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#to a stranger i perform masculine leaning roles
v0iddr0id · 5 months
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Got into an internet fight with a stranger [mistake] over the "trans problem" in modern society, so I thought I'd share my thoughts. I don't mean to invalidate anyone's identity, but I feel like so many people wouldn't feel the pressure to perform a certain way or need to come out in the first place if there wasn't such a strict binary of gender expression in a conservation society.
Talking from a personal experience, I probably wouldn't have felt the need to lean into a hyper masculine persona right after seeking hormones if I felt like society would have embraced a gender queer person.
This is not to say binary trans people aren't valid, but gender roles hurt everyone, cis people included. There wouldn't BE a big deal over trans people if people didn't make such a big deal over upholding gender stereotypes.
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Hello! !ٱلسَّلَامُ عَلَيْكُمْ Здравствуйте! ¡Hola! はじめますて!
🔞
My name is Balthazar! Welcome to one of my corners of the internet.
A little about me;
I am a licensed and practicing necromancer aspiring for Lichedom, but that’s just my occupation.
I’m a 28 year old male. I’m probably on the spectrum or just neurotic. Ambivert/Antisocial Extrovert. Relatively self-aware. Chronic Stoner. Psychonaut.
I’m attracted to things I find beautiful or interesting. I suppose I’m pansexual, so keep me out of your kitchen! (LOL) I’m definitely a kinkster. A switch with Dom leaning. Sadist.
A little of my backstory;
“You know how everything can seem a little out of place? All my life that seemed to be the only normal state. So feelin’ normal never meant me feeling sane. Being clear about the truth and being sane have never really been the same.”
— El-P of Run The Jewels, “a few words for the firing squad (radiation)”
Too long I’ve felt that I spend my life in the service of others, to my gain and detriment. A lot of social chameleoning to hide the degenerate I am.
I’ve felt a lot of my peers and elders use labels, stereotypes, cliches, etc to figure themselves out in their respective life journeys but in doing so, they err in understanding who I am and push their expectations onto me and like a good son, I performed.
I was raised by the older generation and I’m not talking American Boomers. I’m talking about the Old Country. This in tandem with being raised with the beginning of the internet, anime, Hip Hop and a focus on worldly learning, I felt I had one foot in Old World values and the other in New World values.
I’ve struggled with mental illness, within and without. Like many, I feel awkward in my meat suit. Socially and physically. You’ll notice that I don’t use the label “cis” because frankly I have tendencies that if they were to be gendered, could be seen as masculine or feminine. Some days I want to be the hulking body builder. Other days I want to be the femboy(for lack of a better term) or a twunky Tiefling, horns and all. And sometimes I’d rather be a pretty Amazonian—alas, with technology as it is, I would never be satisfied with my physical aesthetic if I went trans, thus it doesn’t feel right to use the non-binary label. I will respect your pronouns. Go live your truth.
A little about what I’m into;
I’m passionate about almost everything erotic. I love sex and kink. I find it interesting and so much fun. I could talk about it/ fuck for hours. I’ll probably do a follow up post to gush about what gets my rocks off. I’m looking at all of those MILFs out there.
I’ve spent most of my teenage years writing smut of the fantasy and sci-fi reality. This spans from erotic role-play (ERP) to straight up solo world building around the passion between characters. I’m well versed in creative writing and enjoy collaborating with other writers when I have the time.
I love D&D, but I’m almost always the forever DM for my social circles.
I’m an audiophile and listen to music almost every waking hour of every day and I listen to almost genres. I think sharing music is an intimate thing, because it’s so essential to my life, thought process, etc.
I’m an architect of worlds, solutions and dreams. I build with my mind, my words and my hands.
Life long martial artist. I’ve always been interested in athleticism but never took it seriously until I reached my 20s. Now I’m all about fitness and combat sports. I train MMA regularly, if not daily. I’m no stranger to violence.
Afterword;
Hey there, stranger! Thank you for indulging this humble dreadlord-to-be and reading up to this. I’ve been very uncomfortable sharing my candid thoughts and hope to use this blog as a way to be able to express myself just a bit more. So, I appreciate you taking time out your own life to peep into mine.
One of my core values is community. I’m very friendly and been told I’m a great conversationalist, so whoever you are (as long as you are of age), feel free to reach out in my DMs or Asks.
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For most of my life, I thought I was female, for the last 2 years I thought I was male. Then in recent weeks, I started thinking about my gender as like. A pair of shoes.
Male doesn't fit.
Female definitely doesn't fit.
Nonbinary almost fits, but it's like a half size too small and still isn't comfortable.
So in the end, if we're running with the shoes metaphor, I decided going barefoot was the most comfortable option
For me even, the idea of fit still doesnt,,, quite work for me.
I'm not a puzzle piece trying to fit into something else, I'm just like..... A human person who is complicated.
Labels don't, fit. They're just tools. I will never find a label that projects the perfect image of how I experience gender into someone else. No words will ever capture that. I use labels because they are short hand for certain things, and because they let me live the life I want to.
Labels are the compromise between the internal world and the external world. You'll never find one the Perfect because even if you did, not everyone defines it that way. There is no gender seed, there is no perfect label. They're just ways of communicating what you want.
Like, an example I gave at an lgbt youth group I used to run was about being chronically ill:
When I tell people about my illnesses, different people get different things.
To my doctor I describe my symptoms, because I want to them to know what things are causing me issues.
To my work place they get fancy list of verified medical terms which give me access to the bare minimum resources I need make the workplace survivable.
My friends get what they can do to help in that current situation, lower the lights a little, let me see your mouth when you talk, I need to sit down for a bit.
Restaurants get my dietry requirements. And what level of care they need to take about contamination.
Intrusive strangers get the worst sounding medical name because it makes them uncomfortable.
My notes app get metaphors to try and explain to myself the things I feel inside me the way the pain sits in my bones the way nausea is constructing
My teachers get a list of disorders and brief explaination and the accomodations I need.
