Heh. I talk too damn much.
(Reposted from Livejournal)
So, to begin;
In order to kick start this diatribe, I need to make a sweeping generalization:
People who wear all black (P.W.W.A.B.) are lame now.
Ah. That felt good.
Now, having established the tone and the mood, and caused some nervous giggles and a quick bout of introspection (Do I wear all black? Does that mean Indi thinks I'm lame?) in the audience, lets get to the meat and the details of my meaning; Let's lunge into the place deep inside; that's where the devil lives.
My generalization comes about because I've never understood how members of the goth, punk, or industrial tribes can insist on a separation between sex and violence. Even worse to me are those that don't even see the link. I remember us as not as office workers, computer programmers or dissipated club junkies, but as outcasts and rebels; angry iconoclasts and instinctive aficionados of everything society loathed. I remember us as angry scrappers intent on living as intensely as we could in the face of a world and a society whose goal was to squeeze us dry, and leave us desiccated, to reduce us to office workers, computer programmers or dissipated club junkies.
A world that would reduce us to cogs that would fit into its machine.
Ooops. That one might bother some people.
Heh.
It seems strange to me that in a culture that tries so desperately to be seen as edgy, dangerous, and deviant, the opportunity to meet anyone whose sexuality truly deviates beyond what you'd imagine happening in your parent's bedroom is so rare.
I found a taste of it this week; not of the actual act itself, but a hint of its scent on the lips of a stranger (which is why I have semi-permanent nerve damage this week, thank you). This brush with a type of sensuality I had forgotten existed has set me to thinking and pushed me to define and examine an aspect of my own sexuality I lost a long time ago.
One of the strangest sensations you can have is having forgotten who you are.
Hellsex. Bitchsex. Agrression sex.
A form of sensuality most easily summed up by imagining a pair of pit-bulls in a burlap sack, elegantly chewing each other to bone. A scenario of raw sexual competition, but with a delicate undertone of ritual not unlike the mating dance of spiders. A glass of merlot laced with gasoline. The type of mating ritual where mockery blends with respect blended with cruelty. Handcuffs slipped around wrists with no warning; arms pinned, delicate shoulders punching holes in plasterboard. Eyes that laugh and hate and sneer and want you all at the same time. The fascinating taste of your own blood on a lover's lips.
I first experienced it when I was seventeen, on a morning when a long lost and long remembered Barbie doll of a girl put a Smith and Wesson to my head as her own unique form of encouragement.
The coda of never giving up, and never giving in. Equality earned by a complete lack of surrender.
Sexuality as a form of dinner theatre performed by nocturnal predators.
The kind of sex we all think L.A. deathrockers have before we learn that they're all as dumb as herpes-riddled bags of sand.
Bloodsex.
From my experience, our tribe (and certain subsets of the gay population) is the only tribe to ever practice consensually violent sexuality as a function of group identity; you have to possess a fascination with darkness and dark things in order to subscribe to a sensuality so outr' as to leave scars; our tribe is one of the few whose members have historically worn their scars on their sleeves. Unfortunately, I don't believe this is true anymore. Our tribe has lost its heart and its integrity. You have to be inherently confident to be involved in sado-masochistically competitive sensuality, and our culture no longer has a core philosophy to follow; We have been packaged and commodified to the point where there is no longer any mysticism to our own self-image. We have no group identity which we don't ourselves malign when challenged. Any sexuality based on aggression absolutely requires self-assurance, as well as a certain level of trust in your instincts; It takes a lot of guts to inflict pain on an attractive stranger as an alternative to saying 'hello'.
If you're 'healthy', or vanilla, or just not wired to be competitive with your partners, I'd expect you to react to this diatribe with something along the lines of:
"Indi, you're fucking insane."
Cool.
When normal or average people assume you're insane, you're doing something right; From what I remember, the reasons that P.W.W.A.B. hung out together in the first place was because we saw ourselves as outcasts from traditional society. Wasn't that part of the reason you first shaved your head into a 'hawk when you were fifteen? Was that why LSD became the body of Christ in your communion with your own subconscious? Isn't it why you still protest inevitable wars when you know your protests are futile?
