Therapy

I was feeling really good. Molly had recommended a piece of my writing in elust 93 and nothing new was going wrong at home. But my hands were really uncomfortable, as if I'd punched something. Quick trip to the doctors..tendinitis...so no typing. With a new blog this felt like a bit of a disaster, but I figured I was best to do as told. Really I know I should have written a post to explain, but with such a new blog I didn't know what to say.

But my hands didn't get better. They ached. Then the swelling began. There are lots of new ideas spilling round in my head about the complete helplessness of having your hands turn against you. Not just useless, but painful. 

It looks like arthritis. Checks are being done and for now the flare up is under control enough to type.

Tonight's post is a gentle one to ease me back in. This couple have been with me for a long time, and when I need to get writing I turn to them. I turn to him when I need shelter. Turn to her when I want to celebrate the power of touch to put things back together. They are dancing...neither quite sure of the steps. Trying hard to keep this about their physical desires and needs and not about their rather battered hearts. But then I habitually write romance....so...

The glow from the streetlights couldn’t hide how pale and tired she was. He wanted to bring her in to his arms, but instead he stepped back to allow her into his home. She’d started talking, something about traffic, and had thrown her sports bag and yoga mat casually against the wall. She was all over the place tonight.

Silence fell as she perched on the end of his sofa. He wished this room looked less like the drawing room of an elderly maiden aunt, but before this, whatever this was, it had only been used when his mother or Shannon’s came to visit. He’d always thought it would turn into a cosy space to relax when they knocked through… and he was as off kilter as she was this evening. He took a deep breath and let it escape slowly, deliberately, blowing out till he felt his stomach muscles tighten and holding back on the reflex to breathe took effort.

Her eyes darted nervously from his chair to the window, his knees to the table, before settling on the tea tray. The ritual. He poured for her, and then for himself. Lemon and ginger this evening. He wanted her hydrated and calm before they went upstairs. When she became still and silent like this, it wasn’t the peace he wanted for her, it was a rigidity. Deliberately freezing as though that would render her invisible.

They didn’t speak as they sipped their drinks. He watched her, read her and didn’t need words to know this had been one shitty week. Did she even notice him, he wondered. Everything they did in these sessions was designed to keep the focus on her and for that, his routine began a clear hour before she was due to arrive. There was nothing domestic to distract, no post by the door, no smell of his evening meal. He was showered and dressed for her and he took that time to shed the day, to shed the outside and be ready for her.

No-one held her but him. He suspected very few even physically touched her in the course of her week. Not even Sam. Not with any deliberate intention to give her pleasure, anyway. It was a monogamous relationship of sorts, as no-one touched him either. Just her. And just here. Only with the pressure of her body against his. And he pretended that the awareness of that didn’t cut and sting.

He listened to each creaking tread as she followed him to the back bedroom, wishing he was leading her to bed. To lay her body over his as a living blanket, her scent mingling with his, her soft breasts and stomach cushions of warmth against his leanness. To wrap his arms around her and feel her sleep.

“I don’t think I can do this.” The words rushed out like vomit. He ignored them and pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the strange red night of the town. He started the slow tick of the metronome, set at the pace of his heartbeat, the rhythm of their time.

She dropped to her knees on the sports mat, the only furniture in the room. 

eLUST 93

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Feminism...my take on the debate about exclusion

My twitter feed has been buzzing recently with discussions about trans-exclusionary feminism. Once upon a time, I studied similar things at University, and this debate has stoked my analytical engine. Unwise as it may be to walk into these shark-infested waters, I want to explain my thinking, not least as a method of clarifying the ideas in my own internal debate.

I am not a feminist. In fact there are very few “ist”  or "ism" words I do subscribe to. That is not to say I disagree with the broad aims of the dictionary definition of feminism, “to define and advance political, economic, personal, and social rights for women.” but that I struggle with identifying with any ill-defined team in society. There is too much scope, too much opportunity for factionalism and misrepresentation of ideas.