All of these are equally true, and absolutely none of the capture the internal experience of being chronically ill.
Nothing I ever say will transmit and exact replica of my experiences to someone else's head. Instead I use the words that allow me to have the thins I need in that moment.
I am non binary because I tell people I am. I am non binary because I live in the world this way, because I perceive myself this way, because it articulates what I want.
Stop worrying so much about if you're [x] enough. There is no [x] they're just words we made up. Of course, words have meanings and subverting them entirely will lead to a break down of communication, but stop pressuring yourself to find YOU. Youre in process, you'll never fully capture it, just find the words that communicate what you want, to the world and to yourself, and you'll be okay
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summercurial · 3 years
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Okay, so you know how people say that Mulan was Disney's first transmasc-rep movie, and Frozen was Disney's first lesbian-rep movie? In this same sense, Wreck-It Ralph was Disney's first ddlg-rep movie. I could end the ask here and let your mind do the rest of the work, but I will explain further.
Age is fundamentally a performance for characters in Wreck-It Ralph. They may be designed to appear some age, but nothing about the chronological passage of time changes this age. Vanellope is clearly intended as a depiction of a child, but by the same standard that, for example, Ralph is clearly intended as a depiction of a bad guy. These are identities the characters can escape or lean into. Consider, for a particularly blunt example from an oft-compared movie, Baby Herman from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Vanellope is in roughly the same situation, although the movie doesn't draw so much attention to it, and is content to leave us thinking of her as an actual child. But her game was created about fifteen years before the start of the story, and we can safely assume that Vanellope has been a depiction of a child of the same age for that entire time. It's a role that she's happy to play into, either for her own ends (to elicit sympathy from strangers) or simply because she finds it comforting.
Note two further minor details about Vanellope. One, Disney would usually get a child actor to voice such a major child role; the use of Sarah Silverman, who was 42 when the movie was released, is unusual and telling. Two, given all that anime discourse, it's amusing that Vanellope and her entire world are canonically a Japanese product; she could be considered Disney's take on the oft-mocked nine-thousand-year-old-loli trope.
Vanellope's relationship with Ralph exists in a fascinating ambiguity between parental and romantic. (Among the sequel's many sins, it collapses this ambiguity to the most boring possible compromise, modeling the two as platonic friends.) Some have commented on the film's use of the very sexual Rihanna song "Shut Up And Drive" in connection with the ship; they usually register this as a mistake on the filmmakers' part, but I don't. The filmmakers commissioned a new song to play over the film's credits, Owl City's When Can I See You Again, which is unmistakably meant to be about the Vanellope/Ralph ship and, while much more innocent, is still quietly about romance in the way that a typical pop song is. More to the point, though... looking at the actual contents of the film, the animation, the story, the arc, it plays out like a romantic plot, just with heavy parental overtones. I think there are moments where Vanellope is very obviously expressing attraction to Ralph, people would just prefer not to acknowledge it and remain in denial of it because it's uncomfortable for them.
But, like... those AESTHETICS, look at how saccharine and cutesy Sugar Rush is, those silhouettes, Ralph is sooooo big, and she's soooooooo little, aaaaaaaaa, I ship it I ship it I ship it [cough cough cough clears throat] but also I think this is all very interesting on a more academic interpretive level.
okay this take is i guess a little cursed but i was expecting MUCH worse. this is like, pretty tame. anyway, i guess, but like. i saw wreck it ralph and it didnt seem very romantic or parental to me? they were just like. friends, yknow, from two different worlds. it was a "friends from two different worlds" story. i mean you certainly COULD read it that way but i dont think it really plays into the themes? like it isnt a story *about* childhood iirc? i guess its about being deviant, so you could model that part as ddlg? but honestly ddlg isnt THAT deviant, soft-ddlg is basically our entire sex culture, masculinity is associated with age and femininity with youth. it IS sort of interesting that shes playing at being a child tho, thats sort of weird. if anything the stronger reading is like, lesbian/gay friendship imo.
think you might be projecting buddy
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thanksanonymous · 6 years
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early bird dinner [erotica]
I bat my eyelashes at the diner busboy in the hope that he’ll give me a booth to myself. I forego a menu in favor coffee and smile as he roughly slides a lukewarm dark roast across the warped wooden tabletop. The walls are painted different shades of mustard yellow: Dijon, Honey, Grey Poupon. I sip my brown water and look out the window advertising “BreakFast ALL DAY!!!” to the tune of a tinny 80s playlist, the effeminate male singers sounding constantly on the brink of orgasm.
I reach to pull a curl behind my ear and catch the unmistakable scent of myself on my fingers. I smile, Eve straight out of the Garden, and wonder who can make out the snakes in my windswept hair. The stooped, scowling man and woman here for early bird dinner? The pierced teen threesome eating Belgian waffles? The busboy himself, watching me from the corner of his eye and busying himself re-folding the napkins, re-stacking the menus?
Billie Jean comes on. I dream of splattering my sexuality across the canvas of this bleak, whitewashed town like a fistful of green fingerpaint.
I’ll talk about sex over scrambled eggs, but I want the act of sex to be sacred. Pull my hair until I crick my neck, slap my ass and leave a deep red welt, but trace my face with the tip of your finger as if I were porcelain. And don’t you dare call it role play. This is divine. The beast of prey inside of you howls at the wolfess inside of me. You split me from the inside out and dip your wet tongue inside my raw, pink places. You thrust between my soft red lips and fill my mouth with you.
Midday, when I’m hungry, I fold my body over my bureau and slip a finger inside of myself. I gaze empty-eyed at my delicate perfume bottles as I frantically stroke my g-spot. My face contorts, I arch my back and moan for you, “Please.” Sometimes after I come, I imagine you wiping wet strands of hair from my sweat-streaked face and pulling them back in a firm fist, covering my panting mouth with your open lips. “Again,” you growl, and force my eyes to meet yours as you roughly shove your fingers inside of my swollen pussy, loud and wet. My juices drip down your wrist.
