Sexeteria

Well, I am now officially a domainatrix.

Ladies and gentlemen, hussies and manwhores, I am delighted to throw open the doors and welcome you to the new and subtly improved Sexeteria, with its very own shiny, NEW URL. (Note: If you're one of the darling people who's linked to my blog in the past, take this as your subtle hint to update it to sexeteria.net).

Things may look familiarly unfamiliar at first. While you'll see that my "shadowy bordello" color scheme remains more or less intact, there are differences to be found--and all of them are good. The new salon is a little bit brighter and more spacious, and has lots of subtle new built-in features that I know will make entertaining here a lot easier and far more pleasurable for both me and you, my smart, beautiful, talented, and sexy visitors.

So have a look around. Try clicking on some stuff and see what happens. As a man I've always wished I could bed once said, "Little surprises around ever corner, but nothing dangerous!" (Or, not very.)

Okay, look. I'm lying to you.

I'm trying to sound all cool and sophisticated and matter of fact about all this. But want to know the truth? (Hides behind hair with embarrassment)

The truth: I'm not at ALL laid back and cool about this. I'm squealing and squirming with glee like a little girl who just found herself magically transported into the Barbie aisle of a toy store with a wad of hundred dollar-bills in her hot little fist.

Look at my cool new banner! Look at my shiny new "about" page! Look at my category archives pull-down menu, and my alternating author colors on comments! Don't you just love it? Look at my collapsible blogroll! Look at my favicon! I made them myself!!

And that's not all that's making me giddy. Mere words can not describe the joy and pride I feel at having been adopted with open arms by the Moronosphere clan. Those folks you see under the M'sphere banner there on the right...each and every one of them is surely one of the finest human beings I've ever had the pleasure to know (and read). And each and every one of them--whether indirectly through their writing, in very direct and personal ways, or both--has helped me over this past year to get through one of the most intense and challenging periods of my entire existence.

I remember once in a conversation I had with Karl Elvis, I told him no matter where I am, "I always know my people, and I always find subtle ways to give them the sign I'm there." Well, it's true. And the Moronospherians--I know them. They are my people. And they read my signs and sent some of theirs back at me, and it's been very, very good. And for that I am very, very thankful. So, to you, my "misfit and loser and strange rock 'n' roller" brothers and sisters, I want to say thanks and I'm glad to be amongst you.

And of course very special thanks and HUGE jugs of tequila are most certainly owed to my big, bad host daddy, Karl Elvis MacRae. This version of my blog would, quite literally, not exist without him. Karl's generosity, patience, good humor, and friendship has been a gift through this whole process--and that's an understatement. Thank you for all your help, Karl, and for selflessly offering me a place to call home. You do indeed put the "best" in "beast." (And the "lay" in "O'Malley.") Long may you drink, fight, and never wear pants. And write. Most definitely long may you write. Because you are amazing at it. Never forget that, okay?

Additionally, bales of thanks and witches' broomsticks are also due to The Man Behind the Curtain, Brandon of Contemporary Insanity. Without him and his great and powerful server, all of us on Moronosphere would be not nobody, not nohow. Though I've never met you, Brandon, your reputation precedes you, and I feel small and meek in the glow of your generous presence. Thank you, thank you.

Thanks also go to the splendiferous and VERY patient AlwaysArousedGirl and Hiriomi X for putting up with my, "How does this look on a Windows PC? And this? And how about this? Wait, no, how about this?" questions. You ladies are the shit.

And finally, thanks as always to every single person who stops by here, reads, and comments on the blog. Every day you all give me new things to think about and new inspirations to follow. I'm really glad you're here, and I hope you'll like the new place as much as I do.

So! Let's get this party started! Update your links! Come on in! Look all around!

Pop open the champagne, and pop my comment cherry on my new blog!

You KNOW you wanna.

Oh, and p.s.: If you run into any issues--broken links or whatever, please let me know.

Lately, my "eureka" thoughts always seem to be popping up while I'm driving my car at night. Which is inconvenient, because you can't just grab a pen and write them down, and it's not always expedient to pull over.

Anyway, last night while driving around, it occurred to me that whenever I talk to MYSELF (as opposed to other people), I always use "you" instead of "I." I'll say to myself, "You're so (fill in the blank)." Or, You really fucked that up, didn't you?" Or, "You did a good job on that."

