Sexuality Happens

Now that Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and that I’m back in the scheme of things (which includes planning for our wedding/celebration of love this October), I have to say that I’m sick and tired of the Love Industry.

What, pray tell, is the Love Industry? It is the capitalism in our society has found that by making people (particularly women, but people in general) feel back about not being in a relationship, not being in a “serious enough” relationship, not having the “perfect wedding” etc, that they will then rush out to spend tons and tons of money on ridiculous things. The worse you make people feel about their relationships (or lack thereof) with others, the more money they will spend.

Look at Valentine’s Day — people spend so much time and energy trying to make sure they have a partner on Valentine’s Day, and then once/if they do, they spend all this money trying to impress their partner and “show their love” by buying outrageous gifts that may or may not even suit their partners tastes. Clearly, every woman in existence wants a diamond necklace, right? I sure as heck don’t.  And then, when people say things like “I don’t think Valentine’s Day is important — I think love should happen year round,” they’re then told that they are just being jealous, petty, wishing they had a partner (or a partner that did better things for them, bought more expensive things, etc) and so on.  And of course, I work in the industry that hops onto this bandwagon — Valentine’s Day is one of our biggest seasons (but at least a vibrator lasts a lot longer than a bouquet of flowers, and can be used together).

This year, I picked up some pre-made food from Whole Foods and we ate it, cause I wasn’t in the mood to cook. Then we watched TV we’d missed, and worked on our duo-presentation for the National Collegiate Leadership Conference. Oh, and drove to the post office to drop off our application for a residence in Denver. Why? Because it was a Monday, and that is what needed to happen that Monday. My best friend and her husband went to Qudoba for dinner, and he wound up buying her a 6-pack of blueberry beer. It had nothing to do with money — they just decided that THAT was what they wanted to do. And that is how it should be.

Don’t even get me started on the wedding industry. Other than the fact that they are totally not queer inclusive (which they need to work on, given all the states passing same-sex marriage and civil unions), but honestly, this industry is vile at times. I keep getting sent wedding magazines, bride magazines, nesting magazines, where the “budget” dresses are one thousand to three thousand bucks. A “budget wedding” apparently comes in between twenty and thirty thousand. a BUDGET WEDDING means keeping it under a grand in my mind. We’re capping ours at $5000, and that includes outfits, locations, food, flowers, DJ, cupcakes, pumpkins for decorating, etc. We’re doing a cheap wedding of sorts, the way we like it (whether or not a burgundy ball dress is traditional, whether or not a DJ with a Rainbow Mohawk is appropriate, etc). But clearly, so many people buy into this fantasy that they are selling, this concept that with out an expensive white dress and prince to sweep you away, that we are nothing. Why? What is it that says this is “right” thing, other than the companies trying to sell it to us in the first place?

I’ve never wanted children. Never. I never thought about how I’d dress them, how many I wanted, who I wanted to have them with, whether I’d give birth or adopt, where they should go to college. Never. Now, I did pick up names I really liked, and said “oh, I’d totally name my child this one day” and then quickly went on to name a cat Ava, a beta fish Trisana, a Russian Dwarf Hamster Niamara, a hedgehog Ambrose, etc. Pets and stuffed animals fulfilled my need to name things unique and creative names with easy nicknames.

However, as much as I’ve always know I didn’t want kids, I’ve known I wanted cats. There was 9 months in my life with no cats, between our house burning down in May of 1999 (killing our two kitties), and moving in to the rebuilt house and adopting Phoenix and then Anastasia in spring of 2000. Even when I lived in Germany, my host family had two cats. As soon as I got my own apartment my senior year of undergrad, I adopted Kinsey. Cats to me are my children. I treat my kitties as members of the family, and when they depart, like Athena dying December 2008, my heart breaks for them (and I sat Shiva).