You may have forgotten, but once upon a time we were angry at the entire world for reasons that haven't changed at all. Once we were passionate, in all ways, at all times; and that passion was reflected in all of our acts and our actions. Once upon a time, we were warriors.
We did not hide, and we were not afraid. We were shocking, and confrontational and seductive.
Our perversions were our pride.
And this fierceness saturated our sex and sensuality; it brought us complete physical and emotional release because it resonated as completely pure to us. Our anger was a part of us, fresh and unburied. We recognized the integrity of our partners when we saw our own anger reflected in their eyes.
Not in petty arguments, or in the thin rhetoric of politics. Not in the sad bitching of how much your lover hates their boss, when you both know that they really only hate themselves.
None of that. Nothing as false, or thin, as transference; just the sheer core anger earned by living in a world where the only rules that make sense to you are the ones by which you define yourself.
When you see that fierceness in someone with a nice ass and good hair, you have to test it.
You have to taste it.
And testing it is a fabulous way of finding out if your partner is a bunny.
See, most people are about as sexually exciting as a Swanson's T.V. dinner; fine to satisfy hunger, but not what you'd really consider as an experience in fine dining. To the normal person, sex is nothing more than a jumble of primal urges and Freudian issues, insecurity warring with rationalization. It's ego joining forces with your id to justify your need to sleep with your momma, or to get revenge on your dad.
And I'm not pointing fingers, nor am I naming names. If you believe that your sexuality is a glorious expression of yourself as an individual, a way of giving your own unique energy to the universe while sharing it with an equally incredible partner who knows and respects you to your core, then you're probably right.
I trust my friends to know themselves.
But anything less than that and you're just a monkey scratching an itch. That itch might be in your body, or it might live in your soul.
But anything less and that's all that it is.
And, living in this world, the only way some of us ever found to cope with our abhorrence to the lies that people create in order to love was through the creation of a complex dance of confrontation; we let go of our rage by creating a ritual; an endless ascending spiral of challenge and competition, a mutually satisfying sadomasochistic game of 'chicken' played with cocks and cunts. A war fought tooth and nail, not to the death, but to the admittance of weakness, because once we admit our weakness we can only fall. We find ourselves confirmed when we find ourselves, sweat and skin, in a situation where the desire to submit is succumbed to for just long enough to steal a quick gasp of pleasure; then our hatred of being controlled resurfaces, and drives our soft creamy centers down beneath the surface of our respect; we push our needy inner child back down beneath our fierce, dark need to never, ever be controlled.
It's not about being dominant, and it's not about being submissive; It's about being both and something else entirely. It's about realizing that pleasure enhances pain enhances pleasure. It's about being willing to take a risk before you can trust.
It's because we see ya'll broken hearts getting fucked over all the time, and we refuse to ever be played like you.
I first experienced it when I was seventeen, on the morning that a long lost and long remembered girl put a Smith and Wesson .45 to my head as her unique form of encouragement.
Hellsex.
A form of intimacy where your partner's right to possess you is based upon their willingness to fight for it.
We fight and fuck dirty because the only thing you should ever have to fight your lover over is more pleasure, and the only place you should ever fight with them is between soft sheets, in dark alleys, or while in restraints.
If you call that concept insane, I turn your label back on you.
Some of us would buy a Ferrari just to polish it on Sundays; some of us would be unable to control the urge to just drive it off a cliff.
It's all about knowing your own limits:
Some of us are kittens, and some of us are tigers.
Some of us play nice, and some of us play rough...
Kitty has very sharp claws.
(Note: Just in case you get the wrong idea, this is just one aspect of my very multi-faceted sexuality. I actually tend to be a chameleon; shaping my actions to the situation, I am NOT a serial killer. For example I also REALLY want to have sex to "Is this Love", by Whitesnake; so you see, I'm completely normal, actually. I just had a cool experience, and needed to rant.)
(Note: If you've actually read this far, you might be a serial killer. Please seek professional therapy.)
