Posts Tagged ‘fetish’

Whatever Touches You When I Touch You There Is Awkward Consumerism


22 Sep

5273samplex

Originally published on September 22, 1996

Sorry to hear about your proposal-writing failures. They'll come around again. With strange interference, league sales down, membership slows. Coping mechanisms recruit unplanned tyranny, shiteating boyfriends, drowning fetishes, and other elite behaviors of the damned and frustrated, while soggy ground rules for cobweb cities are just plain up for grabs, so it's no wonder you have a tough time keeping a perfect scorecard...

That was some blood rant you passed along, craven, colonic, spunky, brutal, pure sewerage but spanking brand new for you, sister, true to the core you rushed as word games go. Of course the coagulating flaw in this "what if" scenario is that women have carried that blood thang in their blood all along, and yet they still cry foul at the way this world has managed to position them to be just what they are: women, nothing more, nothing less. If humanity had never learned to talk or write, thrust or blight, the intrinsic hierarchical wiring we know today would as I see it change very little, pending sale of the calculus operators. Sweet or salty. Whatever touches you when I touch you there is awkward consumerism. Just plain up for grabs. Retail, not fire sale. The strengths of beauty and the beauties of strength are only slightly persuaded by raw intelligence in just how material progress is sold to relinquish the powers nature has bestowed upon THEM...

All the stinking philosophical rant in the world falls pathetically short of the complementary powers of beauty and brute strength. Sex appeal in a nutshell. Beauty is its own brute strength and brute strength is gaming's own beautiful persuader. Crap is crap. That's not a fantasy, that's a nightmare...

I charge pennies on the doubt among supple minds that notions I put forth here today are what has made the world exactly as we find her today. Eh, Shelley? However—since rewiring my supply side sadomasochist, I am willing to listen to characters of insight, but to test my patience these are supply, demand, and haplessly derivative. I tire easily of them...

Because the semantics of any idea attracts buzzing gadflies not unlike snorkles stuffed into the mouth of a beautiful loser.

GT

Sex As Marketplace Commodity


24 Jul

commodity

Sex As Commodity

samplex

Originally published on July 24, 1996

Not to beat a dead horse into dog food, Landry, but I nevertheless am still interested in digging deeper into this topic of exploring what you as a female writer deem appropriate sexual language and conduct, specifically at the social level, as a (willing/unwilling) member of the freelance pseudo-liberated Generation X thinktank. Or more precisely, the differences whereby men and women perceive the sexual personae, and one's respective duties and roles within the arena. For despite my own mental gymnastics, and occasional outburst among friends and foes of the nightclub antic, I am basically a self-described prude in this matter by default. My prudishness comes from not wanting to hurt the feelings of others, nor have my own wobbly branches burned by the terminally spitfired. I'm not particularly squeamish to broach topics with extreme candor, but the wolves of public opinion can be quite brutal and unforgiving as I have been schooled time and time again.

First a few definitions: pseudoliberated. You touched on this concept by admitting your awareness of blatant contradictions in what your own spirit of freedom tells you versus what your reality-checking brain dutifully informs you is necessary to remain in control of what can soon degenerate into a chaotic and unrewarding sensual killing field if unchecked because of the very nature of individuality. The plain fact is that every person of every generation is genetically (both physically & psychologically) predisposed to a certain level of what passes in the popular mind as freedom but it is plain to see that not everyone is at liberty to express that freedom, which is the stomping ground of the upper classes of beauty, strength, and finance.

However, in the general sense, this freedom is then tested in the sexual marketplace. Gains and losses accumulate. Winners, losers, predators, victims, survivors, casualties. That's the real clay court of the sex game, the match, volley, love, point of the sex game. The sexual elite? Without too much rehashing of old literature we both know that one person's freedom is often another person's enslavement. Each camp seeks its own reflection in the mirror of its ideological yearnings. We each, male & female, across the entire corpus of human identity use different tools to plow the field, sow the seed, and harvest the fruit of our lusts and loves, fetishes and fixes. Individual tastes are formed by a complex matrix of genetics and environmental influences working within us at every turn.

