this makes me furious.

But not right now, as I laze in the sun of a good day, waiting for a stomach pat or a scrap of meat or a small word of affection, licking the beer we shared from my lips and thinking about my next distraction.

Moderating your comments.

This is the first comment that has been unthinkingly cruel. Perhaps the exception proves the rule. People are generally well meaning. I look forward to your comments. I have left them unmediated out of a belief that we should not be censored. I have enjoyed your stories and your surprises. I have peeked into the window of your other worlds through your comments. I have known that you are reading and taking an interest and you have kept me honest in this way.

Yesterday there was the kind of comment that you might hear shouted out of a car window. Some bleary eyed drunk guy. The kind of guy I have seen picking on an intellectually disabled girl at a bus stop. The kind of comment that is spat at me if I walk into the wrong kind of bar. I forget that the world is a vast and various place.

I struggle to remember where I have learned to be unkind to myself when so many people around me prove that I am safe and loved.

Then your errant comment.

Then I remember.

So I have deleted your beer bleary shout and, reluctantly, I have started to mediate your comments to protect myself from them.

It is the end of an era.

F is For Frottage

I have told you about the small cramped space behind the counter at work. I have talked about the accidental brushing up against each other, the electric shock of skin on skin. This way of touching without actually falling into their embrace is my way of finding comfort. I like them. I can brush past them. My physical contact is an accident. The small sexual thrill I feel can be concealed in the hurly burly of the every day. So therefore F is for Frottage and I must admit to partaking in this kind of secret pleasure.

I saw a Frottophile on a train one day. It was peak hour. I watched him pushing against the back of a young woman. She was nervous. She looked to one side. She shifted. She felt crowded but she wouldn't move away from him and he was happy to be noticed without confrontation. We are polite in situations like this. We are loathe to confront the people who trespass into our personal territory. I joke with those I work with about my similar intrusions. "Up close and personal" I tell tell them and we laugh. I wonder if they are being similarly polite, tollerating the unwanted intrusion. Making light of it. I am careful to step back and away if I sense any kind of irritation from a fellow worker. I do not linger. I am there and gone in an instant. But at times I wonder.