Special Delivery: a Winning Story

For almost 10 years I’ve made good use of an Aslan Jaguar dildo harness.  By ‘made good use of’, I mean, I’ve had a lot of really hot sex.  I’ve been a fan since I first strapped on the supple leather with finished edges and a fit that helped me forget it was there.  Alas, it is showing its age and I must retire it.  That I had a Jaguar at all was not due to my superior shopping skills or bank account (they aren’t cheap).  Rather, I won via an erotic story writing contest.  I don’t know who all of the competitors were, but I do know who came in second place because they are a celebrated erotic writer and long-time friend.  I won my fabulous Aslan Jaguar harness because I wrote an erotic story that edged out one written by Sinclair Sexsmith, of Sugarbutch Chronicles fame. In every other way, Sinclair has edged (or leaped) ahead of me in erotic story success, so it has always tickled me that I won the Jaguar.

I never published the story here, because it was a gift to the sex blogger who sponsored the contest, Agent Ansely.  The rules were pretty simple:  write a story featuring the blogger and the harness and the writer. Write the best one (as judged by the AAagent) and win the harness.

This is the story I wrote:

Special Delivery

I remember arriving home and seeing the box on my doorstep.  I took a look at the label and almost danced a jig of happiness.  I think I giggled, even.  I put it on right away, standing in front of the mirror admiring my new profile.  As advertised, the Jaguar harness put the base of the Goodfella cock right against my clit, with the balls outside the harness.  I tested it with a few pulls and realized I didn’t want to wait to try it out on someone else. Normally this would have the night my girlfriend and I spent together, but she’d called earlier to apologize.  Some emergency had come up at work, and she had to cancel.  The timing was crappy, we’d both been anticipating the delivery of my new gear.  But I decided not to sit around and have a pitty party, instead I got ready quickly and headed out to try my luck.

No cover charge at my local queer bar that night meant I could budget an additional beer, or maybe a drink for someone else. There weren’t many people in the bar yet, it was a mid-week night after all. I nodded to the bartender and ordered my beer and a shot of good reposado tequila.  The tequila matched my aggressive mood. The barkeep gave me a wink along with my change.

I moved through the bar, scanning the few patrons scattered about. Some dykes playing pool, a couple of gay guys in their 20s talking animatedly and laughing loudly with their hands. The pool playing butches stiffened noticeably when I scanned their dates. I liked that, I felt like a shark that night and I wanted to broadcast it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of their girlfriends give me the top-to-bottom once over, pausing noticeably at my crotch.  But I wasn’t looking for a fight, really, so I kept going past the pool tables, along back of the bar.

I took a spot on the rail overlooking the dance floor. A small number of people had positions close to the floor, waiting for the music volume and crowd level to rise. I moved down to my favorite booth, more room than I needed, but comfortable and with a good view of the dance floor and surrounding tables. I glanced around again, noting the groups and singles, wondering which singles were waiting for someone, or like me, on the prowl.

I stretched one leg out on the booth seat, and adjusted myself.  I was still getting used to the harness and cock, but overall it felt pretty good.  Once I was comfortably situated, I took another scan of the room.  A new person had arrived while I was messing with my package. Her eyes met mine directly.  I took a sharp intake of breath, she was literally breathtaking.  White dress shirt, blood-red tie, dark grey pinstriped vest with matching trousers, red pumps, dark grey fedora with blood-red hat band.  I couldn’t tell because of the lighting and distance, but was sure her nails and lips matched her tie.  Hot goddamn, she was turning butch high fashion on its head and kicking its ass.  I always have been a sucker for a tailored suit on a femme.  My clit pulsed against my cock.  I finished my slow appraisal of her and found that she was still staring hard at me.  She had a faint smile, a knowing smile, and I found myself squirming under her gaze.  She took a slow sip of her drink, taking the straw between her lips with exaggerated care. My mind raced, should I recognize her?  She reminded me of Chrissie Hynde in the 70s:  slim, confident, dark-hair and eyes.  Who was she and where did she come from?  She completely out-classed anyone at this small town bar and I wondered if there was a show in town, something that would have drawn this exotic creature to our humble burg.

I took a glance at myself, and feeling unworthy of the attention I was receiving.  I hadn’t done much to turn myself out for the night, just rocking the casual working class butch look I could easily pull out of my closet at a moment’s notice.  With the exception of my new cock and harness, there wasn’t much special going on in my wardrobe, and I wasn’t sure she could tell I was packing.