The bartender coughs phlegm into a paper napkin as the TV news anchor warns against a batch of tainted vaccinations. “Superman, where are you now?” whines Genesis. The sun has gone down and I’m the only patron left. I order a Deluxe Egg and Cheese for $4.99. It arrives hot and dripping, strands of sautéed purple onion dangling over the sides like spider legs. I will eat this sandwich, wipe my oily fingers, pay in small bills, and shrug on my winter coat, exiting into the cold as an ambulance speeds by. 
---
Submission is as intrinsic to me as being a woman, as being attracted to men. It’s not a flavor of my sexuality; it’s my total sexuality. Submission is all 24 tubs at Häagen-Dazs, not just the butter pecan. Every glance, every touch is a wave in this invisible tide. Ebb, surrender. Flow, possess. 
But I’ve been swimming in shallow pools. I’ve given myself to men who can’t receive me. Men who nudge me against bedroom walls and cough up commands that sound like questions. Men who shove themselves to the back of my throat but avoid my gaze as I choke for air. Men who spank my ass with limp wrists to test its buoyancy, not to remind me that I am theirs. 
I’m not sure who these men are performing for. Me, in some desperate attempt to satisfy? More likely their own idea of who they ought to be - the looming shadow that polices their masculinity. I imagine a darkly lit auditorium, a hogtied woman spread center-stage, a hairy, naked man nervously stepping from the wings, sweating. “Well?” bellows the lone audience member, the tall shadow, tapping his gleaming black dress shoe on the linoleum floor. “You like this, don’t you?”
Perhaps in the way women are quick to fake orgasm, men are quick to fake dominance. They believe it should come naturally to them. When it doesn’t, they risk falling out of an unspoken natural order, an order that persists in spite of our attempts to revise cultural narrative over the past century. Behind closed doors, we still expect men to have a glint of unrestrained savagery in their eyes. And most women are still not prepared to hear: “Actually, dear, I was hoping you could handcuff me to the four-poster and call me a filthy slut.”
So non-dominant men who find themselves in bed with submissive women narrow their eyes, inflate their chests, and experiment with dirty words, blushing all the while. But these performances are in vain. Dominance is a presence: it is either there, or it is not there, the way Susan is either in the room, or not in the room. There is no wondering. Dominance is a holistic way of being hinted at by language, movement, and the color behind one’s eyes. The series of actions, the methods of touch - that’s just the butter pecan.
I know this because the same is true of my submission. Girlish deference is my second skin. I tried to outrun her once, the hot tongues of feminism licking at my ankles, but she remains inseparable from me. I’ve come to enjoy her, this self who tilts her chin and volunteers the delicate skin of her neck to her lovers in the dark. She is deftly compliant. She is wickedly unrestrained. 
Many forget that, in spite of our docility, submissives are pleasure seekers. Perhaps the hungriest of all. Our submission is misconstrued for passivity. In reality, surrender is actionable and opportunities for pleasure are boundless. When a lover’s stare lingers on my body, I acquiesce to the power in his gaze. I’m wet before he lifts a finger. The simplest phrases, even when spoken benignly, electrify: “Come here.” “Look at me.” 
There are infinite ways to be taken, so many more than there are ways to be touched. Impatiently, I wait for a man who understands the eroticism of subtle ownership - whose posture and gaze bind me as aggressively to him as nylon rope binds my wrists to wooden bedposts. I wait for a man who is unafraid of the sacred intimacy of utter surrender and control. 
--
My body sinks into the living room couch, a soft vee from head to toe. I honored November’s arrival by wearing oversized everything: woolen socks, argyle sweaters, men’s sweatpants. I spend my evenings swimming in fabric. Four months single, I am haunted by the manic-depressive phantom that is my long-term partner’s absence. As the nights grow colder and the pain of our separation hardens and shrinks in tightening concentric circles, I take comfort in these fabric silhouettes. 
Cold rain streaks down the window. I dip a silver tablespoon into a jar of peanut butter and peer halfheartedly at the book sitting tent-folded on the table. Proud of my good intentions, I sit the spoon on my tongue and defer to my phone. I open a kinky dating app and peruse a parade of strangers’ faces. Simultaneously intrigued and mindless, I meet Mr. Buttons (long-haired, snaggle-toothed teddy bear), Daddy Dom (bearded, tattooed weightlifter), and M&M (gothic couple with matching apathetic gazes). I’m quickly bored. Dating apps have proliferated so widely that not even the social experiment holds my attention anymore.
Bored, feeling anonymous and emboldened, I send messages to two men. Their interests range from “rough sex” to “spanking, gagging, and orgasm control.” I muster all of the sex positivity I can recall from Bitch Magazine and Advanced Gender Theory to form a protective shield against the jarring sensation of talking about sex with strangers online. Our conversations begin with pleasantries, comedy and anecdote serving as dry cobblestones between deep puddles of lust and craving. I spend a few hours this way, eating peanut butter by the tablespoonful and tiptoeing, then stomping, through puddles without galoshes. When I pull myself from the couch, my heart is beating and I am drenched in rainwater. 
My pupils dilate and replace the glimmer of pixels with the dim outline of the couch, the windowsill. Disoriented, I turn off the light and make my way to bed. 
---
The city bus wheezes down the street, the driver cursing fluently under his breath at rogue pedestrians. It’s Monday afternoon and I’m on my way to a date. I peer at my translucent reflection in the bus window, self-conscious of my body, of the way I’m presenting my body to this stranger. Blue sweater and blue jeans veiling a living, hungry woman. I am a character in a movie called Social Convention. I am performing.