My cats are a part of my family, and when I was freely dating, they were a good measuring tool. If someone didn’t like cats, they were out. Now, if they were ambivelent, all they had to do was meet Kinsey, and usually their mind changed. If they met my cat or cats (depending on when), and the cats didn’t like them? Done. My cats like most people, and so I took them not liking someone as a sign of things to come. It only happened twice, but I found out later on that it was a very good sign to stay away.

And then I met Q. Q had a cat already (Jasper), and was more co-dependent with him than I was with Kinsey. Moreover, when I adopted Kali and had the whole traumatic experience of her in the ER for 3 days, Q let me call, text and rant, even though we were all of just a few months (if that) into dating. Q didn’t mind that the cats were allowed everywhere except the counter and the kitchen table, and embraced both cat hair and Kaili claiming Q as her own. When Q would go back to New York to visit, I’d come take care of Jasper, staying over to watch a movie with him, or reading out loud. When I was gone, Q would text me pictures of Kinsey and Kali missing me.

This sounds silly, yes, but I realized that the perfect kitty parent was a non-negotiable for me. And the other night, as I watched Q carefully scoop a certain amount of dry food into a dish, and then add the right amount of wet food, with a little extra water, and mash it all around to make it as appetizing to them as possible (they’re on a new UTI prevention diet), and then soak a cranberry pill, and gently give it to Jasper and stroke his throat until he swallowed…I realized that Q fit the mold. Q was the perfect kitty daddy (we like to play with gender, obviously) to me, the kitty mommy. Between the two of us, the cats always have someone to lie on, someone to pet them, someone to dangle a toy in front of them. We sit together, making up stories about what each cat is saying when they meow, about how they feel about leopard print, about Kali’s royal throne, about Jasper’s queen-y walk, about Kinsey’s rubber and latex fetish. We curl up in our bed, two of us and three very spoiled cats, and it just feels right.

Q is my kitty daddy, and is a better fit for me and our family of fur kids than I ever could have imagined.

-Essin’ Em

Today marks the 2nd full year that Q and I have been together (it also is the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers — I can’t think of anything more appropriate for two sex-positive and social justice oriented people).

For a long time, I thought I was going to be alone forever. I viewed myself as unloveable, as broken, as not worthy of love. I didn’t think anyone would find me “worth” dealing with, putting up with my insecurities, my disabilities, my career, my snarkiness, my messiness, my anthropormorphisizing of my cats.

And then, I met Q. At a strap on class that I was teaching even. Well, this way I knew that for the most part, sex ed wasn’t going to be an issue. Q is incredibly caring about social justice, about equality (or the lack there of), actually cares about politics and truly works towards creating change in this world. On top of that, Q is witty, hilarious, fun to be around, incredibly smart, and laughs at my ridiculous jokes…and Q is more co-dependent with Jasper (the Maine Coon) than I have ever been with my cats. Although I don’t believe in the concepts of perfect matches (because you have to work on making them work), I can’t imagine finding anyone more perfect for me than Q. I wonder sometimes if I even deserve such happiness. Q says I do.

There are few things more wonderful than waking up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and having loving arms around you, or getting a “hello beautiful” text message in the morning, or an “I love you” sign on the holiday shrubbery, and knowing that the love is actually meant, and isn’t just some trite or cliche message. Few things more reassuring than your partner bringing you ice packs and pain killers when you can’t walk, or calling to see how your neurologist appointment went.

I am not perfect. I am a hard pill to swallow at times. It is hard to love me, and sometimes harder to be with me. I know all of this. And yet, I am lucky enough to have found someone as wonderful and driven and loving as Q, who takes me how I am.

Next October, we’re having our “Queer Celebration of Love” — AKA, the wedding. I’ll have to write about my views on marriage at some point, but the wedding is our celebration for our friends and family, a showing off of our love, a rejoycing in our connection.

Sadly, Q is still in New York for today’s anniversary, but Q’s family is important, and I understand that. Instead, this Saturday I’m making a special dinner for us, and for Christmas, we’re driving to a relaxing resort outside of Vegas to take advantage of their special pricing, and cooked food, and will celebrate there. I love being together, experiencing things together, trying new things together.