Some of the women who speak in the debate, come from a historical and social viewpoint of fighting within the developed world for the ability to soar in whatever intellectual or employment based field they want, when this was not the case. I tend to think of them as glass ceiling feminists. Within the context of their experiences and their fight, I can understand they do not associate their struggle with that of someone who has an established social standing as a man and then transitions to female, without losing, in their perception, status. (In case you've been asleep under a bush I'm alluding to Jenni Murray and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie )

My personal experience of this is a mtf post-surgery family member. Work status was established as a male and was protected by law when they transitioned, and working in a liberally minded field, being trans did to a certain extent give a level of kudos. That they have transitioned has not significantly altered their lives in the areas that these feminists consider to be their struggle. Maternity rights, pension rights, access to training has not been an issue for a late onset transitioner. They have not had physically feminine issues such as feminine cancers and menstruation and avoidance of pregnancy to deal with, nor have they adopted a traditionally feminine role within society as a main care-giver in a family. Perhaps this is the experience trans-exclusionary feminists have in their experience? Yes, they have struggled with their own identity and in many other ways,-access to funding and transition health care, familial and friendship acceptance, legal and societal acceptance, but these are not directly matching the experience of the majority of cis-gendered women of the same age educational and social status (et al). 

Others who speak in this debate have a practical understanding of the difficulties relating to trans individuals and add this experience to their understanding of feminism. In this sense perhaps feminism becomes less about personal experiences of being female and of being perceived to be female and more about all sectors of the community having equal social and political access as men of privilege? Feminism becomes about the potential negative experience of the individual due to the perception of others that they are female: less about your self definition and more about the eye of the beholder.

There are many equality based difficulties in the world today that are key for people with either female physiognomy or female identification. Access to sanitary products and appropriate safe places to toilet as a broad sweep issue is world-wide, from rules on trans-peoples’ bathrooms in schools in the US, to poor girls in major first world cities lacking sanitary products, to girls shut away as unclean during the days of their periods, to women raped when they go out to the fields to defecate. This affects mainly women, so could be seen as a feminist issue, but equally, I think it would be stupid to think there are not boys raped in the fields, and non-continent boys unable to attend school because of a lack of hygiene products around the world.

There are problems in work places, from the boss that thinks it is ok to use derogatory terms or sexist humour, to lack of opportunities for advancement- the traditional glass ceiling elements- that still exist, to the problems caused by the intersection of working women with societal care needs, including children and parents, which still falls overwhelmingly on women. However, men who have to take on this role are also discriminated against. Is a son taking care of his parents not also the potential butt of discrimination at work, or the man who has taken a career break to be with his children going to be seen as having a lack of workplace drive? I am certain a number of female bosses exist who are derogatory about their male employees for perceived male weaknesses,-jokes about inability to multitask being the first thing that comes to mind. 

I am a woman who employs male carers for my male children. This is questioned constantly, with the impression from certain female professionals that men working in care must be paedophiles. Are female carers questioned in this way? And I am a professional who has given up work to raise my children. I identify in my brain as a professional, but society sees me as a stay at home mum. Equally sometimes my carers see the housework as only my domain, yet I am considerably better qualified at the hands-on teaching of my children than they are. I hate having to use gender as a way of judging or explaining these behaviours, but it is used as a defining factor all the time mainly as a pre-conception.

I guess the best definition for me would be intersectional feminist, but I still shy away from that. It is still a way of separating people into boxes and simplifying their experiences. I cannot criticise the role and position of glass ceiling feminists as I did not have to face the difficulties they did in the society and time frame they lived through. Nor can I agree with them that trans-people do not suffer from some or all of the same battles as cis-gendered females who identify as female.

I am fortunate to have autism which is another "ism" which is poorly defined outside the medical community (and sometimes even within it). In this field of reference, for me, it means socially constructed boundaries such as gender and class have less importance and less visibility for me than the definition of people as individuals. I find the ideas perhaps easier to ignore or discount than some more neuro-typical people, but I am not going to hold that against them! Equally, just because someone is autistic, this might not be their experience of gender. 