I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, rightfully so, to encompass my own fistful of oh so girlie traits the radical feminists harp so much about while lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake to show all our cards beyond an exterior and a few words. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined falsehoods parading around in the name of spectacular truth, a truth called love. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.
Often over the course of a life we change to meet the evermutating challenges of sensuality and desire. Common sense and societal mores of the day often intrude upon what we would embrace if left to our own whimsy. Thus few of us can in truth boast that we are truly liberated. And those who are almost always use this sexual freedom to their own accumulative advantage while the many are still left to fend for themselves in the heat of the battle. Freedom or liberty in this case can only mean freedom of opportunity to succeed or fail, not equality of outcome which is a ridiculous notion everywhere, even the actual sex trade profession—which is also strangled by natural socio-economic stratification—to put a finer point on the realities of sexual politics, never mind the basic argument of one's personal freedom from an oversexualized society if that better suits one's real or alleged moral purposes. This component of the gender war is simply unmanageable in a heterogenous culture, unfortunately, as you've realized by living in San Francisco.

Greater thinkers of antiquity, I submit, realizing this, suggested suppression of the personal urges tempered by cooly ignoring social outlets when the former didn't chill the fevers, rather than having lunatics always chasing a false rainbow corrupting the loins with the tricks of envy and abuse, forced by success and especially, persistant failure of the one night stand, serial monogamy, and prostitution. I observe women with their hypertextual sense of liberal guilt dissatisfied with the roles natural history has prepared for them—for the those female masses rarely take pity on the hordes of men delegated by natural order to mere pawns by the sexual princes and princesses ruling the sexual arena, but consistent with their inherent tools and battle plans are often cold taskmasters, subtle manipulators, starving their opponents and thwarting their competition by any means necessary in order to control the field usually to the chagrin of all parties, themselves included. These women too, are abusers, and their types are legion.

I realize many of the above statements can and will infuriate many a feminine perspective. None of my postulates are meant to pacify female anger for the brutality men have set upon them throughout history, but let's not forget men have mistreated men with similar if not more virulent gusto, as Paglia has pointed out. If you knew me better, you would know that I am grievously sick with self-loathing turned against the gender sporting cock, balls, upper body strength, and this so-called social power everyone in the PC generation is always raving about. Pure madness is afoot and I call for a truce, but who are we kidding? The War Between the Genders is very real for those who feel threatened, and that number includes both women and men for both similar and divergent reasons. Life is not a wind-up toy.

But finally after 32 or 33 years of apotheosizing the feminine component of humanity, and weaned from this generalized self-loathing by the redemptive notions of writer Camille Paglia, no wilting violet herself, I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, rightfully so, to encompass my own fistful of oh so girlie traits the radical feminists harp so much about while lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake to show all our cards beyond an exterior and a few words. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined falsehoods parading around in the name of spectacular truth, a truth called love. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.

A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and result in an idiot’s folly are astronomically high.
I am not advocating the overthrow of anything. I simply know that what passes for love in this country is little more than mercantile power wearing a mask of fair weather friendship or lust. Those vows most mouth are garbage lines not worth the paper they are written on or the God they are supplicating. And lust if not outright ridiculed is still spoken of insincerely in most pseudoliberated circles propped up by double standards and power negotiations. So let's not be coy, sweet idealist. It's time to throw off the blinders, and realize that true equality between the sexes is a give and take scenario, and few are they who will find the path to this bliss we all seek.

Most will finally settle for a truce and whatever accommodations their current market value will warrant. I am fortunate my own loved one still finds a measure of grace in my own strengths, raw intelligence and wit. And I in her, her own steady delivery of goods and compassion for my weaknesses and my sense of purpose. Ours has nearly ceased as a sexual bond, but we freely and frequently commit to hugging often, an act Ann Landers would have us believe is the best love has to offer, and we suffer in each other's absence, so attached are we to each other. Because we have willingly accepted this state as a necessary compromise and sublimation to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has been settled upon us.