So happy anniversary stud muffin. I can’t imagine being happier with anyone else ever, anywhere, any time. Thank you for letting me love you and trust you,

Babycakes.

I remember, not many years ago, when I said I’d never ever move for a partner.  I wouldn’t move cities/states to be with them, I wouldn’t move with them if their job required it, and heck, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to move IN with someone. I was (and still am) fiercely independent, and I wasn’t really sure if I was ready to merge any part of my life with anyone else.

I had a dream the other night about my ex before Q…the ex named F. No idea why I was dreaming about her, but it wasn’t a good one. She was rude, and mean and aggressive, and she had a list of things I supposedly owed her for — for part of Athena’s medical care before she died, for rent (even though we never lived together), for a car etc. Now, she didn’t give me or lend me a cent while we were together. I lent her money, I bought things for her, I let her essentially live with me after her house was broken into, and I drove her around for weeks when her car was impounded. I put a lot of emotion on the line for her, but also a lot of fiscal and “helping your life work” energy out there…yet here I was, dreaming that we had in fact merged our lives, and post break-up, she was trying to drain all of it out of me.

See, even now, almost 2 years in with Q, I still have anxiety (albeit about my ex) about living together, about changing my life to be with someone else. But despite that, I’ve changed a lot as well.

We’re moving back to Colorado in the spring, that any powers that may be. However, Q found the perfect most amazing job for her…in New York. She doesn’t think she’s quite qualified enough, and given the industry, she’s probably not even going to get a phone interview. But you know what, I told her to go for it. Apply. Just do it.

Living with Q…well, more specifically, being in a relationship with her, has made me a more relaxed, less stressed and OCD person. I’m willing to embrace change more, I’m more ok with going with the flow, and not only did I move in with her, but I moved my life to hell Arizona for her work. And you know what? Not only have I survived all of this, and am still a fiercely indepenedent person, but I have grown, and become a better person over all. Despite my hate of living with others, I love living with Q. Despite my distain for moving for a partner’s job, I found an AMAZING job here in Arizona, that I will keep when we move back to Colorado. And, I have found a partner who respects me, my quirks and kinks, my weirdness, my disability, my odd habits, and is 100% willing to let me be me…regardless of what that looks like.

Change is scary.

Change is constant.

Change is good.

I love myself and my growth, and all that my relationship with Q has had to do with all of that. Here’s to change!

-Essin’ Em

This is day 12 in my “30 Days of Letters” endeavor. This one is supposed to be to someone I hate, or caused a lot of pain in my life. Now, Julius caused a lot of pain, but I don’t hate him. KW caused pain, but I don’t hate her. Lots of people in my life have caused I lot of pain, but I absolutely cannot think of anyone I personally know that I hate. Ergo, I’ll write to Fred Phelps and his like.

Dear Fred Phelps and your gang of hateful ruffians -

Love is a word with many meanings and levels. I can love my cats. I can love my family. I can love my partner. I can love my friends. I can love myself. I can love chocolate and my favorite sex toys. Love is so vast and varying, depending on who you talk to, and what/whom they are talking about.

Hate is different. I don’t see levels of hate. Hate is a black covering that just overwhelms and shuts down people. You, sir, are full of all consuming, soul sucking hate, and I hate that your hate creates hate in me.

I don’t hate individuals. I may dislike them distain them, just stay away from them, but I do not hate. However, your hate, your blackness, your darkness, covers all those in your path. Just by having been around your hate, by protecting people from your protests, by seeing how truly awful and evil you really are, your hate has rubbed off on me.

I hate you.

I hate you, Fred Phelps, the person. I hate your church. I hate what you stand for. I hate how you make people feel wrong, feel uncomfortable, feel unsafe, feel scared, feel angry, feel hurt, feel attacked, feel frustrated. No one has the right to purposely do that to other humans. I hate that you do this, that you clearly enjoy doing this, that you help convince others to do this, that you train small children to do this.

