Olga Wolstenholme's picture

The Dark Room

Thoughts trigger other thoughts and so on like a marigo round. That’s just how the mind works when you give it free reign. You start off thinking about your dire need for clean laundry and you end up remembering the day you lost your two front teeth. I was lying in bed the other night, trying to fall asleep while simultaneously trying to find a title for a new blog I want to start. Not the best way to fall asleep mind you, but hell, that’s when I do some of my best thinking: in bed…and in the shower. Interpret that as you like.

The new blog I want to start is about crafts and other creative endeavours, so I was brainstorming about the origin of ideas. How they spark, how they develop, which led me to think about dark rooms and the time I was groped in one. You see, my grade nine biology teacher was an amateur photographer and he had transformed a small room at school into a dark room. A few miscellaneous students got together and put together an unofficial photo club. This endeavour didn’t last very long, since none of us were really that organized and our bio teacher was a bit of a boozer, but for a short time we misfits had free access to a dark room.

There was this guy in school who most people wouldn’t look twice at and he had this huge crush on one of the “cool” girls. Unabashed by his lack of social skills and all around dorkiness he pursued this girl all through grade eight. She wouldn’t have it, but by the time we entered grade nine he had transformed himself into this totally hot cool dude, and suddenly the girl in question finally gave into his advances and they became one of the “it” couples.

The guy was cuuuute and many a girl fancied him, but as I’ve already told you he was taken. I hadn’t dated much up until grade nine, I hadn’t gone further than first base (first base is kissing right?), but my budding sexuality was all a fire at the time and I had cravings like any other typical teenager. You’ll see how all this information fits together in a second.

The couple I mentioned where in this photo club of ours and one day the three of us found ourselves sharing the dark room. Dark rooms are magical places. Full of shadows, toxic liquids, and red lights: a true place of mystery and possibilities. I have to admit that I had been flirting with the male half of this “it” couple while in the dark room. “Accidentally” brushing against him in the small dark space, lingering touches, etc. Now, remember that his girlfriend was in there with us, but he didn’t seem to mind and neither did I.

I was just having a little fun (I was a real menace at that age)!

At some point in the developing process its necessary for the room to be completely dark, and in those few moments, the guy I was flirting with copped a feel. It happened so fast, but there was no mistaking it. He had “accidentally” felt me up. This was the first time my breast had ever been touched by anyone else but myself and possibly my doctor. I’m sure there’s a feminist somewhere who’s ready to call me a traitor, but the whole thing was thrilling. I might not react the same way today, if some strange dude tried to feel me up in a dark room. Then again, I suppose it all depends on the context. The fact that his girlfriend was standing right next to us added to the thrill. What can I say?  I’m bad, I know.

(Posted at Cuntlove)

Shirley X's picture

No Pictures Please

Yes, I know it's been a while.
But I've been busy....sort of.

I decided that today would be the day that I write a new post, lucky for you. See, as I was typing into Google "I hate my child's father"..it sort of inspired me - I could just write about some of the crazy shit that he did whilst we were together. People love reading about other people misery.

Oh, another piece of news, I just found out that I passed my occupational licensing exam. That's good I guess. I mean, I can hear it now..."way to go!!" and "you must be so proud" and "you have done so well". Blah blah blah. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's all nice to hear. But I am more like "okay, get over it..it'd been 4 years..it's about time I did something". I mean, isn't there some statute of limitations on getting your shit in order?? I'm over it, let's move on.

I get though, from an outside perspective - I am pretty much a living breathing miracle. But miracles are just miracles - they just are and it's isn't a big deal. The true miracle in ALL of this is that I am not HIV positive. I am still astounded by that.

So anyways, I rule.


You must have heard or read stories about abusive relationships and also about the paranoia associated with using crystal meth (hereafter to be referred to as speed. I hate the word "meth". Speed is so much dirtier and awesome and I just feel like that word sums "it" up so much more. Gibb is a good word too. of course, maybe it is spelled with a J but for some reason I always think of it with a G and a double B). This afternoon, as I was watching my son's Dad put him in the car seat to take him overnight (relax people, he has been clean for years too - otherwise I would not allow my son to be anywhere near him) I realized how f*cking crazy it is that I had a kid with this guy. This nightmare of an individual. I mean, who knew?

Clarisse Thorn's picture

Going under

This was originally posted at Clarisse Thorn: Pro-Sex Outreach, Open-Minded Feminism.

“Come back,” an S&M partner said softly, the other day, pushing my hair out of my eyes. I blinked and shook my head in a futile attempt to clear it.

“That’s weird,” I said. “Someone else used to say those words to me when I was coming out of subspace. I … that’s weird.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It’s a natural thing to say to you. You go under so fast, and so deep. You’re so far away.”

“Not all the time,” I said. “And not with everyone. You’re good at putting me there.”

He smiled. “You bring it out in me.”

Subspace is so hard to describe. I’ve written about it before, in passing, in multiple posts, because it’s so important, but I’ve never come up with a good description for it; and when I Google for it I can see that other people have the same problem. When I’m starting to go into subspace it’s just soft and dark and slow. But when I’m really far under, I’m totally blank. Falling. Flying.

Somewhere else.

Come back.