Most people find this sort of language an insult to their self-images, despite the self-deceiving accomplices to even more failure these images often play out to be. But you seem to recognize yourself at this juncture of life quite clearly, as I did ten years ago. A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and result in an idiot's folly are astronomically high.

My marriage while generally sexless (a decade of frustration leads to great changes in the heart, the mind, and the body) is certainly not loveless, and in our case, love and social stability won out over sex, although deficiencies in one area usually lead to excesses in others, and in my case, my appetite for food has not waned. Those who neither possess but over or under emphasize love, social stability, OR SEX, are given to great tragedy, and dangerous lives, although nothing I have written on this topic can resolve a damned thing in the world beyond my own need to articulate my innermost thoughts on the topic.

Yes Landry, sexuality is just another marketplace commodity. To deny this is to become an instant liar.

GT

Fingers Of Low Resistance, Least Resistance, And No Resistance


11 Jul

Resistance

Resistance

samplex

Date: Wed Jul 11, 1996 3:04:06 PM

Not to beat a dead horse into dog food, Landry, but I am nevertheless still interested in digging deeper into this resistance topic, in exploring what you as a female writer deem appropriate sexual language and conduct, specifically at the social or public level. As a (willing/unwilling) member of the freelance pseudo-liberated Generation X think tank, how can we expect to defy this irrational political correctness now dominating the landscape, without bloodying the field, without ignoring the differences whereby how men and women perceive the sexual arena, and their respective roles within that arena, even as it appears that the gender roles continue to evolve? For despite my own mental gymnastics, I am somewhat of a prude in this matter, myself, and actually seek liberty from the constraints of my own background.

First a few definitions: pseudo-liberated. You touched on this concept by admitting your awareness of blatant contradictions in what your own spirit in liberty tells you versus what your reality-checking brain dutifully informs you is necessary to remain in control of what can soon degenerate into a chaotic and unrewarding sensual killing field if unchecked because of the very nature of individuality. The plain fact is that every person of every generation is genetically (both physically & psychologically) predisposed to a certain level of what passes in the popular mind as freedom and the lessening buffers to loose-lipped vulgarity.

This freedom is then tested in the sexual marketplace. Gains and losses accumulate. Winners, losers, predators, victims, survivors, casualties. That's the real dirt in the sex game. The sexual elite? Without too much rehashing of old literature we both know that one person's freedom is often another person's enslavement. Each camp seeks its own reflection in the mirror of its ideological yearnings. We each, male & female, across the entire corpus of human identities use different tools to plow the field, sow the seed, and harvest the fruit of our lusts and loves, fetishes and fixes. Individual tastes are formed by a complex matrix of genetics and environmental influences working within us at every turn.

The point is, they are strong sexual warriors with no pity for the serfs and only seek upward mobility, just as men do, and women always have, albeit in different mutations of the basic idea throughout generations and cultures.
Often over the course of a life we change to meet the ever-mutating challenges of sensuality and desire. Common sense and societal mores of the day often intrude upon what others might find more to their own liking, as common sense can often be as wrong as the public powers. Thus few of us can in truth boast that we are truly liberated simply because we do not know what it means to be liberated.

Classes who arguably at that point of sexual liberty live to pursue this sexual freedom to their own accumulative advantage while the many are still left to fend for themselves in the heat of the old torturous battles between moral agency and libertinism. Freedom or liberty in this case can only mean freedom of opportunity to succeed or fail at getting what we desire...

Great thinkers of antiquity, realizing this imbalance and opening for societal failure suggested suppression of the urges rather than chasing a false rainbow corrupting the loins with the tricks of envy and abuse, forced by success and especially, persistent failure. Failure is disease, disease is failure. I observe women with their hypertextual sense of liberal guilt for the masses rarely take pity on hordes of men delegated by natural order to mere pawns of the sexual princes and princesses ruling the sexual arena. But consistent with their incumbent sexual and business tools, battle plans, and gains to be made, they are often cold taskmasters, subtle manipulators, starving their opponents and thwarting their competition by any means necessary in order to control the field. The point is, they are strong sexual warriors with no pity for the serfs and only seek upward mobility, just as men do, and women always have, albeit in different mutations of the basic idea throughout generations and cultures.