The cafe is crowded, overrun with bright-eyed academics and conventionally unconventional twenty-two year olds. To my right, two women lean forward in their high-top stools. They talk at a breakneck pace and gesture with manicured hands, aggressively inspired. Behind me, two male students argue unironically about the elitism of modern university education, spouting vocabulary words as if their professor were sitting idly by. I never knew sentences could contain so many clauses. Surrounded by Hamlet, Willy Loman, and Lady Macbeth, I am suddenly complacent in my role as an understudy. 
Visibly bored, the pierced barista hands me an overpriced coffee in a mason jar. I weave through the herd of black coats, nondescript faces buried in their devices, impatiently awaiting their froth and foam. I promptly douse my drink in cream and sugar. One, two, three heaping teaspoons. As I reach for a stirrer, the man I recognize as my date comes in from the cold. 
I’m flooded with observation. He is a person, and somehow this surprises and disappoints me. He is slightly taller than I am. Lively green eyes and expansive, curly hair that reaches from scalp to ceiling, a few grey hairs mixed casually with brown. He looks pleasantly electrocuted. I’m not used to men with this much hair. I imagine what it would feel like to have his beard between my legs.
I smile in greeting as we exchange a warm hug. His smile is unassuming and he smells vaguely of lavender. We sit and open our mouths to recite our scripts. To my surprise, he brings out a particular color in me; my script begins to feel less like a script and more like a blurry afterthought. I forget what character I’m playing. He is easy to talk with. Our conversation dances intelligently between topics, sewing tiny stitches of tentative connection between us.
He holds a Ginger Steamer loosely in his hand: ground ginger, sugar, hot water. He lives in a cabin in Vermont without running water. He is here for a month-long musical engagement. 
I pull a curl behind my ear and watch his eyes follow my fingers. I watch his lips as he tells me about his travels to Turkey. He asks me how I take my coffee.
“Heavily creamed, heavily sugared,” I reply, unabashed. 
I ask him how he takes his coffee.
“Black,” he replies, unabashed. 
We smile and look down at our drinks. I wonder, are we always having two conversations at once, all of us?
---
I try to quiet my mind before therapy but the minutes bend and morph defiantly. Every mundane distraction is tempting. The year-round air conditioner sits unplugged in the foggy window. Last month’s faded issue of Time whispers my name from the chipped glass tabletop. I tap my feet impatiently on the carpet, battling my restlessness.
Patrice opens her office door and ushers me inside. Four feet and eleven inches, she is a powerful force, a no-bullshit woman. But Patrice stalks her prey. Every session begins with identical small talk: a comment on the weather followed by a short eulogy to the broken radiator. I wonder what we’ll discuss when spring arrives. We sit.
“I went on a date today,” I begin. 
She is a falcon, feather to talon, and dips through the sky, biding her time.
“Really?” she asks, widening her eyes. This is news. I’ve been mourning my breakup dedicatedly for months. I kick my feet up on the scuffed grey ottoman and tell the tale, smiling. As often happens in therapy, my story resists the grasp of convention - a floundering fish -  before landing squarely on my kinks. I reveal that this date represents a side of my sexuality I’ve been desperate to explore.
Patrice nods in an attempt to reserve judgment. Visually, anyway.
“So you’re… submissive.” She draws the words out slowly, testing their flavor. I nod.
“So what does that mean for you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Do you like chains? Do you like to be whipped? Beaten up?” 
As she edges closer to hyperbole, her tone reveals the movie reel flickering behind her eyes: crackly images of dirty basements, rusty handcuffs, meek women crying and men with bulging forehead veins. 
I pause. Swallow. I attempt to provide a description using affirmative language, speaking conversationally as if to say, “I’m alright with this, and you should be, too.” I’m a virgin to this world, I explain, but even virgins dream of sex. Our lizard brains know the ancient temptation of forbidden fruit. We know we will enjoy it before sucking the juice from its folds.
I can tell by her face that Patrice doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like that I want my hair pulled, my lips used, my surrender offered. She wants to talk about my meditation habit and the boundaries I’ve set this week. 
She sighs. “Why do you think you enjoy this sort of thing?” she probes. “Most of my clients who are into submission have terrible self-esteem.” 
The space heater wheezes on. I point my toes, relax my toes. Cliche loves this conversation, devours it greedily, but arguing with a therapist is more complicated than arguing with the misogynistic comment section. Patrice sits silently, waiting to see whether I’ll drop my golden token into “Daddy Issues” or “Codependency.” Or perhaps, in a moment of profound insight, both. 
Instead, I explain that my submission is intrinsic, simply a variety of sexuality. It’s not a personality defect, I assert.
But I wonder. 
“Well,” she honks, “it sounds like you’re asking to be raped.” She throws her hands up with an unapologetic shrug and a heavy metal grate falls between us, landing certainly with a clatter and a thud. I peer at her from between the rusty slats. I wonder what she sees when she looks back at me.
---
10:30pm. A bitter wind whips against my shoulders as I stand beneath the awning of a busy Mass Ave bar. Sparkling in the thin air, the full moon looms wide above the street. I lean against the brick siding. Skateboarders speed by and pink-nosed couples pass, mittens holding mittens. In front of the bar entrance a group of hefty, bearded men in black hoodies pass a cigarette, barking laughter, their gravelly voices moistened with beer.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face him. His hair is pulled thickly into a curly bun atop his forehead. In the bright light of the passing cars he is more attractive than I remember. His reflective green eyes are stunning, still. 
“Hi,” I say, smiling. We hug, plush coat to plush coat. I feel a calm, stirring anticipation as our shadows join and separate on the sidewalk. Our words are genuine but easy. They veil the busy work of our eyes, dancing over each other in the streetlight glow. We begin to walk, destination-less, down the sidewalk. 
“Where to?” he asks. We scour the quieting street for a place to nest. A nearby creamery, five minutes from closing, catches our eye. The unspoken implication of a late-night date is gently postponed in favor of Brown Butter Brownie and Cardamom Vanilla. We place our orders to the tune of rags wiping plastic tables and chairs scraping across the linoleum floor. 