(Note: I like ponies)
(Reposted from Livejournal)
So, to begin;
In order to kick start this diatribe, I need to make a sweeping generalization:
People who wear all black (P.W.W.A.B.) are lame now.
Ah. That felt good.
Now, having established the tone and the mood, and caused some nervous giggles and a quick bout of introspection (Do I wear all black? Does that mean Indi thinks I'm lame?) in the audience, lets get to the meat and the details of my meaning; Let's lunge into the place deep inside; that's where the devil lives.
My generalization comes about because I've never understood how members of the goth, punk, or industrial tribes can insist on a separation between sex and violence. Even worse to me are those that don't even see the link. I remember us as not as office workers, computer programmers or dissipated club junkies, but as outcasts and rebels; angry iconoclasts and instinctive aficionados of everything society loathed. I remember us as angry scrappers intent on living as intensely as we could in the face of a world and a society whose goal was to squeeze us dry, and leave us desiccated, to reduce us to office workers, computer programmers or dissipated club junkies.
A world that would reduce us to cogs that would fit into its machine.
Ooops. That one might bother some people.
Heh.
It seems strange to me that in a culture that tries so desperately to be seen as edgy, dangerous, and deviant, the opportunity to meet anyone whose sexuality truly deviates beyond what you'd imagine happening in your parent's bedroom is so rare.
I found a taste of it this week; not of the actual act itself, but a hint of its scent on the lips of a stranger (which is why I have semi-permanent nerve damage this week, thank you). This brush with a type of sensuality I had forgotten existed has set me to thinking and pushed me to define and examine an aspect of my own sexuality I lost a long time ago.
One of the strangest sensations you can have is having forgotten who you are.
Hellsex. Bitchsex. Agrression sex.
A form of sensuality most easily summed up by imagining a pair of pit-bulls in a burlap sack, elegantly chewing each other to bone. A scenario of raw sexual competition, but with a delicate undertone of ritual not unlike the mating dance of spiders. A glass of merlot laced with gasoline. The type of mating ritual where mockery blends with respect blended with cruelty. Handcuffs slipped around wrists with no warning; arms pinned, delicate shoulders punching holes in plasterboard. Eyes that laugh and hate and sneer and want you all at the same time. The fascinating taste of your own blood on a lover's lips.
I first experienced it when I was seventeen, on a morning when a long lost and long remembered Barbie doll of a girl put a Smith and Wesson to my head as her own unique form of encouragement.
The coda of never giving up, and never giving in. Equality earned by a complete lack of surrender.
Sexuality as a form of dinner theatre performed by nocturnal predators.
The kind of sex we all think L.A. deathrockers have before we learn that they're all as dumb as herpes-riddled bags of sand.
Bloodsex.
From my experience, our tribe (and certain subsets of the gay population) is the only tribe to ever practice consensually violent sexuality as a function of group identity; you have to possess a fascination with darkness and dark things in order to subscribe to a sensuality so outr' as to leave scars; our tribe is one of the few whose members have historically worn their scars on their sleeves. Unfortunately, I don't believe this is true anymore. Our tribe has lost its heart and its integrity. You have to be inherently confident to be involved in sado-masochistically competitive sensuality, and our culture no longer has a core philosophy to follow; We have been packaged and commodified to the point where there is no longer any mysticism to our own self-image. We have no group identity which we don't ourselves malign when challenged. Any sexuality based on aggression absolutely requires self-assurance, as well as a certain level of trust in your instincts; It takes a lot of guts to inflict pain on an attractive stranger as an alternative to saying 'hello'.
If you're 'healthy', or vanilla, or just not wired to be competitive with your partners, I'd expect you to react to this diatribe with something along the lines of:
"Indi, you're fucking insane."
Cool.
When normal or average people assume you're insane, you're doing something right; From what I remember, the reasons that P.W.W.A.B. hung out together in the first place was because we saw ourselves as outcasts from traditional society. Wasn't that part of the reason you first shaved your head into a 'hawk when you were fifteen? Was that why LSD became the body of Christ in your communion with your own subconscious? Isn't it why you still protest inevitable wars when you know your protests are futile?