You have succeeded. You have planted the seed of hatred in me. However, instead of grown against the people you don’t like, it has turned against you. I hate you, although I’m not consumed with it. Why? You are not worth that waste of time, of energy, of what it would take to truly hate you.

I hate you like a fly in my soup, like the guy in the pick up who flipped me off today when I honked for swerving. I don’t really care enough about your measly life to be filled with it. I just hate that I have been driven to hate at all.

I hate you,

-Essin’ Em

Last weekend, Q’s birthday weekend, we were both sick as dogs. I mean, I have had a lot of illness in my life, but the majority of it has been respiratory; whooping cough, pneumonia, etc. Or it’s been physically injury, like my knees, and hips, and getting hit with a boomerang, or having my foot caught in the fly wheel of a bike. I’ve been lucky enough not to have had much in the way of stomach bugs since I was a kid.

WARNING: Story is about a stomach bug. Don’t read if you have a weak tummy.

Now, this is good, because I hate throwing up. I’d rather have 30 MRIs or 50 injections that throw up once. I hate hate hate the feeling of throwing up. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve never been a big drinker; the fear of possibly drinking to much and then throwing up is a very potent weapon to sticking with a glass or two of wine, and frou frou and delicious drinks.

But all this aside, I came home the night of the 5th from teaching a class at Fascinations on the G-spot and Female Ejaculation. I was fine. I made myself some homemade guacamole, ate it with pita chips, and suddenly, I didn’t feel so good. We went to bed.

An hour later, Q found me on the floor of the bathroom, holding an alcohol pad to my nose (it can reduce nausea) with an empty bottle of Pepto Bismo.  I was hugging the toilet, trying to do everything in my power that I could to not throw up. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

For the next 6 hours, I had one of the worst nights of my entire life. Every hour, on the hour, like clock work, I would run to the bathroom to projectile vomit. I’ve never experienced this before; vomit being forced out of your body, through your mouth, and both nostriles, while you’re essentially peeing out your ass. I’d vomit and shit at the same time. My throat and nose were burning, my ass was chapped. I used every available place to throw up; the toilet, the sink, a trash can, the bathtub.

And through out all of this, Q had a damp washcloth on the back of my neck, and helped me clean up and bleach the crap out of everything…each and every time I pulled an Exorcist. I couldn’t even keep down water, and my black eye make up from the night before was smeared down my face, adding the the look. She brought me SmartWater, and helped me into bed, each and every time. Finally, at 5am, when it showed no signs of stopping, she drove desperately trying to find an open drug store (this is AZ, remember?), and brought me home more Pepto, and Gingerale, and Gatorade.

Through all of this, I don’t remember much, although I do distinctly remember trying to verbalize how much everything hurt and how much I just wanted to die. However, as I lay in bed the next day, my muscles exhausted, too weak to even move to get online, I remembered how cared for I felt. How much having her help me through this meant to me.  

Oh course, the poor thing got sick Saturday night (although she only threw up once), and was dead to the world all day Sunday. Birthday plans were obviously postponed.

Love has many facets. There is the attraction, the reliability, the thrill of something new, the chemical connection, the familiarity. But when I am sick, there is nothing more in the world that I want (other than possibly to die, in this case) than to have someone taking care of me. And when Q, who had a luncheon and two presentations the next day, spent her night taking care of me, I just realized, yet again, how much I love her, and how much love she has for me. Cleaning up after the Exorcist? Now THAT is love.

-Essin’ Em

Part of this post is part of my 30 Days of Letters blog endeavor. This would be Day 2, a letter to my partner/crush. However, it also just so happens to be Q’s 25th birthday, and so I’m combining it.

First of all, today is Q’s 25th birthday (she likes the TMNT a lot, hence the graphic). If you feel so inclined, leave a comment here, or head over to Q’s Twitter with your birthday wishes. Happy birthday baby! No more young driver costs on rental cars — w00t!

And now, my letter.