I looked up again and she had turned her attention to her phone and drink.  She still had that small smile on her face and I was certain she knew I was looking at her, watching her thumbs and wondering who she was texting, if someone was coming to meet her.  She was so gorgeous, so completely out of the ordinary, others were looking her way as well.  She was very casual about it all, as if she was completely accustomed to being the center of attention and completely deserving.

The booths and tables were filling up and the first few dancers were getting warmed up in the center of the room.  I tried to watch her, see if someone came to meet her, weighing the odds that a small town butch like me could get a dance or two with a babe like that.  She was now studiously ignoring me, not looking at me, intent on her phone.  I finished my beer and started to get up, figuring I could make a move toward her, or at least walk by on my way to another beer, when a group of friends swarmed my position.  A flurry of hugs, back slaps and enthusiastic greetings followed and I invited them to share my booth.  By the time I looked back over to her, she was gone.

“Damn,” swore under my breath and cursed my lack of initiative.  One of my friends asked what was wrong.  “Nothin… there was this girl, but she’s gone now.”  As soon as I could, I excused myself to go get another beer and moved away from the group, not at all certain I’d return.

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, figuring I was all dressed with no one to fuck after all.  I was tasting the bitterness of my own insecurity, kicking myself for not going over to her, trying anything to start a conversation.  How about something easy like “Do I know you?” anything would have been better than letting the opportunity pass.  I moved through the crowd along the rail, eyes not really focusing on much when someone grabbed me by the belt and yanked me off my stride, away from the rail.   I turned with sudden irritation, thinking it was one of my friends.  And there she was, hands on my shoulders, pushing me against the wall.  She spoke to me in a sultry, smoky voice, “And where do you think you’re going? Hmmm?”  Her voice was the verbal equivalent of the knowing smile she’d given me earlier.  Again, my mind raced, who was she?  She looked familiar, but I didn’t know if it was just the Chrissie Hynde thing, or something else.

I asked the question and she responded with a deeply amused chuckle, “You don’t recognize me, that’s funny.  You don’t recognize me, but I know who you are, Kyle,” The way she said that name made a shiver go up my spine.  Shit, she knew who I was online, who the hell was she?  I didn’t bother asking again, I had a pretty good feeling she’d just laugh at me and keep the information to herself.  She grabbed my belt, pulling me in a possessive way.  My hands clenched and unclenched with the desire to reach around and grab her, touch her in some way, but she was so clearly pulling top on me that I didn’t dare.  I’d gone out that night as the hunter, but I’d become the prey.

She released her grip on my belt and told me not to move.  She reached around and grabbed my ass as if she were testing its firmness.  Her hands slid slowly around my hips and I bit my lip against a groan.  She held her body close to mine, but we didn’t quite touch.  One hand went between my legs and grabbed my cock.  “Uhhnn,” I groaned out loud that time, the sound drowning in dance music and the babble of the passing crowd.  Silence or sound, it wouldn’t have mattered, she knew she was getting to me, that my knees were quivering and small spasms kept running through my body.  I could barely hold still and she’d hardly done anything to me yet.

She let go of my cock and pressed me into the wall, pushing her thigh between my legs.  I dipped against her leg, wanting to feel the pressure of my cock against my clit.   I automatically reached for her hips, sliding one arm around the small of her back.  She put her lips against my ear “Still don’t know who I am?  Letting a total stranger play with your dick and tell you what to do?”  I stammered something completely nonsensical and she chuckled, a really lovely, if sinister, sound.  “Come with me.”

She turned and began striding toward the exit, leaving me almost stumbling to keep up, feeling the slickness gathered behind the base of my cock and running down my leg.  I was also feeling the effects of that shot of tequila, and the blood rushing away from my brain, into my groin. What was I thinking at that moment?  Thinking, are you kidding me?  There was no thought, only desire.  I didn’t care what she had in mind, I just didn’t want to miss out.  Somehow, this gorgeous, strong, fierce woman wanted me and I wasn’t going to let any insecurity or doubt ruin my opportunity.  We emerged from the bar and she took a few strides down the sidewalk.  I had a chance to really see her move, finally.  The sway of her hips, the strong determined stride, the way she ran her fingers through her dark hair while resettling her hat, mmmhmmm, she was so fine, so put together.  She turned and gave me a once over.  I felt distinctly like a piece of butch meat as her eyes appraised my thighs, crotch, arms, chest and face.  The outdoor air helped my mind clear slightly, and I was feeling a little more like my cocky self when I looked her straight in the eye, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah?” she asked in an amused tone.