Because we have willingly accepted this bartered state as a necessary compromise to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has settled upon us.
I realize many of the above statements can and will infuriate many a feminine perspective. None of my postulates are meant to pacify female anger for the brutality men have set upon them throughout history. I am grievously sick with self-loathing turned against the gender sporting cock, balls, upper body strength, and this so-called social power everyone in the PC generation is always raving about. Pure madness.

But finally after 32 or 33 years of apotheosizing the feminine component of humanity, and weaned from this generalized self-loathing by the redemptive notions of writer Camille Paglia, I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, often rightfully so, to encompass my own effeminate strains the radical feminists carp so much about when lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined lies in the name of spectacular truth. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.

It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened another Tolstoy—to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, as I want to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and an idiot's folly are astronomically high.
I am not advocating the overthrow of anything. I simply know that what passes for love in this country is little more than mercantile power wearing a mask of fair weather friendship, lust, or loosely formed business arrangements. Those vows most mouth are garbage lines not worth the paper they are written on or the God they are supposedly supplicating. And lust if not outright ridiculed is still spoken of insincerely in most pseudo-liberated circles propped up by double standards and power negotiations. So let's not be coy, sweet idealists. It's time to throw off the blinders, and realize that true equality between the sexes is a war of give and take...

Most will finally settle for a truce and whatever accommodations their current market value will warrant. I am fortunate my own loved one still finds a measure of grace in my own strengths, raw intelligence and wit. And I in her, her own steady delivery of basic goods and compassion for my weaknesses in return for the strengths I bring which have nothing to do with sexual etiquette. Ours has nearly ceased as a sexual bond, but we freely and frequently commit to hugging often, an act Ann Landers would have us believe is the best love has to offer, and we suffer in each other's absence, so attached are we to each other. Because we have willingly accepted this bartered state as a necessary compromise to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has settled upon us. The presence and care of children should, but sadly do not often enough, deepen those mutually accommodating bonds of any union.

Too many people possessing usually fine minds find this sort of language an insult to their self-images, despite even more failure these self-images often play out to be.

But you seem to recognize yourself at this juncture of life quite clearly, as I did ten years ago. A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened another Tolstoy—to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, as I want to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and an idiot's folly are astronomically high. My marriage while generally sexless (a decade of frustration leads to great changes in the heart, the mind, and the body) is certainly not loveless, and in our case, love and social stability won out over sex. Those who neither possess but over or under emphasize love, social stability, OR SEX, are given to great tragedy, and dangerous lives, although nothing I have written on this topic can resolve a damned thing in the world beyond my own need to articulate my innermost thoughts on the topic.

I don't think this letter is very well written but breaking into the breeze, my friends, go the three fickle fingers of low resistance, least resistance and no resistance at all.

GT

The Nice, Unpresumptuous, Commendable Kid From Darien


24 Jun

eye

I Just Want A Taste

samplex

Date: Wed Jul 24, 1996 3:02:48 PM

I'll be damned Ben. I just wrote that piece to Landry which I also sent you for your perusal, and then I log on to post & receive any new mail & what do I get but nearly a word for word reflection of everything I had pondered. Geez guy, you and I certainly think alike. About leather, while yes, I was a leather & mohawk phreak in the middle 1980s, and can find both the aroma and aesthetic appealing when confronted by it, in terms of punk rock's not dead and any arrive alive motorcycle culture, but when I speak of bondage I am drawn toward the composure, the counterpoint of cotton fabric, or office professional lace & latitude, long & short dresses, brassieres of all sorts, serious treatments where the woman is aggressive or submissive. I might find myself dressed in all white. Exotic places, dame or damsel, woman or wife in distress, railroad tracks, nurse and teacher, smacking uniforms but never cheesy plastic buffoonery. Admittedly drawn to clothing fetishes but since the mainstreaming of leather, and certain conditions of my own personality, my own soul I have dismissed the leather scene as pompously vain & vulgar. Ropes and clamps, perhaps more than chains & other strategic hardware, would be my own restraints of choice, must be the German in me, but frankly Ben, I have experienced, or experimented with little to none of the B&D protocol except pictorial literature exposed to me early in life by those True Detective rags found in the news stands of my youth. And as we have both pointed out, it seems only a tiny fraction of us get to fully experience our sexual desires in action.