I choose to be positively non discriminatory. Everyone faces their own personal journey from a starting point they did not choose, or provide reason to deserve. Where I can, given my limited understanding of each person’s situation, I aim to be a positive influence on their life and their personal development and happiness. I hope everyone finds a way to be happy in their own skin and that they are surrounded (not necessarily solely physically) by people who are kind and empathetic about their experience. I aim to make positive contributions to the lives of others to help further equality and social justice regardless of gender, sexuality, colour or beliefs.

Perhaps it is time to ditch "ism" ideology and start to treat other human beings well simply because it is a kind thing to do?

Nature

This week's Wicked Wednesday theme has been blessedly preceded by a solid five days of glorious sunshine and we have been beavering away preparing our little patch of land. We wait impatient through March every year for the night time temperature to rise enough to mean we can fill the spa pool. A massive indulgence a few years ago, it is a lifeline for us as a place of relaxation in the evening, and we often use it nightly into November. It isn't just the warm water, although that is lovely, but it is it's placement. Our Garden.

 

My home is full of messy, exuberant life. The living room is lego filled, the dining room a classroom and office, the kitchen feeds up to eight several times a day. Technology and screens beep and buzz and spew blue light. Despite our best efforts, bedrooms are multipurpose spaces and squeezed out is space for our intimacy. But we do not accept that. We’ve made space. Hidden it in plain sight, just for us.

The British may be a nation of gardeners, but in these first truly warm days of spring we have worked on ours with passion. Trees are pruned and pinned to espalier our boundary fences, sweet peas, honeysuckle, jasmine and roses tended and fed. Pale silver leaves flutter high on airy branches, deceiving the eye without casting shadow. Our bower is created.

Careful gardening has grown leafy walls between us and our neighbours’ windows. Night scented flowers make the twilight world heavy with perfume. The stillness, the utter peace of the garden at night gives us space to relax and safely be ourselves.

Giggling like school children we shed our clothes in the kitchen and then leave the chaos behind for the moon-kissed night, stripped of our expectations of each other we are just us, man and woman, Adam and Eve. Breeze swirls and bats swoop low over the cushions and blankets or steaming water where we lie. We touch.

Here, there is time and space for touch. Skin to skin we apologise and forgive, sustain and affirm, feed and be fed without a word spoken. Brick warmed air kisses our nakedness and ruffles our hair. The blanket of darkness pierced by moon-white brilliance gives tired limbs an ethereal beauty. The peace breathes life and we channel it into each other.

Arousal is slow and easy because here we can be unhurried and unharried. Just us. Bodies and minds re-synchronising internally and with each other. An hour or two or who knows, because time is irrelevant. This is rest and restoration.

Creatures come and go without heeding us. The snuffling hedgehog and screaming foxes give us more freedom, covering for us when pulses pound with heat and need and we shatter our own silence. Mostly though, we are silent, an escape from the noise of life and in deference to the dog-walkers on the pavement feet from our hideaway.

We are not ashamed. Bodies pressed together in our own sliver of the universe, part of its organic synergy. We watch the stars and they watch us and we are all where we need to be.

Creeping up to bed, before the first child wakes and searches out an intimacy of their own between our bodies, we have feasted on the wonder of nature. Replete and whole, we believe we can sustain our family through whatever imperfections and challenges the day brings.

For all the talk about “me” time, we have created a physical and mental space where “us” is the central theme. When we enjoy and tend it in the daytime, we are preparing it for each other, even as it brings joy in other ways. The hub of our home. Our garden.

Disturbance

The lovely Tabitha Rayne suggested the #30DayOrgasmFun about a fortnight ago (although I am refusing to count as I have no intention of finishing) as a way of boosting mental health by taking the time to look after yourself in a way that left a smile behind and excellently burnt calories rather than adding them. And on Thursday evening I massively enjoyed @WatchingDistant with @mistress34F and @_Masterseye with their podcast #PlayingOutLive  again on the topic of playing with ourselves

So I had masturbation on the mind. Not surprising then that when I opened a new document for this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt this is the path I took.