And it struck me this is really odd. Why aren't I saying, "I did well at that"? Or, "I'm so (whatever)"? Why am I talking to myself with an (often accusatory) "you?" Why am I not taking credit for myself to my own self?

It's weird, almost as if there's some outside "judger" I've created that confirms for me how I'm allowed to feel about myself. I don't let myself own it.

This realization really smacked me in the face. I'm glad I recognized it. And I think I'm going to start making some changes to my inner monologue as a result.

I mentioned this to a friend today and she was also shocked that she did the same thing. She'd also never thought about it before.

Now I wonder if this phenomenon is common. When you talk to yourself, do you hear the "you" voice, or the "I" voice?

...I believe as each woman tells her story for the first time, she breaks the silence, and by doing so breaks her isolation, begins to melt her shame and guilt, making her experience real, lifting her pain.

--Eve Ensler, for NPR's This I Believe

Sometimes you owe the universe a debt of gratitude.

One of the most painful symptoms of the disease that is sexual assault is the silence. At first, the silence is imposed on you from the outside. Most immediately, your assaulter pretends not to hear your cries for help, or in many cases, creates a situation where cries for help are not even possible, or are stifled. You're told, whether actually or symbolically, "Shut up and take it."

After the fact, things are often not much better, and in some ways, even worse. Perhaps you can not expect that someone who is so fucked up and evil that he or she would think it was okay to rape someone would ever be human enough to pay attention to your basic humanity crying out in pain. But after, you assume that others--NORMAL people--will heed that cry. Often, however, that's not the case. Rape and incest makes people uncomfortable. It rocks the societal boat, upsets the balance of things people would prefer remain steady. Hearing and believing the victim means the hearers have to DO something. Ignoring and silencing the victim means they get to keep living as they're used to, with no discomfort for them. The victim's discomfort becomes irrelevant; an unfortunate but necessary side effect to maintaining the social compact.

So more often than not after a rape or assault, the others around you tell or show you in a variety of ways that they'd also prefer you shut up and take it. They make it known they don't want to hear about it. They ask you questions that show you they don't want to believe you. Even if sympathetic, they rarely offer to help or provide support. You get the message, "You're on your own with this."

So you shut the fuck up. And you take it. And you build a wall around yourself, so you can be on your own with it--because that's what they've told you to do and because this is the only way you know how to survive without experiencing more hurt. You stop trying to get other people to hear you or help you, and you start imposing your own silence on yourself.

When I was a teenager, I once had a waking nightmare. I woke up screaming, thinking an animal was biting my arm and wouldn't let go. Terrified, I kept screaming and trying to pull it off. And the more I pulled on the animal, the more it clamped down tighter on my arm. I finally ran across the room, still screaming and struggling with the animal, and switched on the light. When I looked down to see this animal that had attached itself to me, what I saw instead was my own right hand clasped tightly around my left forearm.

That's what the silence of carrying a sexual assault around with you is like. It becomes a sort of living nightmare for the person experiencing it. Part of you is still screaming for help, but there's a hand over your mouth, smothering you. And the scariest part is that it's your own hand.

This silent scream-suppression can go on for years. Decades. It did with me.

The only way to break free of this nightmare, to turn on the light and see and name what is REALLY there, is to get your voice back. But even when you finally are brave enough to realize this is the only way out, it's still incredibly hard to do. After everyone around you has convinced you your only safety and support will come from keeping quiet about it, saying anything about it out loud is so scary that it almost seems better to keep living in that nightmare world than risk more rejection.

And this is why I feel entirely lucky to have started writing this blog, and through it, to have met Hiromi.

When I first started this blog, I still felt pretty alone with my story, and my survival. I was learning to talk about it, but I didn't have any people beside my therapist who I felt I could talk about it with in great detail--mostly because I was afraid of their reactions. But, through my blog, I met two people who I began to get to know and eventually began talking about it with. One of them was Hiromi.