You may have forgotten, but once upon a time we were angry at the entire world for reasons that haven't changed at all. Once we were passionate, in all ways, at all times; and that passion was reflected in all of our acts and our actions. Once upon a time, we were warriors.
We did not hide, and we were not afraid. We were shocking, and confrontational and seductive.
Our perversions were our pride.
And this fierceness saturated our sex and sensuality; it brought us complete physical and emotional release because it resonated as completely pure to us. Our anger was a part of us, fresh and unburied. We recognized the integrity of our partners when we saw our own anger reflected in their eyes.
Not in petty arguments, or in the thin rhetoric of politics. Not in the sad bitching of how much your lover hates their boss, when you both know that they really only hate themselves.
None of that. Nothing as false, or thin, as transference; just the sheer core anger earned by living in a world where the only rules that make sense to you are the ones by which you define yourself.
When you see that fierceness in someone with a nice ass and good hair, you have to test it.
You have to taste it.
And testing it is a fabulous way of finding out if your partner is a bunny.
See, most people are about as sexually exciting as a Swanson's T.V. dinner; fine to satisfy hunger, but not what you'd really consider as an experience in fine dining. To the normal person, sex is nothing more than a jumble of primal urges and Freudian issues, insecurity warring with rationalization. It's ego joining forces with your id to justify your need to sleep with your momma, or to get revenge on your dad.
And I'm not pointing fingers, nor am I naming names. If you believe that your sexuality is a glorious expression of yourself as an individual, a way of giving your own unique energy to the universe while sharing it with an equally incredible partner who knows and respects you to your core, then you're probably right.
I trust my friends to know themselves.
But anything less than that and you're just a monkey scratching an itch. That itch might be in your body, or it might live in your soul.
But anything less and that's all that it is.
And, living in this world, the only way some of us ever found to cope with our abhorrence to the lies that people create in order to love was through the creation of a complex dance of confrontation; we let go of our rage by creating a ritual; an endless ascending spiral of challenge and competition, a mutually satisfying sadomasochistic game of 'chicken' played with cocks and cunts. A war fought tooth and nail, not to the death, but to the admittance of weakness, because once we admit our weakness we can only fall. We find ourselves confirmed when we find ourselves, sweat and skin, in a situation where the desire to submit is succumbed to for just long enough to steal a quick gasp of pleasure; then our hatred of being controlled resurfaces, and drives our soft creamy centers down beneath the surface of our respect; we push our needy inner child back down beneath our fierce, dark need to never, ever be controlled.
It's not about being dominant, and it's not about being submissive; It's about being both and something else entirely. It's about realizing that pleasure enhances pain enhances pleasure. It's about being willing to take a risk before you can trust.
It's because we see ya'll broken hearts getting fucked over all the time, and we refuse to ever be played like you.
I first experienced it when I was seventeen, on the morning that a long lost and long remembered girl put a Smith and Wesson .45 to my head as her unique form of encouragement.
Hellsex.
A form of intimacy where your partner's right to possess you is based upon their willingness to fight for it.
We fight and fuck dirty because the only thing you should ever have to fight your lover over is more pleasure, and the only place you should ever fight with them is between soft sheets, in dark alleys, or while in restraints.
If you call that concept insane, I turn your label back on you.
Some of us would buy a Ferrari just to polish it on Sundays; some of us would be unable to control the urge to just drive it off a cliff.
It's all about knowing your own limits:
Some of us are kittens, and some of us are tigers.
Some of us play nice, and some of us play rough...
Kitty has very sharp claws.
(Note: Just in case you get the wrong idea, this is just one aspect of my very multi-faceted sexuality. I actually tend to be a chameleon; shaping my actions to the situation, I am NOT a serial killer. For example I also REALLY want to have sex to "Is this Love", by Whitesnake; so you see, I'm completely normal, actually. I just had a cool experience, and needed to rant.)
(Note: If you've actually read this far, you might be a serial killer. Please seek professional therapy.)
(Note: I like ponies)
"You suck, pussy!"
"P.S. I'm not judging you!"