She turned again and walked around the corner, not looking to see if I was following.  And I was, like a moth to a flame, like a drug addict following a dealer.   She went a short way, then turned into an alley.  I stopped at the entrance, she sensed this and looked back, “Stopping now?  Don’t tell me you’re chickening out… I know how you are, I’ve read all about it.”

Oh, shit, I’ve written about this and posted it, sex in an alley, she was playing back one of my smut pieces.  In fact, this was *my* alley, the one I’d written about, but only one person knew this alley specifically.  Who the hell was this mystery woman, how did she know who I was?  I began to have the sneaking suspicion I’d been set up.  Even with that thought hovering in the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop my feet from jogging to catch up with her.

As I pulled up next to her, she turned toward me, pulling my arm and getting me off balance, shoving me in the direction of a dark doorway alcove.  I caught myself before falling and turned toward her.  She pushed into me, grabbed my face and pulled my mouth to hers.  She forced her tongue in deep, easily fighting off my efforts to reciprocate.  She broke contact abruptly, stared at me as I fought to regain my breath and my composure.

“On your knees,” she commanded and I didn’t even question her right, dropping quickly to my knees in front of her.  I could feel the grit and dampness of the pavement, and knew there was a good chance I’d sport bruises by morning.

I looked up at her, trying to read her mind, then looked at her crotch.  The odd way her pants draped in front caused my butch cock to twitch hard and I started to salivate.  She reached down, unzipping.  She pulled the front of her trousers apart and revealed red lace panties straining to contain a thick cock.  “Oh, god,” came out before I could stop it.  I was staring at the twin brother of the gear I was wearing under my jeans.

She grabbed the hair at the nape of my neck and jerked my head back, directing my eyes to hers, “You want it, don’t you?”  I could feel resistance flare up in me, the  hair grab did it every time.  I knew she could see it in my eyes but she didn’t say a word, just pulled my head back farther and stared me down.  I laughed at myself inwardly, who was I to resist at this point, when I was already on my knees in an alley way?  I felt my rebellion pass, and uttered a single word, “Yessssss.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please,”

She reached down with her free hand and pushed her panties down, releasing her cock.  She pulled my face toward her, pushing her cockhead against my mouth.  She paused there, apparently relishing the sight of a butch on his knees ready to suck femme cock.  She pushed her thumb into the corner of my mouth, opening it.  I didn’t resist, letting her direct me, feeling the moisture, once again, gather between my legs.   She pushed her cockhead into my mouth, and I had the weird sensation that I was sucking my own cock and felt another pulse as my butch cock reacted to this mental image.

I gave myself over to her cock, sucking, licking, pulling it further into my throat than was comfortable, gagging a little then settling into a rhythm with her hips.  She held my head loosely, but I knew she’d be quick to assert her control if necessary.  I slid my hands up the back of her legs, gripping her ass, pulling her cock more firmly into my gasping mouth.  I opened up and let her fuck me with it, bucking my own hips in an effort to get off with her.  I gripped her cock at the base, thumb against her balls, pushing into her clit, wanting to make her come, wanting some kind of control.  She allowed it, and maybe she was letting herself go a little, I could hear her gasping breath and knew she was getting close.

She suddenly took two handfuls of my hair and impaled me on her cock, holding my nose against her harness, seemingly unconcerned about my need to breath.  I struggled and attempted to inhale through the leather.  My climax hit me then, speared on her cock, struggling for breath, being exquisitely used by this stunning woman.  At about the same moment, she cried out, once, grudgingly giving me what I’d worked so hard for.  She loosed her grip, allowing me to breath, and continued to fuck my mouth in slow long strokes.  I was holding on for dear life at that point, knees aching, jaw forced open for too long, feeling bruised from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat.  But I held on, and she finished, finally withdrawing herself and leaning against the back of the alcove above me.  I shifted, trying to relieve my knees and she reached down, lifting me up.  She pushed the full length of her body against me, and we kissed long and deep.  She allowed me to slip my tongue into her mouth, and sucked on it the way I’d sucked her cock.

She pulled back, slowly this time, lingering over my lips, letting me run my hands across her body.  She sighed and stepped back, tucking her cock back in, fastening her trousers.  I looked her, still trying to figure out who she was, and why I’d had the good fortune of being taken advantage of by her tonight.

She knew what I was thinking, of course, and laughed at the questioning look on my face. “You still don’t know, do you, Kyle?  Well, that makes this all the more delicious.”