We sit in the warm dark of his car spooning sweetness onto our tongues. To my surprise, my words make the journey from heart to mouth without interception. We exchange the details of our lives. He tells me his parents raised him in a cabin without television. They divorced when he was 28. I tell him that I used to work in politics, that sometimes my family feels like a constellation of disconnected satellites in space. We both separated from long-term lovers this past summer - him in June, me in August - and we trade stories of that brand of black pain reserved exclusively for heartbreak.
Mid-conversation, I imagine that I’m a spectator to our exchange. I realize that this moment is a precious moment: this initial sharing, this first discovery. These are the details of a person’s life that, by repeated exposure, become your own, taken for granted over time. But upon first hearing, these details are golden groundwork - the continents on the maps of our lives. Later come the countries, states, and cities. But there is such pleasure in glimpsing that landscape for the first time.
An hour later finds us sitting in warm silence, our cups long empty and the dashboard flashing 12:03. The sidewalks are barren. Stoplights dance between green and red.
“Would you like to come over for tea?” he asks.
I feel my cheeks heat in the dark. 
“I’d love to,” I say. He turns to face me. 
“I have no expectations about tonight,” he offers, smiling. He shifts the car into gear and begins the short journey back to the guest house where he’s staying this month, quarters traditionally reserved for travelling faculty and distinguished alumni. Gingerly, we enter the front hall and climb the eighteenth-century staircase to the second floor. When he opens the door to his room, I can see it’s a humble space - barely larger than a hotel room - but in the short time he’s been here, he’s made it his own. A sprawling potted plant sits on the mahogany desk beside a leather journal and a short stack of books, most of which I’ve read. Boxes of teas adorn the counter. A window beside the bed peers out onto the quiet residential street. 
I take off my boots and climb enthusiastically onto the bed. 
“Comfy,” I say. He smiles and hangs our coats in the miniature closet. 
“It is,” he agrees. He faces the counter and prepares the electric kettle. Voyeuristically, I watch his shoulders tug his sweater as he reaches for a pair of mugs. Strong, lean, certain. His movements lack any trace of ego. My steady heartbeat echoes in my chest. Despite the unmistakable sexual tension, I feel at ease, like we could be old friends preparing for afternoon tea on the terrace. This space feels free, creative - like anything could happen here. 
He hands me a mug boasting the scent of lavender and thick clouds of steam.
“For you,” he says. We sit cross-legged on the beige duvet, kneecap to kneecap. Our conversation leapfrogs from the personal to the spiritual, the political to the sexual. An hour later we are lying upside down, our socked feet splayed messily over the pillows, our heads resting at the foot of the bed. Shoulder to shoulder, our curly hair frames our faces like Chinese fans. In a moment of silence, he lifts himself to rest on his elbow and looks into my eyes. 
Instantaneously, the question is is asked and answered. He lowers his face to meet mine and our lips graze tentatively, then certainly. His mouth is warm and inviting, his presence embodied. We trace each other’s upper and lower lips with our tongues, sucking softly, and when our mouths open and our tongues meet, I feel a fierce stirring in my stomach. Every sensation feels amplified in my awareness.
As his mouth covers mine, he reaches his hand into my head of curls, grasping tightly at the root, and pulls my hair firmly to the side. I moan softly, involuntarily, feeling a roiling cascade stampede through my stomach. The small act of dominance intoxicates me, a swift hit of pleasure to a first-time user. I’m momentarily lost in the sensation of certain arousal coursing through me.
 He releases his grip and I exhale, returning to my body. He kisses me softly, and then suddenly tugs my hair again, exploring my reaction as I shut my eyes and wince, moaning. He leaves his hand grasping my hair as he runs his tongue along the delicate skin of my neck that has been exposed to him. 
I am dripping.
He reaches for my body, moving his hand from my waist to my thigh. His hand is hot through my jeans and my skin tingles beneath his touch. His body is lean but muscular. Exploring, ignited, I run my hands over his shoulders as we kiss. Coils of heat rise up through the fabric of his t-shirt. He tugs my blouse up an inch to reveal the pale skin of my stomach. With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he leans and kisses the small constellation of freckles there, traveling slowly upwards. When he has tired of the game, he uses both hands to pull my shirt effortlessly over my head and tosses it to the floor, lost.
He moves to lie fully on top of me. I feel protected, safe, my body small and warm beneath the firmness of his form. His lips move down the steep tilt of my jawbone. As if I were an exotic delicacy, he tastes me, running his tongue teasingly along my skin and then returning to kiss the same spot with care. Barely audible, my half-moans intermingle with my breath. At once, he pulls my hair back, hard, until the whole of my neck is exposed up to him, my head pushed down into the duvet. My moan is full-bodied, audible now. He devours my neck and collarbone without hesitation as his hand reaches down to my jeans, tracing up from my inner knee to the apex of my thighs. He lets out a soft chuckle of appreciation as he feels my heat. I'm warm and wet through the denim. Already I'm overwhelmed by sensation, his hand in my hair, his lips at my chest, his hands between my legs.
He runs his hand from my ass to my clit through my pants. His touch is void of the tentativeness so commonly found among men of my age. He has touched women before, he knows what to do, and I know he knows, and this arouses me intensely, this partner who knows, this partner who can solicit the reaction he wants.
I moan, opening my eyes in my pleasure as he rubs me. He is watching my face, watching the formless vowels escaping my open lips, taking in the tightness in my temples as my face contorts. He is worlds apart from the men who are too focused on their own pleasure to delight in someone else's. He delights in my pleasure because his hands coax it from me, demand it from me, and the moans escaping my lips and tightness contorting my face are his; my body is his canvas, my pleasure his painting.
It's not long before I'm left in just my knee socks and underwear. He removes his own shirt, his pants. I reach to pull my socks off, but his hands hold mine. "I kind of like them. They're cute," he smiles, shrugging. I leave them on.