Dear Q/baby/stud muffin/etc,

I love you, period. I love you more and more every day. I never knew I could love a person so much, and in so many different ways, and more and more and more. I am so happy every single day of my life to have you in it.

Thank you for putting up with me. With my crankiness in the mornings, with my epic fear of bugs (although I did kill that one — I really do hope you’re proud of me, as it was one of the scariest moments of my life), with my messy house style, with my animal print obsession, with our cats and how they get along, with my late nights and travel, with my sex toys scattered around the house, with my pain issues and migraine issues and knee issues, with me being emotionally needy at times. Thank you for working on your communication skills, and for never leaving or going to bed angry (frustrated, perhaps, but never angry).

You do so many amazing things, and I am so incredibly proud of you. The work you’ve done on the campus making it a safer and more inclusive place for LGBTQ students, staff and faculty is just unbelievable, especially given not having a budget, having four campuses, 70,000 students, and the pay check of someone barely out of undergrad. You put your mind to something, and it will be accomplished; that is how dedicated (and at times, stubborn) you are. I just wish your job appreciated you more — you completely deserve it.

I know we have rough patches…whether it’s having to learn to live my my trips to doctors, hospital and ERs, or me learning to live with your sometimes wacky school schedule, we make it work. As gross as it seems, I just can’t even imagine my life without you at this point, so please don’t ever make me have to.

I’m always a little scared. Despite what might seem to be a tough and self-confident exterior, I’m always questioning. Am I pretty enough, am I smart enough, am I dedicated enough, am I good enough. When my knees came to the forefront of our lives, I questioned whether you’d think it was too much, whether you’d give up and leave me because it’s a lot of work, and emotion and scary as fuck to deal with all this. I know it’s hard, and so I will always question how someone can love me enough to deal with it. This has nothing to do with how much I love or trust you; it has to deal with me, and how I view myself. Please don’t let this push you away.

You’re smart, funny, witty, vibrant, silly, deep, introspective, hot, studly, and just over all the best partner (and cat co-parent) that I could ever imagine. Even better, in fact.

<3,

-Essin’ Em

This is part of my 30 Days of Letters blog endeavor. This is day 1, to my best friend. It’s hard, because I have two very very close friends, but I’m going to choose my friend E for this activity.

Dear E-

I’m so glad that more than a decade ago, I chose you out of the random pile of applicants to be my assistant as the head of customing for Charlie’s Aunt. I don’t know what my life would even be like if I hadn’t met you.

Most people meet us, and don’t get how we can be friends. You’ve always loved pinks and purples and flowers and sweet, and I’ve been for the red, black, animal prints and sassiness. Yet despite some of our decorative differences, we have been just the best of friends. From deep talks on feminism and sociology over the phone, to rocking out at various concerts, to our hours-long lunch dates when I was unemployed, you’ve always made me a priority in your life, and I appreciate that so much. I love that if I haven’t heard from you in a week, there is suddenly a call or a text from you, reminding me that we both play an important role in each others’ lives.

I’m having a hard time with you being married now. Not because it’s any different; you two have been together years, and have been living together. It’s more that it’s just a hard situation to get out of, and I’m not 100% sold on your love. Sometimes, he can be the sweetest guy in the world, and I can tell how much he loves you…but sometimes, he’s just a jerk (even his sister agrees). I feel this will always be a slight feeling of awkwardness between us, but maybe I’ll grow to like him. I mean, you did…you had to change your mind after blocking him on AIM.

I love that you challenge me. I love that you make me think about who I am, and my beliefs, and how I communicate these to people around me. I love how much you support me when I’m down, in pain, unemployed, in loss (Athena), breaking up, and more. You are really one of the few people that is there for me, irregardless, throughout my life, and I hope you know that I recognize that.  When I moved to PA, you still were my best friend. Same with my current life in AZ. I can’t say that about everyone; I have a lot of friends whose strength of friendship is based on location…you are certainly not one of those.