She glanced at her watch and then toward the street lights at the end of the alley.

“Hey, uh, so what are you doing now?” I was trying to be casual, desperately trying to regain my cool.

“Oh, I’m going to walk out of here and get into my car and drive away.  You’re going to do the same.  You’re also going to call your girlfriend and thank her for the wonderful time you just had.”

“Wha,wha, huh? Who are you?” I was stunned and confused and stammering like a fool.  I could feel myself blushing with embarrassment, all my confidence and cocksure attitude washed away with the sudden realization that I’d been set up and by whom.

“Oh, you’re cute alright, she said you would be.  This has been great fun for me, too.  You’ve got a great mouth,” She delivered that praise with a leer and then turned, making her way back up the alley.

“But who are you?”

She stopped, looking over her shoulder.

“Ansley, Agent Ansley.  And you’re very welcome.”

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Living up to Our Words

I read this at Olympia’s Equality March for Unity and Pride today:

This is the Equality March for Unity and Pride

Pride … Unity…. Equality….

Powerful words, powerful enough to bring us together today. But what do they mean? I’ve been thinking about what they mean to me…

What is Pride?.. I have been joining my community to celebrate pride during the month of June for a long long time. It’s been awhile since I gave much thought to what that word means to me. Some people equate Pride with Boastfulness. I equate Pride with not being Ashamed I don’t march to boast about being queer and trans. I march because I’m not ashamed that I am a queer transgender man.

I gather with my community every June, because I am not ashamed of who I am and I am not ashamed of who you are either. I am proud to come together with all of you to celebrate our ability to survive and to work for social justice and to see the joy we have in community.

How about Unity?… this one’s a bit trickier, I think. Can we achieve Unity even if we don’t completely agree on everything? Can we be unified on the basis of some overarching truths and goals, even if we don’t agree on how to reach those goals?

For example –

Can we agree that trans women should not keep getting the shit end of the stick any more?
And can we agree that trans women of color should not have a gigantic target on their backs any more?

Can we agree that our gender and sexual minority children and youth should be allowed to grow into adulthood, to be healthy and happy and allowed to pursue their dreams without threat of assault and rejection?

Can we agree that our gender and sexual minority elders deserve to be cared for, cherished and protected as they become more vulnerable?

Can we agree that immigrants don’t deserve to be labeled enemies and that our indigenous people deserve respect and acknowledgement for what they have given up in order for the rest of us to be standing here today?

Can we unify around the fact that this is a dangerous time for all marginalized people and we really do need each other? We need all of our efforts, and all of the methods, tactics and ideas we can come up with to counter the hatred that endangers our most vulnerable people every day. I would like to think we can unify around those ideas.

So what is Equality?… my son and I were talking about this the other day. What does equality mean to you? Does it mean we all get equal portions? Is it about a level playing field, whatever that is? We arrived at this explanation – Equality means no one should get an automatic disadvantage based on the color of their skin
or who they love
or how they relate to gender
or how their brains or bodies work
or their economic class
or where they came from before they were where they are now.

Privilege is advantage. Working toward equality means working toward a time when there are no automatic advantages for being a particular skin color or gender or class.

There are a couple more words I think relate to our purpose in coming together today:

One is Inclusion. What does it mean to be inclusive? Is it enough to put the right sequence of letters on the flyer for your event? What are we doing to make sure people know they are included? Words are not enough, actions speak much more loudly.

Actions like, choosing venues that are accessible to people with mobility and transportation challenges.
Actions like, paying attention to where we are advertising, what publications and media do we choose and what businesses do we post our flyers in. Are those locations being accessed by the people we want to feel included?
Are we choosing venues that allow for participants of all ages to join us?
What message are we sending based on who we choose to be up on stage, with a mic, getting the opportunity to share their thoughts and truth?
.
Being inclusive is not just about the words we put on our flyers, it’s about the whole process of planning, organizing and advertising.

I have one last word — Connection. This work we are doing for ourselves and each other is hard work. We can’t do it alone so we gather in groups. These groups usually form around similarities, that’s how we’re wired as humans. These groups can do a lot of good and there is no doubt that we need to gather with our peers at times to recharge and be seen. I believe we also need to reach outside of the comfort of those group and connect with others.

Imagine a strong network of people of all ages, all colors, all origins, all abilities uniting behind common goals, even if we don’t always agree on everything. How do we make that happen?

I think part of the answer is by making Connections with each other. Take a moment to look around I’m betting there are people here you haven’t met yet. I’m betting there are people here representing viewpoints and contexts you aren’t well versed in.
Are you up for a challenge?

