The other night, I had a dream. In it, I found myself trying, hard, to reach my grandmother’s house. First, by car. Then, on foot. Finally, on a bike. Each time, I faced seemingly insurmountable obstacles, though I was only a short distance from my destination. I was blocked – by snow, slush, traffic, detours, and other impediments.
I’ve been blocked in a variety of ways, for a while now. I’ve written occasionally of the impact of the Trump fiasco on me, on my sex drive, on my ability to think. I know I’m not alone in saying that the last few weeks have been about the worst since November 2016 for me in this regard. The other worst weeks (and there’s sadly lots of competition) for me have been the week of the initial travel ban and the week it became apparent that the Trump Regime was separating families on a large scale. But this last stretch affected me personally, in a sort of fractal way, that I’ve found debilitating.
For one, as I’ve written, it happened coincident to my learning that I likely bear responsibility for saddling at least one, and possibly two, women with memories of sexual assault. Never mind what it looked like to my 12-year-old self at the time. Never mind the relative innocence with which I inflicted that memory, those memories. At least one woman, and possibly two, have carried around a memory all their adult lives for which I bear responsibility.
Second, the last few weeks have exacted a toll on any number of people I care about, from those closest to me to more distant friends, colleagues, acquaintances, etc. I may be a narcissist, but I’m a narcissist with a pretty deep well of empathy. As hard as the last stretch has been for me, I have no illusion that it’s been anywhere near as hard for me as for some of those others. And that affects me, too.
Third, and, for the purposes of this blog, most salient: I feel a bit blocked when it comes to writing about sex and desire. About two months ago, I had a phenomenal sexual experience about which I’ve not (yet?) written, other than gesturally. Last week, I had a different kind of phenomenal sexual experience, my first in which talking about the whole Kavanaugh thing was a sort of foreplay, perversely: before we retreated to a private space, Hope and I firmly grounded ourselves in the world. I can’t say what she was doing, but I’ll say that I, for one, needed to feel well and truly connected to a human being before I felt I possibly could objectify her, could use her to satisfy my most carnal hungers.
But that points to the difficulty I have here: a big part of what I do here is to give voice to my id, to speak (write) aloud some of my most challenging thoughts, feelings, desires. But in the current moment, I’m particularly acutely aware that every word I write has an impact on every person who reads it. I don’t worry particularly about shame: I feel very little. I don’t apologize for the objectification I do in my mind. Nor for the desires, vanilla or perverse, that crowd my body. But when I write, when I expose those thoughts, feelings, desires, to the air, there’s a chemical reaction between them and the eyes, the minds, and the bodies of the people who read my words. In the past, I’ve taken comfort in the knowledge that my readers are volunteers. That I am unfailingly honest about who I am, about what I have to offer. And that, therefore, no one need be “triggered” (to use a word I hate) or affected painfully in a way that induces pain and/or dissociation (a more communicative concept) by those words.
And/but.
In the current moment, the ground sways beneath my writing feet. I teeter as I try to find the words to communicate the effect my body felt this morning in the presence of a woman who didn’t ask to be objectified by me, who simply wanted to have a day. But my body responded to her, to her hair, her eyes, her breasts, her clothing, her carriage. I am, after all human. And animal. As a human, I behave appropriately. I don’t ogle. My eyes don’t follow people. But as an animal, I feel a sexual urge. And then, as a human, I, often, write about it.
I sway unsteadily as I think about writing about the sex for which I traveled. It was with someone with whom I enjoy a real, honest, connection. But what makes our sex so hot is our ability to switch seamlessly from the human to the animal mode of interaction. I can, unapologetically, use her. And, crucially, she derives pleasure from giving me the gift of the use of her body for my pleasure.
Similarly, with Hope, how do I communicate the excitement, the visceral, raw fulfillment I feel from her simply doing as I say? How do I communicate that, for me, as hard as her compliance makes my cock, her consent, her desire, catalyzes the whole process?
I often recoil against the word “Dom.” People have so many associations with that word. One of my problems with it is that it puts me at the center of the action – I’m a “Dom.” But really, really, for me, what makes domination compelling is submission. I think of a woman who submits to me as the center of the action. “Dom” sounds active, powerful; it implies agency. But in my dominance, there’s a sense in which what I am is the nearly passive recipient of submission. Sure, I have to earn it. But the gift of submission is the headline of any satisfying encounter in which I’m dominant.
I think I’m struggling to write because of the tensions in all this, the interaction between fantasy and reality, thought and action, the bedroom and the public sphere. If the personal is political (and it surely is), how do I reconcile in words my ego – my sense of self – with my id – my base desires? How do I reconcile it with all the creative games I play to indulge my id in ways that don’t offend my ego?
I’ve been thinking about some of these questions, and my thought about them has something to do with my struggle to write here.
This may be the first true self aware post I’ve read of yours and I applaud you for it. You’re really digging deeper and that’s interesting to read and probably cathartic to share. If it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you aren’t doing useful introspective work, which I think is the entire point this blog. Keep digging. I’m certain there is more.
Forbwhat irs worth, all women know we are ogled constantly. We know this even if you don’t think we do. We are hyper aware of how men react to us. Nobody is asking you to turn the carnal desire off, that is impossible…it’s wha you do with it that counts.