He pulls me down beneath him and kisses me again. Our skins touch for the first time. He is warm on my cool skin. I feel my breasts pressed against the firmness of his chest. We explore each other slowly. He runs his hands softly but confidently up my sides; I bring my palms flat against his stomach, run my fingers through the hair on his chest, kiss his collarbone gently. He brings his lips to my shoulder, raising goosebumps on my arms. His tongue finds my earlobe and he licks, softly, before tracing my ear completely with his tongue. He brings his lips to lick, then suck, my nipple. He is gentle, and I arch my back and run my hands through his hair, thick and curly between my fingers.
He reaches beneath my underwear and traces me slowly with his finger as he kisses me. His hand feels shocking on my skin. I haven't received a touch this intimate, this intentional and present, in so long. I am positively wet, dripping for him, and he kisses me as he slowly enters me with his finger. I moan softly, feeling every centimeter of him moving inside of me, feeling my tightness around him. He breathes out, moderating his pleasure, and slowly removes and inserts himself again, this time deeply, until his finger is fully inside of me, his hand pressed to me. From within me he pushes firmly and moves his finger back and forth, exploring me and triggering twinges of pleasure and intimate sensation; he is reminding me that my body, my most intimate places, belong to him. I moan and breath into his mouth as his lips cover mine; we share the same breath, the same air.
As I pant, his finger deep inside of me, he brings his other hand to my hair and reaches to the root. He pulls my hair back as his finger moves inside of me and deep, primal shivers exit my spine, up through my sides, my arms. I feel my face contort with pleasure and when I open my eyes, he is watching me, his eyes hungry. He knows his hold on me is complete.
"Your pleasure is beautiful," he says richly in my ear. I feel exquisite, being watched this way - it feels too good to be true, that my pleasure - this simple expression - is enough to arouse him, to please him. These moans come from the core of me. I have never felt more authentic in bed with a man.
He removes his finger from inside of me and brings it, dripping to my lips. I smell the musk on his fingers, Eve liberated from the Garden at last, and keep my wide eyes fixed on his as I open my lips obediently. I welcome his finger into my soft mouth, and he exhales slowly, his eyes nearly golden in the dim light, watching my every move. I wrap my tongue around my own wetness and hold his gaze as I savor every drop, sucking his finger fully until it is buried in my mouth to the hilt.
When he is clean, he pulls his finger gently from between my lips and pulls me toward the pillows. He lies on his back, an invitation, and I climb on top of him, straddle his waist and bend over to kiss his lips, enjoying the gentle trace of my breasts on his chest. I pull his hair gently, submissively, and bring my soft lips to his neck, his chest, his stomach, fluttering kisses along his body. I take my time discovering him. I ask to remove his boxers and he lifts himself from the bed and he is lying, finally naked, before me. His hair is dark, black, against his skin.
I lean up to kiss his lips, meet his eyes with a smile, before returning my lips to him, kissing again down his side to the softness of his skin on his uppermost thigh. He is hard before my mouth but I wait, kissing either thigh, holding his hips in my hands and tracing the skin there. I kiss his pelvic bone and his hair skims my lips. I reach for him with my hand and feel the warmth and hardness of him throbbing against my fingertips.
I want to tease him. I want to pleasure him. I hold his cock to my cheek and tease his shaft with the tip of my tongue, savoring his warmth. I lick the head of his cock softly, once, with only the tip of my tongue, and he exhales deeply as I bring my tongue to tease the other side of his shaft. My mouth is screaming for his cock, but I try to have patience as I savor this part of him, taking my time and teasing his body.
His breathing quickens and he reaches down to encircle his hands around my hair, pulling it atop my head so he can my eyes, see my mouth pleasuring him. I look up to meet his gaze and our eyes lock - his stunning green to my deep blue - before I kneel between his open legs and open my mouth to him. He lets out a full-bodied moan as I take him slowly, fully, coating him with me, and slide my tongue up his shaft, circling the head of his cock fully with my flat tongue. I moan with him in my mouth as I run my mouth up and down his shaft in full, over and over, grazing the head of his cock with my tongue every time.
I pull him from my mouth, coated in my saliva, and bring both hands to encircle his shaft. I knead him slowly, covering his cock completely with my hands, tonguing the tip of his cock with my tongue. My palms are covered in saliva; he is rock hard beneath my hands. With a slow, tender motion, I knead him and lick the head of his cock rhythmically. He allows me free reign for only a few moments before he reaches for my hair and pulls my mouth down to cover him entirely. He directs my movements firmly, surely, pulling my mouth down to cover his cock in firm, rhythmic motion. When he releases me, he pulls me up to his face. I rub my hand across my lips before he pulls me down roughly and kisses he hard on the mouth. His energy is tangible, aroused, and he whispers into my ear, "I want to be inside of you."
Goosebumps spread across my arms instantly. I nod.
I hop from the bed ungracefully, aware of my nakedness and his eyes on me, as I bend over and reach for my wallet. The light blue Trojan condom that has sitting silently for a few weeks, awaiting a moment like this. It is slightly tattered around the edges after cohabitating with my debit card and cash. 
I crawl back onto the bed and rip open the wrapper. He pulls me beneath him with one arm, and puts the condom on swiftly. In a moment he is resting in a bowed plank above me, the skin of his chest grazing my hardened nipples, his eyes looking into mine from above. I spread my legs beneath him, my thighs coming apart with the sound of a gentle wetness unfolding; they are already coated with me. He holds my gaze as he reaches down with one hand and guides himself to my pussy. He traces the head of his cock back and forth across my wetness deliberately, watching my eyes grow desperate and pleading beneath him, and in a moment he pushes the head of his cock inside of me. I feel the wide head of his cock splitting open my folds, entering my tightness. I close my eyes and tip my head back with a cry, a fierce fusion of pleasure and pain, and he reaches for my hair and pulls, facing him, eyes locked with his, again.