Thank you, my dear, for being such a strong support and driving influence in my life. I appreciate you every single day, and I can’t wait to move back to Colorado to spend more time with you (and learn to like your husband). Oh so much love!

-Essin’ Em

Having lost my father at the age of 13, I never really got to celebrate Father’s Day when it was my idea of what to do, what to get him, how to tell him how awesome he was. Basically, my mother made dinner plans, bought presents, and my sister and I signed the cards.

Lots of people don’t have fathers; they have lost them physically (due to death, as in the case of my father), or emotionally. They have been estranged, have distanced themselves, have been kicked out due to their identity or relationships, or perhaps they were raised not by mother and father, but just by mother. Or grandparents. Or aunt and uncle. Or uncles.

So if you have a father, one still alive, and in your live, who care about you, and whom you care about, go forth, and wish him a happy father’s day.

But for everyone else, who doesn’t have (or maybe never had) a father, please take a moment to think about someone in your life, someone with masculine energy, who has been a mentor to you, who has been a role model to you, who has been there for you. Perhaps you’re blood related, perhaps not. Who knows when you even spoke to them last. It doesn’t matter. Think about that person (or hopefully, those people) who has cared for and supported you in similar ways to a father, who as been there for you.

Please take a moment to celebrate with them. Maybe that is just a quick email, a handwritten note, or a phone call. Maybe it’s walking into the other room, or maybe it’s placing a long distance call internationally. Maybe it’s a present, maybe it’s dinner, maybe it’s just sitting in some rocking chairs on a front porch. Whatever it is, let them know you recognize them, and thank them for their care, their support, their guidance.

We don’t all have fathers, but every single one of us has had a mentor, a role model, or at the very least, someone older than us (by a day or by 70 years) who has taken us under their wing, and given us care. I want to take that day to recognize and thank these people.

That’s all.

-Essin’ Em

In the past year, year and a half, I’ve begun to realize how many sides there are to my sexuality. When I first started to figure out who I was, I was a bisexual submissive. I’ve turned into a queer pervert.

I am a bit sadistic sometimes. Not in the way that you hear/read/see about with serial killers. Not in an evil kind of way (although I do laugh a lot, which might make me seem a little bit more evil). I don’t like hurting people that don’t like being hurt.

When I play with my moose, I like to play rough. I get a little bit more sadistic. Why? Because she makes the most delicious noises when I run my knife across her smooth skin, when I smack my hand across her perfectly formed ass, when I rip the duct tape bonds from her…whenever I do something that I don’t think I’d much like on myself, she makes she squeaky, happy coo-ing noices. She laughs, she smiles, she makes me feel like I am fulfilling her.

When I am with Q, I am a different kind of a sadist. Q doesn’t like pain really, although she occasionally likes her nipples pulled. No, no, I’m much more of a situation sadist with her. Playing with her nipples is a) an instant way of making her horny, but b) is a great way of frustrating her…I like to play with them right before we leave the house, doing it sneakily while we’re out and about, play with her right before we fall asleep. Even though it’s not a pain situation, she makes these delicious moans and squeaks and tries to push me away and we tussle and I love trying to best her. She wins about half the time, I win the other half.

I never really thought of myself as a sadist. I mean, compare me to K, or someone who leaves someone bloody from time with a single tail. No, I’m not in that category.  But that doesn’t *not* make me a sadist per se. I can be sadistic (and very much ENJOY) being sadistic when in the right situation. When I’m teasing Q to the extreme and making her want me and know that she can’t have me at that point in time (because she knows that she can always have me in the end), I feel a rush. When I have my moose in front of me and I’m hitting her or biting her or tickling her, I feel a rush.

I’m not always ready for that side. It’s not always a part of me. It comes and it comes, and a lot of it is based on who I am playing with in that moment in time. Q and Evey (le moose) tend to bring it out in me more than anyone else ever has, and I’m slowly, but surely, learning to embrace this side of myself, this fun, amusing, laughing, fun loving, rush-filled sadistic at times side of me.