Before you leave here today, make a connection with someone you don’t know, someone who can teach you something new.

Maybe you’re shy and that seems like a daunting task. So maybe the connection you can make today is eye contact and a smile.
Eye contact and a smile … that’s some powerful stuff right there, even if you don’t exchange a word.

I believe there is great power, even in that simple and brief connection. When I meet someone’s eyes, my humanity recognizes their humanity, and for a moment we are connected deeply, even if our contact is a few seconds of eye contact and a smile while passing each other on a sidewalk.

I invite you to make connections today and to consider what these words mean to you – Inclusion, Unity, Equality and Pride.

I sincerely hope you leave this event ready to take action. I know each of you can make a huge difference for all of us.

Thank you for your time.

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What I’ve been up to

I recently realized that it’s been quiet a while since I last posted, since October 2016. I’ve been busy working on what I consider my most ambitious writing project to date – a full length fiction novel.  I’ve got some very specific goals and in order to meet them, I needed to narrow my focus.  To that end, I’ve gone on a hiatus from actively updating this blog.  While on my hiatus, I’m considering whether I’ll come back, and if so, what I will do with this space. For the time being, I’m going to keep Butchtastic online and available.

I can’t guess at your emotions in reading this, dear reader.  You can certainly tell me via comment or email if you choose.  I want you to know that I’m excited about what the coming year has in store for me artistically.  This project, the one I’m putting my efforts into, it’s a lot of fun and engrossing and I am super excited every time I sit down to work on it.  I do have a recommendation for those of you who wish to have an ongoing source for fresh butch erotica – BD Swain.  There’s a writer to swoon over, for sure.  BD is a regular on eLust and on any list of top sex bloggers in recent years, and will be for years to come.  I haven’t met BD yet, but I know that when I do, I will enjoy that meeting.  It’s going to happen.  Please make BD Swain’s blog a regular part of your internet routine.

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Quick direct message to those who have left comments on other people’s blogs asking about me:    Your concern is touching, however I am curious as to why I’ve not seen your questions here, or in my email inbox.  Leaving messages elsewhere and getting impatient at the lack of result is a bit like standing on someone’s door step and demanding they get a message to someone living several streets away, and getting huffy and pissed when that person closes the door on your face.  It’s just not efficient or polite.  As always, you can ask any question you want of me.  Remember that I reserve the right to answer or not answer – asking a question does not entitle anyone to an answer.  Even though this is the internet, people tend to respond best when we act the way we would when meeting someone in person.

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Celebrating 8 Years of Butchtastic

On October 6th, my blog turned 8.  Eight years of blogging about sex, gender, relationships, parenting, and whatever else comes bubbling to the surface.  Throughout those years and all those posts (1,148 total), I’ve posted some pretty vulnerable stuff, digging into the heart of relationship troubles, gender identity and depression.  This post is from that first month in October of 2008 and touches on vulnerability (The Fear of Being Important to Someone):

The other night, I said something that I didn’t fully understand at the time.  Do you ever do that?  Have the words come out before you really know what you’re saying, or why?  I was responding to something said to me, “That scares me.”

“What do you mean, what scares you?”

“Um, it scares me to be important to people.”

I couldn’t explain it at the time, and luckily wasn’t pressed to, but I’ve been thinking about it today trying to figure out what I meant.

Why does it scare me to be important to someone else?  Being important to someone tends to imply responsibility and expectations.  Not that I want to be a loner, not at all.  I love the people in my life, I want to be needed, that makes me feel good and gives my life much of its purpose.  I guess my problem is that I worry.  I worry about not being able to live up to the expectations people have of me.  I worry sometimes that I won’t be able to maintain relationships to the level I, and they, have come to expect.

Sometimes I want to run away, hide, to ‘turtle’ until my batteries are recharged, until I feel like I can manage all the expectations in my life again.  I’ve worked hard to be where I am, to have a family, a career, a very nice life but sometimes I want to run away from it.  That’s all kinds of fucked up, I suppose, but that’s how I feel sometimes.

I guess I probably sound ungrateful.  You might not have times like this yourself, where your accomplishments and the things you have actually feel like burdens.  Maybe I sound like a whiner, maybe I am.  What I know is that when I’m feeling this way, it’s frustrating and I get angry at myself.  I know I have a good life, I know it’s inconsiderate and ungrateful to feel this way, but this is my truth.  Sometimes I want to be anonymous, I want to make choices and do things and act in ways that I can’t anymore.  Because I have responsibilities, because people depend on me, because I’ve gotten what I wanted in life.