Next, I found myself ridiculed then pursued by an intelligent, motivated, role-playing, self-measured, resolute socialite of sorts, nine years my senior who worked at the Center For Disease Control in Atlanta who aimed for personal control, and finally a very pretty, (even beautiful when her stylings fell into place for any given season), reserved, passive, benign, charitable woman whose strength is her compassion and loyalty, six years older than I am, not too delicate, but still somewhat adventuresome, dutiful, an accountant, the woman whom I married and bingo, I was finally set in stone.
I was a nice, unpresumptuous, commendable kid. White socks and checkered trousers, a nerd, a dandy, a boy scout, an athelete, a wallflower except when I knew what was under the tent flap, knew the rules, knew how far I could press the powers into a match point as I did throughout my school days with teachers who were no competition for their own academic mission or me, prowled everywhere by homosexual predators, the first time just after turning fourteen, and became an immediate masturbation junkie after my molestation by a man in his forties. Only three dates in highschool, both big prom events and one other disastrous outing, where I slid into first base and got thrown out of the game. I was too soft for the girls who preferred the more robust jocks and loud-mouthed cigarette-lipped hard rock hoodlums, gearhead thugs, strangely we didn't have much of a local music scene where I went to school, but this taste of Eden was even true for the good girls with whom I ran around town, in and out of class, but remained just friends as it turned out.

Still a virgin at 18 and having moved away from my parents and five siblings in white trash Florida to just outside Chicago to work for the big bucks of Bethlehem Steel Corporation on Lake Michigan, I was seduced by a woman twice my age. She was a Jehovah's Witness, mother of three kids aged 6, 12, 16, the latter, my only friend in that strange land of stranger consequences. I had been publicly considering moving those 1200 miles back home to my girlfriend Eva when this weak, dependent, vengeful, neurotic, not beautiful but handsome woman removed her blouse and brassiere to lay hands on me some snowy wee hour in December, 1973. My immediate sense of guilt, her immediate bucket of tears once she was entered, remorse, religious baggage, loneliness, the quicker pull out and collapse of boyish penury, hardship, guilt and feminine wiles at work plus her nude-on-the-sofa marriage proposal forever changed my life (or did it?). The five of us lived a hell of familial imbalance no one should ever live for three years. It was another ten years before her Jehovah God finally allowed her to properly divorce me (because someone else in the kingdom I imagine found her attractive enough to pursue).

Even after that frightening criminal affair, and the homosexual gags, I remained a kid of relative innocence, still shy around women, girls. Too smart, too tender, too righteous and well-behaved, a perfect gentleman further torqued by the demands of the first and second waves of the sexual revolution for the sexual plottings of young women my own age, but definitely did not ever consider myself homosexual (I refuse to use the term gay to describe those situations). In my twenties, goodlooking enough but neurotically unsure of it, I felt unsteady, desperate to annul my past, self-punishing, lost forever. Finally in my mid-20s a series of older women again invaded my youth. First lengthy post-marriage stint was with good-looking, highly sexualized woman 14 years my senior, unfortunately the mother of six robust children. Next, I found myself ridiculed then pursued by an intelligent, motivated, role-playing, self-measured, resolute socialite of sorts, nine years my senior who worked at the Center For Disease Control in Atlanta who aimed for personal control, and finally a very pretty, (even beautiful when her stylings fell into place for any given season), reserved, passive, benign, charitable woman whose strength is her compassion and loyalty, six years older than I am, not too delicate, but still somewhat adventuresome, dutiful, an accountant, the woman whom I married and bingo, I was finally set in stone.

That's enough for now. I just wanted to blather on about how remarkable my letter to Landry and your letter to me conspired to bring yet another strange smile to my face, and a loud thanks to my lips.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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