What is it, where do I go? It’s just submissive, masochist headspace. But I don’t always get into subspace when I submit, and I don’t always get into it when I take pain either. I’m not sure what the other ingredients are: some amount of trust, of course. And strong feelings about my partner make everything more intense … way more intense. Orders of magnitude more intense. Still, I’ve had new partners put me under with surprising thoroughness.

SmartAss Recommended Reading (Part One)

When I was writing this post, I talked about some of the web sites I visit. I thought it would be good to share with you some more of the folks that I let into my brain pan whenever I have adequate ability to absorb information (sometimes solid, sometimes that ability can elude me). Here, in no particular order, are more works I enjoy, find edifying, or within find fellowship – you may want to seek them out too!

Dear Weiner

Dear Representative Weiner:

Hello. I am sorry for the rough time you are going through right now. I imagine you are in a personal hell at the moment (unless you and your spouse have an arrangement – even then life outside of the home must be deucedly uncomfortable).

I want to make one thing clear up front: I do not care about your penis, or your peccadilloes. I have both (although the penis sits bag in a closet when not in use). I am with Lawrence O’Donnell on this one – what you do in your own life is the business of you and the people in your life.

SmartAss Commentary: Cripple Queers Stay Home

Note: I never thought that I would write a somewhat positive take on a gun show and a very negative experience at a Pride event, well, ever. But here I am.

So, IndyPride was the weekend of June 11th, 2011. My family and I were excited to attend. We have friends all over the LGBT, Intersex and Queer spectrum. I am bisexual, and my girls – much to my own parental pride – feel free to decide who and what they are in their own time. So my husband, my boyfriend, my girls, and I loaded up to head downtown for the Indianapolis Pride festival.

arvan's picture

Lady Vixion: Trans PMS = Gender Dysphoria

I love Lady Vixion.  I really do.  Here is a recent reflection on dysphoria, answering a question from her viewers.

142: How do you deal with gender dysphoria when it rears its ugly little head?  Give examples of how you cope personally, in a relationship, and professionally.
Topic chosen by Courtney, authored by Chris W.

SmartAss Commentary: Liberal Crip Goes to the Gun Show

The Indy 1500 has a terrible web page – there is very little you can do there but find out the dates of upcoming shows, sign up for a mailing list and $1 off $10 admission, and see some photos of previous shows. However, it is a decent show as far as I can tell. I had a decent time there. I want to talk about my own gun history, some of the social issues at the gun show, and the accessibility for people with disabilities.

I should probably spell a few things out here before we get started. I am a Second Amendment liberal. I believe in both state protection via police and sheriff departments and self defense. I find the arguments about the intent of the Second Amendment to be more semantic than practical. When the Bill of Rights was created, the gun was simply a tool of survival in early American culture, as in many others. Small, unfunded local defense militias depended on each member to have their own arms. They did, both for hunting and defense. So I find that if a person has a solid answer to the separation of militia and culture – that answer may well be their opinion on the matter rather than a historical fact.

I grew up around gun folks. My mom’s first husband (my adoptive dad or ADad*), her father and several of her brothers all served in the military. The first gun stories I heard were from ADad as he explained the AK scar he acquired in Vietnam. He was shot in the shoulder by a [enemy combatant – I will not use the word he used] and he returned fire, killing the man. My mother was very anti-gun. My grandfather and multiple uncles were enlisted military men. My husband was a military kid, and very comfortable with guns. My boyfriend grew up in a rural social network that was also very easy with firearms – his father was a police officer and is now a correctional officer.

Christina Engela's picture

I Woke Up This Morning

I woke up this morning, alone. The space beside me, cold and empty. You should have been there, but you weren't. Your pride was too strong and you were too good for me, remember? Well, I do. How could I ever forget?

You said you could handle my past, you said you could face the future by my side. But somehow both issues became just too steep for you to climb over. What I am and what I was before was just too much for you to accept or deal with, your misplaced faith that I could be anything else just too much for me to give in to, or capitulate.

Nothing in this universe could stop the process I went through to become who I am, nor turn it back to what I was, nor make me perfect enough for me to be acceptable to you. And so here we are, two opposites in a world of opposing forces, assigned labels like 'good' and 'evil' simply for how we come into this world, how we cope with it, and how we go out from it. In a world where we are taught too much that it matters, how can I blame you any further?
Alex Karydi's picture

Helping Our Gay Youth


Walking down the hallway back to the Vice Principal’s office, again, for another detention I wonder will life ever be any different. Sitting staring at his lips wondering what he and his wife will do on the weekend (wanting to be anywhere else but here), he is delighted to give me another lecture on how thin I am and whether I will eat a candy bar with him. He fears that I have an eating disorder and is trying to trick me into getting fat.

Sitting in my office fifteen years later I feel relief those days are behind me. You could not pay me enough money to go back to high school or be a teenager. As far as Mr. Jones, well, he was right I had a sever eating disorder and I was not about to give in to anyone and eat that candy bar. After all it was the only thing I felt I had control over.

Most days I felt that I lived outside my body and was so very much alone, and it seemed that my father was the only person that could see through me. He would say, “You are different Alex and this world doesn’t like those that are unlike them. Try not to be so different because I don’t want you to suffer for it. I want you to have a good life.”

I would lay in bed crying most nights hating the body I was in and the thoughts that raced through my head. I could not figure out what was different about me, except that every piece of me felt alien. I guess that is what being a teenager is all about.

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