I am having difficulty writing this entry, because words really can't describe what a gift it is at a time like that--or any time really--to run into someone who is is fun and funny and smart and talented and SO fucking cool that talking to her makes you think life might not suck so much after all. And not only that, but someone who "gets" you in a way in which you don't have to explain things you generally need to explain to other people. And who can listen to you without judging you, and can respond in ways that take your own thoughts to higher and more evolved levels. And not only THAT, but someone who seems to genuinely enjoy your company as much as you enjoy theirs. And not only THAT, but someone who gets what it is to be a survivor, and how hard it is to come to terms with that, and how hard it is to validate your experience to yourself and others--and who helps, through her own compassion and undesrtanding--to allow you to gain that validation.

How amazing is it to run into someone like that? People who embody all of those qualities are few and far between.

Hiromi is all that , and more. Talking to her has, among many other positive things, helped me to slowly but surely peel back finger after finger that was covering my mouth until I felt I might actually be okay if I spoke up.

She's helped me be less afraid. And only another sexual assault survivor can really understand the full impact of what that sentence means.

And she's helped me to laugh on some really, really hard days. And everyone can understand the full value of that.

Today I want to tell her that I'm grateful every day that I know her, and that the world is a better place because she exists. And I want to thank her for being her amazingly wonderful self.

So hey, Hiromi:

Girl, you are the shrimp and spicy mayo to my inari. You're the guacamole to my cheddar cheese omelette. Yeah, people might look at both of us together and think we're weird, but they're the ones missing out on something totally delicious.

And here's a present for you, which I hope will be the first thing you listen to when you wake up in the morning. Play it real, real, REAL loud. I propose we learn to sing and feel by heart over the coming year, so that when I finally get the chance to meet you, we can dance and sing our asses off to it together.

Or hell, maybe by then, we'll be so over-brave, we'll be able to stand in front of a crowd of strangers and sing it out loud in front of them--literally AND figuratively.

Tonight I tried on this amazing corset. It was the color of toasted coconut, overlaid with black lace, and it had gorgeous toasted-coconut-colored ribbon lacing up the front.

I have to be honest; it looked stunning on me. Apparently, I've got the kind of body that works well with a corset. My current build is of the Mae West dangerous curves variety, and a corset constrains and/or swells just the right parts, just the right way with that kind of body shape. But it wasn't only the sexiness of it. This may be surprising (it was to me), but it was incredibly, amazingly comfortable. Much more comfortable than any of the bras I was also trying on at the time.

I don't know why it's taken me so long to realize I'm corset-friendly. I've only ever owned one--and it was plain, white, and boringly utilitarian--bought quickly to allow me to wear a gown with a wide-cut and plunging neckline to a formal event. I never really felt particularly hot in it, though it did give me a nice shape. It reminded me of those old 1950s corsets you see in vintage Sears catalogues. Which, I supposed if done right, can have a cool retro appeal, but...

But it wasn't the same as this one. This was something else. It was pretty. It felt amazing. I loved it. I wanted it. I was certain I was going to buy it.

And then I put my shirt on top of it, just to test.

And it was awful. The shirt was somewhat form-fitting, and the lace and woven ribbon of the corset underneath made everything look lumpy and as if I was wearing something strange under my clothes. It didn't look sexily revealing, as in, "Oooh, I can tell that minx is hiding hot underthings beneath her clothing to get me aroused." It just looked...wrong. More like, "What the hell's wrong with her shirt?"

So I have to ask the women (or men) out there who have more corset experience than I do...how do you pull this off? I want to know, because for one, it was so comfortable, I'd like to wear one more often. Plus, to me, the corset's not nearly half the fun if you can ONLY wear it in the bedroom. For me, the point would be to be able to have it on under your clothes; a little secret for you, to keep you going through your day. Your secret supervillainess outfit. Or, even better, a little something you can reveal to the person you're with while you're still OUTSIDE of the bedroom, to get his or her desire moving TOWARD there. I mean, if you're already IN the bedroom, the corset's kind of besides the point by then, don't you think?

So people--any tips for wearing a corset well under regular clothing? Or is this just a lost cause and it's a bedroom-only proposition?

Hey, I still want answers to my corset question below, so check that one out, too.

Tonight I just am not in the mood for anything big, so I'm going to subtly reach into my bosom and pull out a meme. Don't groan. At least I'm giving you SOMETHING. Thanks, Neil, for making me feel less pure than you. Though I will admit that I've never tried beef jerky, so you've got me on that one.

