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I woke up with my ass covered in a sunset of bruises, ranging from angry red to purpley-blue. My neck was sore and my scalp tender from having fistfuls of my hair pulled. My lips felt swollen and torn and my throat was streaked with finger marks.

It had been a fantastic night.

 

I like rough sex. I’ve been a pain slut for as long as I can remember, all the way back to college when my then-boyfriend used to tie me up and whack me with a hairbrush.

I need a partner who is dominant to my submissive sexual nature. I’m not into it as a lifestyle; it’s just a kink I like in bed. I’m not even sure how kinky it is, given some of the shit I’ve stumbled on while searching tumblr for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the night.

I also love porn. In the pre-Internet 1990’s, the Ex and I had to drive into the Bronx like degenerates to buy our porn from sketchy porn purveyors. We had a sizable collection. My personal favorite was a 19-tape cheesy fake-lesbian series called “Where the Boys Aren’t.”

I have never publicly expressed my predilection for being sexually submissive, and I have only touched on my fondness for porn, because I often questioned my own desires. I was afraid that I was colluding with misogynists to objectify and dehumanize women.

Is my love for porn enabling an industry that is incompatible with feminism? An industry that profits from debasing women, forcing them to do things they would never otherwise do? I have read some chilling accounts of former porn stars who claim just that.

Even now, with this article – am I writing from a place of privilege about how I can ‘choose’ to be oppressed, when so many women face that in real-world scenarios, sexual and otherwise?

Does BDSM and porn contribute to the inequity of women?

I think not.

Women everywhere get off on the power play that sexual dominance and submission represents. Many may feel guilty about admitting it, but it’s pervasive. Long before ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ (which isn’t even a true BDSM story, but seems to have been mistaken for one), BDSM culture has been eagerly consumed in film, literature and music. Sexual power-play tropes were packaged in Harlequin romance novels your mom bought at the supermarket decades ago. #YourMom #ThatsRightYourMom #DealWithIt

And why do you think the “smokey eye” look is considered to be so sexy? It looks messy, smudgy; reminiscent of having been up to naughty things, like having a dick smeared all over your face.

 

Sweet tender lovemaking doesn’t do it for me, never has.

I dated a man I referred to as ‘The Cop’ on social media. He was a great guy; in fact, he was a favorite among my Facebook friends to the point where a gaggle of them were planning our wedding (???). When the relationship ended, I attributed it to our vastly different schedules, but in truth, we were sexually incompatible. He was passionate, but always tender and gentle, and when I wanted him to spank me, he said he was too much of a pussy protector to ‘hurt’ me. He didn’t care for my filthy language in bed, either.

Every time we were together, I left with my stomach knotted in sexual tension. I was craving creamy chocolate mousse cake and being fed a dry Triscuit. I would leave him and end up sexting with an online friend I know affectionately as “Hot Buttered Sock Puppet.”

To be clear: the degradation and debasement of women is not a turn on for me. I’m picky about what sites I go to. I look for sex positive behavior where two (or more) people are together as equals. I object to women being used as demeaned receptacles; I prefer porn where her pleasure is every bit as important as his. Some people refer to this as “feminist” porn. I only know that if I am watching rough sex on-screen, I have to know that it’s consensual.

 

In light of the recent election, I am not being extremist when I say I fear a bleak future for women, one in which we have been stripped of all of our most basic rights. I believe there has never been a time when it is more important for women, for people, to stand together. I have become almost paralyzed, to the point of not wanting to write.

I’ve finally come out the other side of this. My declaration of feminism is more important that it’s ever been. To that end, I refuse to hide my brand of sexuality. I am who I am, and I like what I like. And I am a feminist.

I am wholly self sufficient. I have not now, nor have I ever been, financially dependent on a man. I have been supporting my child since he was born. I raise him without gender stereotypes. I’m his mom, and I’M the one who taught him to ride a bike, play basketball, throw a punch. I believe in the power of women to create world change. I champion women emotionally and artistically and in every way I can. I do not view other women as competition, but as comrades.

I know that there will be anti-porn feminists who disagree, who purport to speak for women, but I don’t fall within their victim narrative. The fact that I love porn, and that I enjoy being sexually submissive, is not a backtrack from equality. As a rape survivor I can state unequivocally that consensual sexual fantasies are not rape. They are FANTASIES, which by definition, makes them NOT REAL.

My sexuality is not a brochure for my political views: it’s how I fuck. It doesn’t model my values; it just gets me off, and it gets me off no where other than the bedroom.

 

Are you kinky? Fess up!
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

(I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people wondering how I am. I’m GREAT! I will try not to disappear again! I’m working on several writing projects, some music projects, and busy with several life changes but I don’t want to stop blogging. I love you guys!)

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How Did I Get Here?

November 21, 2013 — 58 Comments

howdidigethere-punklarge

 

“You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 
You may say to yourself, my GOD, what have I done!?”

-Talking Heads, Once In A Lifetime

I am trying to survive life in a particularly loathesome suburb – dominated by the wealthy and entitled; rich, money-mad, vulgar, materialistic and superficial clones, driven by pointless one-upmanship.

I DO NOT FIT IN.

Most of my life I’ve not fit in.  I’ve developed the ability to no longer give a rat’s ass while desperately seeking a bastion of fellowship

I grew up in a welfare housing project, one of only three white families. The other two white families despised us –  we were Jewish. Damn Jews. We don’t pull off the “white trash” thing well.

In high school I was a strange mix of nerd and underground/insurgent. No one could make sense of me, least of all me. I dabbled in different groups but belonged to none.