You aren’t the only one being affected by the latest senate hearing. My friends and I have been watching anxiously, some of us with tears rolling down our faces, because we have ALL experienced some sort of sexual abuse. All women understand. And a lot of men are doing what you’re doing…considering their actions and realizing that maybe they were (are?) in the wrong. If most every woman has been the “victim” (hate that word) of sexual assault (of some kind), then most men have been sexual assaulters (of some kind.) We do not want to vilify all men, we just want you guys to be aware and maybe apologize and definitely change your behavior. Times are changing. Men are starting to get it and it’s affecting them, too. All will be fine, just keep yourself TRULY open.
Please hold your applause.
If this is the first post of mine that meets your lofty test for being “self aware,” then you and I live in different universes. There’s so much in this blog that feels SO much more self-aware than this, to me. I think, though, from what you’ve written previously, that much of my self-awareness just creeps you out. What I imagine you MEAN is that this is the first post that a) you’ve READ (I’ve written enough that I imagine there’s a fair amount you haven’t read) in which… b) the self of which I’m sometimes more, sometimes less, aware is depicted in a way that resonates for YOU, of which you approve. That’s quite different from self-awareness on my part.
I daresay, if you read a bit deeper, you might find more such examples that meet your criteria. But honestly, I don’t much care. You’re pursuing an agenda that differs from mine, and for some reason, you’re doing it in my comment section.
Just a footnote: I’ve been “considering [my] actions and realizing that maybe [I am/was] in the wrong” INCESSANTLY since I began this blog. If you’ve missed this, you’ve missed a solid fraction of what I do here.
Good luck.
Knowing a little about your journey, the comment above stings a little. I think it puts you into a box (one the commenter imagines to be true) that is not necessarily so.
Anyways
I hear your struggle. I guess as a woman who had to go through sharing her sexual journey, and also one who was abused in more ways than sexual, but in this way too, I too struggle.
My struggle is different. Is it bad that I shared my image? Is it bad that I shared my actions? Does me being sexual mean that I asked for the assaults and rapes I suffered?
I know that, most of them having happened at a time when I was definitely NOT sexual, means that I probably DIDN’T have anything to do with it.
And, funnily, though my reason KNOWS assault is ALWAYS the perpetrator’s fault, it is reassuring to my feeling self to realise that, no, I didn’t ask for it.
Did I assault anyone? I don’t think I did. I’m the shy type, who doesn’t dare make a move. That too is reassuring.
Do I relive the assaults? I guess in parts. Even though, funnily enough, having shared my sexual self openly through my writing, observed and followed my psyche, helped me heal from those attacks.
I hope you don’t worry too much nor for too long.
You do you.
The mere FACT you reflect on these questions shows plainly that you are NOT part of the problem. The fact that you consider the reaction of the recipient of your action (be it sexually or through reading) is ample proof that you respect us.
I too have a secret for you: most women know they are ogled. That is undoubtedly true.
The secret is this: when it is done with respect, some enjoy it!
True, if a look is too insistent, a woman for whom sexual assault or suffering objectification is still painful WILL hurt. But you are so observant that you will know it pretty quickly.
For other women (even for those who have suffered sexual assault and worse), it feels good to know that someone enjoys us. The difficulty is to do it with respect. Which I believe you do.
One last thing. I am afraid I will have to burst your bubble on something: you are not a narcissist.
A narcissist is incapable of taking into account someone else’s feelings and emotions. You are a person who enjoys women submitting to him, but also an empath. You are NOT a narcissist.
XO
PS: sorry, it’s late here, I apologise for any typos…
As usual, thank you thank you thank you. For your honesty, and your kindness. You know my thoughts on what you write about you: no such thing as your fault, nothing wrong with sharing WHATEVER you want to share. Somehow in the last stretch of years, people have started to feel entitled to other people’s words/images not existing. This seems wrong to me. Blogs are great in that they allow micro-targeting. No one has to see your blog if they don’t want to. No one has to read mine. I feel utterly justified in WHATEVER I might write – up to and including hateful, racist, misogynistic screeds. I would hope that, if I did that, a) no one would read me, and/or b) I would be deluged with wiser words. But even in that instance, I don’t think I should (be) shut up.
On the ogling thing…. I don’t ogle respectfully. I don’t know how to do that. What I do is SMILE at people who look INTERESTING to me. Yes, sometimes, that means that they have perfect breasts, or a round ass, or a pretty face, or whatever. But I’m pretty democratic, honestly, and I (almost) never look at someone in a way that is, in any way, explicitly sexualizing. Respectfully or not. Until I have a little permission. Then, of course, I’m off to the races and, with your consent, I’ll gladly undress you with my leering eyes.
And on being “part of the problem.” There’s just no way a man can claim not to be part of the problem. When you live in a privileged group, you are, like it or not, part of the problem. You may ALSO be part of the solution, but there’s just no way to avoid being part of the problem. I benefit from my privilege a thousand times a day in ways I notice and in ways I don’t. I wrote, years ago, about how I can take up more than my share of the oxygen in a conversation, how I can talk over women. Just one example. But there are, surely, dozens. In the last hour alone….
I won’t quibble on the narcissism question. I think I meet most tests, not for having a personality disorder, but for having a greater-than-healthy dollop of narcissism. We all have some. One NEEDS to have some. I think I have a bit more than I might (and a lot less than I once did). But anyway….
Thanks, Dawn.