I'm pretty well satisfied with this list. Happily, I've done most of them and many of the ones left over are ones I'd never want to have to check off (broken a bone, seen someone die). It's nice to know one's life is actually full of tiny experiences...and EVIL.

Feel free to do yours in my comments. If you do it on your own blog let me know so I can check it out. You may also ask me questions about anything I've checked off (or not) if you want. I promise to answer them. If I want to. Heh.

Fill in what you’ve “done”:

(X) Smoked a joint
( ) Done cocaine
(X) Been in love (-ish)
( ) Had a threesome
(X) Been dumped
(X) Shoplifted
( ) Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back
(X) Been arrested
(X) Made out with a stranger
(X) Gone on a blind date
(X) Had a crush on a teacher
(X) Been to Europe
(X) Been to Canada
(X) Been to Mexico
( ) Seen someone die
( ) Thrown up in a bar
(X) Met a celebrity
(X) Met someone from the internet in person
(X) Been moshing at a concert
(X) Gone backstage at a concert
(X) Lain outside in the grass and watched cloud shapes go by
(X) Made a snow angel
(X) Flown a kite
( ) Cheated while playing a game
(X) Been lonely
(X) Fallen asleep at work (only if you count a business trip as being "at work," though)
( ) Fallen asleep at school
( ) Used a fake ID (never had to, I always got let in or bought for)
(X) Been kicked out of a bar (only if you count staying past closing and being forced to leave as "kicked out")
( ) Felt an earthquake
(X) Touched a snake
(X) Slept beneath the stars
(X) Been robbed
(X) Won a contest
(X) Run a red light
( ) Been suspended from school
( ) Had braces
(X) Felt like an outcast
(X) Eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night
(X) Had deja vu
(X) Totaled a car
( ) Stolen a car
(X) Hated the way you look
(X) Witnessed a crime
( ) Been to a strip club
( ) Been to the opposite side of the world (?? which opposite side?)
(X) Swum in the ocean
(X) Felt like dying
(X) Cried yourself to sleep
( ) Sung karaoke
(X) Paid for a meal with only coins
(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t
(X) Made prank phone calls
(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue
(X) Been kissed under the mistletoe
(X) Had a bonfire on the beach
(X) Crashed a party
(X) Seen a tornado (from the inside!)
(X) Had a wish come true
( ) Gone bungee jumping
(X) Screamed in public
(X) Told a complete stranger you loved them
( ) Had a one night stand
(X) Kissed a mirror
( ) Had a dream that you married someone
(X) Gotten your fingers stuck together with super glue
( ) Been a cheerleader (yeah, right.)
(X) Sat on a roof top
( ) Talked on the phone for more than 6 hours straight
(X) Stayed up all night
(X) Not taken a shower for three days
( ) Made contact with a ghost while playing a Ouija board
( ) Had more than 30 pairs of shoes at a time
( ) Gone streaking
( ) Been skinny dipping
( ) Been pushed into a pool/lake with all your clothes on
(X) Had sex in a public or semi-public place
(X) Been kissed by a complete stranger
( ) Broken a bone
(X) Caught a butterfly
(X) Mooned/flashed someone
(X) Had someone moon/flash you
(X) Cheated on a test
(X) Forgotten someone’s name
(X) Slept naked

It was just brought to my attention that body image and self image are not necessarily connected. That, in fact, they are entirely separate concepts and can be considered, dealt with, and healed, where necessary--individually of each other.

This may sound pretty basic, but it was revelatory to me. I simply wasn't raised to process this at all. So it honestly never occurred to me that one could feel good about one's self and not be entirely satisfied with one's body. Or that body image didn't affect EVERYONE'S self-esteem. I suppose I did believe one could have a stereotypically "perfect" body and not always feel good about oneself, because that was sometimes the case with me in the past. But my body's attractiveness level, even then, fed into my self-image. "You might not be completely happy, but at least people value you because they think you're attractive." This is the messaging I was taught.

And then of course, there was my rape, which involved a negation of my basic humanity (self) with a great deal of inappropriate touching (body)--so of course it's possible that this also contributed to my inner-messaging that negative body things = negative self.

But...

ARE there people out there who like themselves just fine, despite being less than satisfied with how they look?