"Look at me," he commands, pushing fully to the hilt inside of me, holding himself there in ownership, and slowly, tantalizingly, pulling out. My tightness grips him like a glove but I am leaking around him; I feel my juices dripping out of me, down my thighs, my ass. Faint, breathless moans escape my lips as he fucks me with the greatest restraint. I feel my face contorting in pleasure, my eyes closing to protect myself from the overwhelming ownership of his gaze, but every time he tugs me back to face him, and our eyes lock in an unbearable intimacy. I am swollen and throbbing around him.
The pace is too slow to bring me to orgasm and all the more torturous for it. I can't endure much more for fear of splintering, or breaking into color, or forgetting where I am. Suddenly he pulls me to him and flips us over so he is lying on the bed, his hard cock still pressed to the hilt inside of me as I straddle him in the lamplight. It takes me a moment to remember my surroundings in the stillness, but when our eyes meet, a furious hunger seizes me and I begin to move slowly atop him. His hands encircle my waist, directing my movements.
Every inch of my body is electric; I am tingling from within. Our bodies are shadow and muted yellow light. I arch my back and lean, farther, riding him, seized by a primal energy. Goosebumps flare on either arm. For seconds at a time, I return to myself long enough to realize the moans floating through the air are my own, and then I'm lost again, captive to his right hand around my waist, his left hand that reaches behind me and slaps my ass with a hard smack, urging me on as I ride him harder, obediently. I can't tell whether we've been in this position for 30 seconds or 30 minutes; the frenzy of our pace clouds my mind with sensation, color, and the occasional sound of his low, steady "Good girl" as he reaches up to tug my hair and fuck me from below.
After a while I feel myself tiring, growing lightheaded, and without saying a word he grabs and moves me so we are side by side, him behind me, holding me. He moves in and out of me from behind, and with every slow thrust, I hear the sound of my wetness tightening around him and releasing him. I feel the heat of him behind me as my left hand drifts above my head, entangled with his right. 
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brandondinner-blog · 6 years
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Unpacking James Dean
James Dean, one of the most influential and short-lived cultural icons of the 20th century, celebrated and thoroughly explored the complex thoughts of rebellion, sexuality, and death. Dean argued that “the prime reason for existence, for living in this world is discovery,” and he was not afraid to build a persona capable of such discovery. I hope to unpack the persona James Dean created to better understand how a person should be and explore how his persona can influence my own.
I was first introduced to Dean in my junior year of high school in my Film as Literature class. Like Dean, I am an only child with an exceptionally close relationship with my mother. However, unlike Dean, I have kept this closeness with my parents. Sadly, when he was nine, his mother passed away and he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle. When he was older and in college, he decided to change his major from pre-law to drama and became alienated from his father and family. These events prelude the persona that Dean creates, and while alienation from one’s family can be difficult to rationalize, the study of “cool” argues that it is a necessary formative experience. I still fear separation from my parents and am dependent on them for many aspects of my life. Recently, I fell off my longboard and got pretty hurt. The first thing I did was call my mother telling her that I needed to come home to get treatment. Oddly, I wasn’t so much concerned with my injuries as I was with disappointing my parents for being so reckless. James Dean likely was more independent of his parents and cared less about what they thought when he was nine than I do at 18. Additionally, Dean was not afraid of disappointing his father when he changed his major -- he rebelled and pursued what he loved. On the contrary, one of my biggest fears is disappointing my father by not showing interest in medicine. Since the time I was young, my father has aspired for me to follow in his shadow of becoming a doctor. Now that I am in college, I am still deeply fascinated by medicine and science, but I am also exploring my interests in other fields such as psychology, philosophy, and English. I fear that my focus may be leaning towards these disciplines and away from medicine -- something that I am afraid to discuss with my father. His dream is for me to go to medical school, but I am still trying to figure out if that is my dream. This may be among the many reasons “cool” argues to venture away from family and other outside influences: it gives people time to make up their mind on what they truly want. I think what “cool” and Dean argue -- as will be seen through other aspects of his persona as well -- is that we shouldn’t waste our time or be fearful of the opinions of others. We have to concern ourselves more with what we want to do, and not what will appease others. Doing what will make others happy is not always the best decision, no matter who that person is.   
As a method actor, Dean essentially redefined masculinity and “cool” both on and off screen. Who he was and the person he portrayed were very closely related people. In his title role, Jim Stark in Rebel Without a Cause -- my first introduction to Dean -- he plays a sensitive, troubled character. This is in sharp contrast to what was expected of the American male in cinema. Additionally, in contrast to the “preppy,” masculine style of the 1950s, Dean wore jeans, a white t-shirt, and a red jacket. Jeans, the clothes of youth and the common person were the ultimate sign of rebellion. As Jim Stark, just as in real life, he is trying to find his true identity and does not conform to expectations. He asks his father in the film, played by Jim Backus, “What do you do when you have to be a man.” This was something Dean himself questioned in the 1950s, and something people are questioning even today. I see too often guys my age trying to “prove” their idea of masculinity. People can do this by not showing emotions, boasting about how many girls they pick up, or showing how much weight they can lift in the gym. Dean did not feel like he had to fit this cookie cutter mold of masculinity. Rather, he experimented with homosexuality and was true to himself. Dean once said, “No, I am not a homosexual. But I'm also not going to go through life with one hand tied behind my back.” As someone that identifies as straight, I do not question my sexuality. But, for those that are homosexual, or have homosexual tendencies, they should not be afraid to express or explore those feelings. As “cool” reminds us, the opinions of others are not the most important and we should not let negative voices affect us.