I was also a virgin. Not exactly a candidate for Homecoming In My Mouth Queen. My girlfriends were taking on football players two at a time. I had my nose in a book and played with myself a lot.

And now, Suburbia. Where the American Dream goes to die.

Culture, spirituality, art and intellect does not exist.

Plastic surgery does.

 

An Excerpt From My First Trip to the Suburban Gym:

I look around, panicked. I call The Ex. (my then husband)

Me:  *In a hushed whisper* This is a fucking stripper gym!

Him:  What are you talking about?

Me:  Everyone here has gigantic fake tits, fake tans, long fake nails and hair extensions! There’s a rap video slut on every treadmill!

Him: Those are the housewives.

Maybe I should have titled my blog: WordPress: Just Another Place I Won’t Fit In.

I tried blogging before. It was a train wreck.

I had 5 followers. Two of them were my other personalities.

I was terrified of posting anything. Paralyzed. Writing and me- we have an ugly history.

 

A blogger emailed me enthusiastically out of the blue. Asked if he could email – encouraged me to keep writing.

What a relief to have a little support! I’d work up my courage, post, and he’d  email me raving about how “brilliant” I was.

That lasted a week. 4 days, maybe. He didn’t even hit read my last post. Apparently, I’d lost my “je ne sais quoi.” That’s French for “what a douchecanoe.”

 

I probably should have been chronicling the jaunty exploits of a gal searching for love in the online dating world.

Online dating? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going out for a chai latte and ending up chained to a bedpost in Connecticut, having a discussion about “hard limits” with a serial killer.

“After you decapitate me, I’d appreciate you not using my severed head for oral sex. That’s just offensive.”

 

Hard limits – have you noticed every BDSM writer on WordPress has the same hard limit? Anal sex?

Did they have a WordPress Hard Limits No Anal Meetup?

“Okay – so, he can bash a 2 x 4 over my head while his friend punches my tits, as long as there’s NO ANAL.”

Anal (I’ve heard) can be quite pleasurable.  Mix one can of Crisco with 50 shots of tequila. If you’ve ever borne a child – well, that’s like having an umbrella wedged up your asshole and OPENED. A penis in the butt is shoe shopping, comparatively speaking.

There goes my BDSM audience. Woops.

 

And I’m not inclined to chronicle my sexploits. Not current ones.

You want sex, watch porn. Don’t download it – it’ll give your computer a yeast infection. Buy it. It’s the safest thing for your hard drive, even though it gets old watching the same couples fuck all the time. Like being married –  “oh, these three again. Bor-ing.”

Yep – I dig porn. Now all the FemiNazis won’t like me. Another WP group I won’t fit in with. Well, I’m sorry, I enjoy smut. Porn, sex toys – love it.

Shopping for dildos completes me.

It’s all gone now – I trashed the “toy box” to spite The Ex.

My last blog was not about my life.

I was afraid. Of showing who I really am.

Then my life broke completely down. I had a true “dark night of the soul.” Everything that meant anything to me seemed to fall into question.

While in the darkest of moods, I stumbled upon the blog of WordPress leviathan Le Clown, who wrote:

“I’ll take your midnight black over someone else’s beige. That, to me, would be true death.”

 

He inspired me to start this blog. To show the “real me.”

I want followers, but at the same time, to protect myself, I can’t care.

And I’m not above admitting that I want what all the tarnished souls around here have. But at what price? If I could be me, exactly who I am, and still have all that, then fine.

But if having all that money modifies my consciousness, and I wake up one day –

a whole lot less smart, way less funny, no longer edgy, not in the slightest bit rebellious or biting or dark, and I hate blasting loud music and want to spend entire days picking out window treatments instead of going to the movies with my kid and laughing ourselves silly…

Forget it.

I live in a pretty, 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom home. I  cut open a vein saving for the down payment. I’ve never lived in a house before – only apartments.

It’s my first ever backyard. It’s like Christmas fucked July 4th and had tree babies.

At night, cicadas talk to me – and I’m not even high.

My kid has a trampoline in the backyard that he bounces on madly. I have to drink wine until it becomes safe for him.

It’s all such a gift – for this little housing project girl. Sometimes, I just have to pinch myself – but I have a low pain threshold. So I pinch someone else. Usually an elderly person.

Then one afternoon I’ll pick my kid up from his best friend’s house, and think, I’m not giving my child everything he deserves. Because this is what I drive up to:

Large House 2

partial view – couldn’t fit it all in the picture

 

Then I just get pissed. Is this really necessary? I left them a little love note:

Dear Dr. and Mrs. AssHat:

You redefine Ass Hatification. You are an anesthesiologist and a housewife, not Saudi Arabian royalty. You have 3 kids. You do not need an 8,000 square foot house. Calm the fuck down.

As soon as my son demands we buy him the XBox 1, I will light your house on fire. Enjoy it while you can.
xo,
Samara

Perhaps whining about the suburbs seems like “rich people problems.” It’s a literary cliché. Dates as far back as 1922 – Sinclair Lewis’s Babbitt. After all, aren’t there worse things? Like growing up poor?

I grew up poor. It sucked. But I grew up with what I believe are the CORRECT SET OF VALUES in life.

The real mission:

I MUST FIND A WAY TO RAISE MY CHILD UNSCATHED BY ALL OF THIS.

To be grounded, and genuine.

To understand that money, while undeniably wonderful, is not the most important thing in life.

To define success as happiness, not as a 10,000 square foot house.

To not expect a Lexus in the driveway on this 17th birthday. Cause that shit is not happening.

He’ll just have to be a Buick in the Land Of Lexus.

I will prevail.

 

Do you fit in? Did you, growing up? Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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