It's annoying to me that this still doesn't make any logical sense to me. That I can't believe it's true. I want it to seem logical and natural. I want to believe this is possible.

If and if such people do exist, how do they manage to keep the two separate?

There's a good debate on "lowbrow" that's started in the comments section of another post--it's entirely unrelated to that post, but it's very interesting . Right now it's somewhat buried under other comments on a different, older topic, so people may not know it's there. That's a shame, so I want to bring it into the light of day so more people can contribute to the discussion.

It involves all things "lowbrow" and if such things are, by their very definition, bad. If you want to follow the whole evolution of how the topic came up (it involved a discussion of visiting strip clubs), you can check out the comments of this post. I'm going to post the initial comments that sparked the discussion here, paste the rest of the comments related to it in the comments section below, let you read through all of it, and then I hope you'll weigh in.

From Miss Syl:

I have a fascination with the lowbrow; and I don't think "lowbrow" is necessarily a negative--just different. But then, I grew up in an extended family that loved professional wrestling and the Three Stooges.

From Hiromi:

I'm throwing down the gauntlet.

Lowbrow is bad. Even worse is the fear of criticizing that which is lowbrow for fear of being called "elitist."

If lowbrow were self-contained, I can overlook it. But it isn't. It metastasizes. It proliferates. I'm sick of living amongst dumbasses in a dumb culture, where a misplaced sense of egalitarianism has produced a nation of people unable to correctly identify on which coast the U.S. capital lies, but are able to correctly identify porn stars.

So what do you think? I'd suggest reading the whole discussion that follows in the comments before reacting just to what's above, or you may not understand some clarifications that have since been made. And just because I worry that such a discussion could veer off into the personal, please keep comments responsible and on topic and NOT personally directed or insulting.

Okay, now have at it.

(Also note: This is a discussion that seems more group oriented, so I'd rather you all talk to each other all together. Because of this I may not respond to everyone one-to-one, but will just weigh in with my own thoughts in general as I have them--if I have them. Carry on.)

Just a short note to say that:

1) I tried to post #2 below the other day before I left, but couldn't, because as you may have noticed, the blog had...mysteriously disappeared. Don't worry; I didn't go dark or get hijacked (and many thanks to all those sweet people who sent concerned emails asking if I had been). It's a simpler thing than that. There were some problems with the current upgrade to the server that all the Moronosphere blogs are hosted on, and as a result things were shaky for a bit. Brandon and Karl worked valiantly on it, and thanks to their oh so capable hands, it looks like things are back to normal now.

2) Also, sorry things have been kind of quiet here this week and that I haven't had a chance to respond to everyone's comments as much as I normally do--and that's a shame, because they've been especially good of late (not that they aren't always, of course). I've been getting ready to go on a trip, which I'm now currently on. I'm not sure if I'll be posting anything major during it or not--you'll just have to check in and see. Maybe I'll try to bring back some interesting photos for you.

Until then...

I'm leaving San Francisco today. I suspected I'd like it. That turns out to be an understatement.

The sad thing about finding something you connect with far from home is that you never have enough time to explore it as much as you'd like. Time is limited, and so you take in as much as you can before you go.

The happy thing, I suppose, is that you did.

So here's a little musical farewell message to the city from me.

I'll have photos and stories for everyone when I get back--no time right now before I ride off into the sunset. Or fly off into the sunrise, as it were.

Well, I went right from my San Franciso trip on to another out-of-state obligation, leaving the blog without a caretaker for far too long. Luckily, I've gotten back just in time to save the houseplants from sure death.

Actually, I don't even bother to keep houseplants. Too risky. I can't be trusted.

Anyway, I'm back, and I hope you haven't all left me. More Syl-iness to come in the upcoming days, I promise. But for now, I just this minute saw this comedy duo (The Doo Wops) do this song on BBC America's "The World Stands Up," and felt I must share.

It's a power ballad tribute to the sexy goodness of "the carpet of love." In my opinion, the perfect soundtrack to go along with this post of mine from a few weeks ago.

There's some irrelevant chatter at the very beginning. The real good stuff starts about 1 minute in. Wait for it or fast forward to that point. I promise it's worth it.

And now, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

"Crazy Bush"

Raise your lighters and sway.