Dean also flirted with the idea of death and lived on the edge. Dean enjoyed racing and was interested in building a career out of it. “Cool” argues that it is important to flirt with these concepts and not be afraid of dying. He once said, “Dream as if you’ll live forever. Live as if you’ll die today.” “Cool” people are not afraid of death and typically enjoy living life to the fullest. This may result in death at an early age. However, some might agree that Dean was careless. While driving his Porsche to a car race, he got into a fatal car accident. Now, I would say I like to feel rushes of adrenaline as well. For instance, I enjoy hiking on steep and difficult paths. Climbing Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park was one of the most thrilling experiences in my entire life -- my feet literally inches from a cliff 1,500 feet high. While this is true, I do not like to be careless. I ensured that I was safe from harm's way. The lesson is that it is important to have thrill in our lives, but carelessness is not acceptable.
While dying at a mere 24-years-old and starring in only three films, Dean left a profound legacy. In fact, he was the first actor to receive an Academy Award nomination posthumously. He not only redefined fashion and acting styles, many cite James Dean as having an important influence on the origins of rock and roll. He has been cited as formative influences for icons such as Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan, and David Bowie. Even today, James Dean serves as an influencer. In my life, I attempt to take attributes from Dean’s persona to incorporate into my own. Namely, I try to be more comfortable with expressing myself for who I am, and not who others expect me to be. In an attempt to become more comfortable with expressing myself, I have begun to introduce myself to uncomfortable situations. For instance, the other day I decided to strike up a conversation with a stranger at a tea shop that I frequent at home; speaking to random people is generally a difficult task for me to perform. I think that the most important point that Dean makes is that there are a lot of pressures on us to conform to certain expectations, but we must keep our interests at heart.
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nolanmcbride · 7 years
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XX (2017) Review
XX is an anthology horror film written and directed solely by women and featuring women in all the lead roles. It’s the first of its kind, created as a direct response to the lack of opportunities for women to direct horror films. I think the political context of this particular film is important to acknowledge, but at its core, XX is just a good horror anthology. Each of its segments plays like an episode of The Twilight Zone or Tales from the Crypt with a distinctly female perspective. Female-led (and directed) horror films are not new, but few are truly interested in exploring women’s experiences, which is part of what makes XX special.
The first segment is “The Box,” adapted from a Jack Ketchum short story and directed by Jovanka Vuckovic. In it, Natalie Brown (Channel Zero, The Strain) struggles to understand why her son has stopped eating following an incident on the train with a stranger and his mysterious wrapped gift. Vuckovic, whose previous credits include a number of horror shorts, directs with skill and confidence, infusing a mundane setting with sinister dread. The segment’s aesthetic—immaculate domesticity—contrasts sharply with the protagonist’s struggle to fit the mold of a traditional mother or connect with her family. The story is perfectly self-contained, always teasing out the mystery but never revealing more than necessary.
“The Birthday Party” is the directorial debut of Annie Clark, better known as the musician St. Vincent. Melanie Lynskey (Heavenly Creatures, Togetherness) plays an overwhelmed mother struggling to ensure her daughter’s birthday party goes off without a hitch. Clark’s segment is about the horror of anxiety and how anxiety can turn a bad situation into a catastrophic one. Lynskey gives a hell of a performance, juggling grief, paranoia, forced geniality and, finally, exhaustion. It’s not scary in the traditional sense—and actually leans more towards black comedy—but Clark does a great job conveying the anxiety, and resulting fear, experienced by the protagonist. There are a number of tense scenes that are ratcheted up by the great score, which Clark also composed.
The third segment is by horror anthology veteran Roxanne Benjamin, who made her directorial debut with a great short in last year’s Southbound. “Don’t Fall” opens with a foreboding bang—an ever-widening shot of a group of young adults on an expedition in the desert that pulls out further and further until the title card overlays it and the characters are dwarfed by the ominous imperative. The group discovers an ancient cave painting depicting an evil creature, which eventually takes form and attacks the group. This is the most straightforward of the segments and feels like a classic creature feature setup. My major complaint with Benjamin’s segment, which is not much of a real complaint, is that I wish it was a full-length feature instead of a short. It has a great setup, likeable characters, and a solid creature design, but it feels as though it ends just as its getting started.
The final segment is Karyn Kusama’s (The Invitation, Jennifer’s Body) “Her Only Living Son.” Single mother Cora (Christina Kirk) is struggling to raise her angry, seemingly sociopathic teenager, Andy, whose eighteenth birthday is only a day away. Andy physically harms animals and classmates, but the principal of his school makes excuses for his behavior, going so far as to punish his victims instead. As Andy begins to transform into something monstrous and a sinister conspiracy takes shape, Cora is forced to face her son and what he’s becoming. Kusama’s more adult, character-focused brand of horror carries over from The Invitation and feels right at home with this story, which plays out like a 25-minute sequel to another beloved horror film. Kirk (Powerless, Love Is Strange) delivers a nuanced performance as a mother that will do anything to protect her son even if she occasionally fears him or bows to his whims. This story feels especially pointed as it deals with how society often gives a free pass to bad men with a certain level of fame (e.g. movie star, athlete). Some of the dialogue feels like it was ripped right from current media coverage regarding domestic abuse and rape culture. The story ends on a poignant note, flipping expectations and signalling a rejection of traditionally masculine ideas.
The four segments are connected by stop-motion-animated interstitials (created by Sofia Carrillo) involving a walking dollhouse. I was unable to parse any narrative or connections from them, but they’re beautifully crafted and serve as a nice palette cleanser between stories.
Like most anthologies, XX is best taken as a whole. I think the bookends are the strongest segments, but “The Birthday Party” is notable for its black comedy and absurdity (including that Joe Swanberg cameo) and “Don’t Fall” is a fun change of pace from the rest. XX has its scary moments, but if you’re looking for a thrill ride, this is not the movie for you. Instead, it’s more of a slow burn, lacing its 80-minute running time with dread and tension. In a perfect world, we’ll get at least 2 more of these with a different set of female directors each time (like the V/H/S series). Here’s hoping XX makes a big enough splash to make that dream a reality.
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