Disturbance

In the middle of a bright afternoon she has come to bed. This house has seen most of life and some beyond, but… I am drawn from the half shadows into her company. She hasn’t drawn the curtains or pulled back the bedclothes and I feel the unfamiliarity of the day, the burning sun illuminating the shade.

Unselfconsciously, she sheds her clothes while I watch from my perch by the window, where the bright light warms and I am invisible, even to myself. There are mirrors, but she doesn’t linger. Hangers, but her clothes rest as relaxed as she, draped over the chair and pooling on the floor.

Bodies fascinate me. I have shed prudery in favour of experience, but not everyone is so comfortable. Corsets and girdles and hose and layers of cotton lawn replaced by jeans and sweaters and onesies, but so often nothing has changed. Glimpses of skin before diving for duvets or covering with nightclothes. Towels held tightly as though they sensed I was watching.

Knee drawn up, back arched, she opens herself with bold fingers and I see her intimately, or would if I could bring myself to look.

Men have bared their cocks before me many times and my innocence is long gone. Have heard the grunting, moaning, wailing disturbance as copulation in all it corporal mess happens before me, creasing the sheets and dripping from their skin. Seed spilling from thick veined rods and slender elegant members and many variants between. Watched them jerk and tug, in a rough game of chase the release.

Words also. Men use more words aloud, although recently it is reading over the shoulders of the women I have learnt more vocabulary. So many words for their bodies, for the acts. And the words never stay still.

The women though have kept themselves private, beneath sheets or bodies of their men. Not her. I don’t even know her name and her legs are spread and a flush rising across her body. Lost in herself, I move closer wanting to savour this new carnality.

Mouth parted and eyes lightly shut, her limbs serene and relaxed, she entices me. Captivated by the subtle changes in her skin, her scent, she is triggering remembrance of a body. Of my body, long dismissed. She makes me want life.

Softly audible, puffs of warm breath tickle my senses and I capture them in my mouth. Such pleasure to be found in her unhurried actions. The fluttering of the pulse in her throat, strongly anchored to life, painfully emphasising our differences, sharpening my excitement at her physicality.

Fingers move purposefully between her legs and moisture glistens like dew. She is slow and I can tell it is a deliberate touch. The air is so heavy with her scent I can taste it, earthy and savoury. I imagine my mouth watering. Her legs lol revealing the slick, shiny folds and it is impossibly beautiful.

The euphemisms had seemed unlikely, but her sure touch makes her lips swell, flushing like a spit-slicked mouth bruised with kisses. Skin, rouged, gaping and yet she is here without her lover. She unfurls, so delicately, so reflective of and yet so different from the men I have experienced. Soft and pliant, their opposite in more than form.

Juice is coaxed from her flesh and fingers dip shallowly into the weeping eye of her sex: the rhythm of fucking created on a solo instrument. Melody played now by her thumb, in swooping circles around a pearl of flesh that winks from beneath a protective blanket. Her need, a ballet of sound and movement, precise practiced exertion to a backdrop of rustling bedlinen and slack-mouthed sighs.

I wonder at the powerful arousal that shimmers from her body, the waves of sensation that whisper past long dead nerves. I want to touch her. Myself. In her I have identity at last. An understanding of what I could have been.

I wait for her orgasm. Will she be noisy, the panting and cursing, calling for God and lovers present and past or silently biting her lips, pillows and willing flesh to stifle the noise? Delicate gasps or animalistic grunts. She waits to, holding herself so close to the edge, her movements building and subsiding like waves on the shore.

Tension. Through limbs that are a vague memory and curling through the core of my thoughts like thunder building. Undulations of need that mirror the movements of her hand. Shimmering reflections of her in a memory of me.

When she falls, I fall with her. My cry breaks free from her lips and I imagine our souls dancing together before she quietly slips back into her body. She sleeps, I think, and I fall away from her presence unsure if I might disturb her. She has disturbed me.