I’m ambitious and driven to do more and challenge myself.  I want to maintain and create new friendships and close relationships.  So this pattern continues and I’ll be here again, thrashing around like a hormonal teenager who doesn’t want to buckle down and do her homework or take out the trash.   It’ll happen and I’ll get over it and I’ll move on.

I don’t think it’s being important to people that scares me, exactly.  What’s really happening is that in these moments when I need to shirk my responsibilities to others, when I need to turtle and hide from the world, I’m afraid that I’ll hurt the people I love, the ones who are important to me.  I’m scared that they’ll need more than I can give them, and that I’ll try, but never quite fill the need, and in the end, I’ll lose them anyway.  I’m scared of not being enough.

I’ve been non-monogamous for over nine years now and I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned about relationships, certainly, but I think I’ve learned at least as much about myself.  I’ve learned about the rewards of vulnerability, about how to be open and honest and scared but not withdrawing.  I’ve become much more aware of the way I react under a lot of different situations and even better, how to communicate with my partners about my reactions.

Evoe reposted a blog talking about poly and trust and consent that really resonates with me.  In any kind of relationship, we should be there by choice, we should be actively consenting to all that the relationship entails.  Well, I guess we can’t choose our family, but otherwise, we’re in a position to choose.  I find it liberating and empowering to acknowledge that every time my partner and I have sex, we are actively consenting. I know that we are together by choice and that choice is actively given and not taken for granted.

There are still times when I feel overwhelmed by the responsibilities of being in relationships, of creating a situation where I might mess up and fail my partner in some way.  I don’t feel it as strongly now as I did in the post above, and a lot of that is because I have many years of experience now.  That experience has taught me that when engaged in an honest, vulnerable relationship that is consenting and respectful, it’s OK to make mistakes, it’s OK to not always be your best self. Showing up and being present is key, accepting both your partner and yourself for where you are in that moment is essential.  I am very blessed both in the relationships I have now and in the ones that I have had, for all they have taught me.

Nine years of poly and eight years of blogging…. and still so much to do and learn.

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Unpacking Privilege: Some Things I’ve Learned as a Trans Man

You’ve probably heard the term ‘privilege’ used to describe an advantage some people have over others.  I actually prefer the word ‘advantage’ because I think it accurately describes the impact of privilege, which is generally what we are looking at as social activists and allies.

I’ve posted about privilege before, but like an infinitely big onion, there always seems to be a new layer to peel back and more insights to examine.

There are advantages I have always had as a white person, as a person with a particular kind of education, and as a person who grew up in a stable home, with healthy and abundant food.  More recently, I have become the recipient of advantages due to masculinity, and then to being perceived as male.  And with my male passing privilege, and a lack of obvious stereotypical signs of queerness, people often assume I am straight.

Straight, white men are at the top of the privilege pile in this country. By virtue of how I am perceived by the outside world, I am one of those guys.  I didn’t ask for it, additional advantage was not the goal of my transition, but I have it regardless.  Trying to deny it on the basis of who I know myself to be would be disingenuous and hurtful to those who do not receive those advantages for equally unearned reasons.

I bring this up because in a recent thread on Facebook, someone I perceive to be a white male was trying to argue a point about not writing people off because of their choice of who to vote for.  Specifically, someone had posted that they weren’t going to respect people choices if they chose to vote in a way that endangered them, their families and loved ones.  The specific subject was Trump, but this applies to many candidates and measures. The poster further said that those who crossed the line would be written off, excommunicated.

A counter point brought by the man was that if your response to oppressive comments and actions was always to build walls and shut people out, there was no way to open a dialogue and possibly change minds. He argued against self-segregation and further asserted that if he wanted to be part of a better future, his duty as a citizen was to engage people he disagreed with.

On the one hand, this makes sense and other the other hand this assertion chock full of privilege.

I agree that someone needs to listen to and engage in people with opposing viewpoints.  Much can be learned and sometimes that learning is mutual and potentially this discourse helps to change minds for the better.  It is also true that not everyone can engage in that discourse without doing harm to themselves. So I nominate the guy who is white and straight and full of privilege to be the one who steps forward to engage in dialogue.

Here’s an analogy to illustrate my point:  let’s say you and some other people are in a firefight.  The other side is heavily armed and your group is hunkered down behind cover while bullets spray the area.  Within your group, you’re having a discussion about what to do about your situation.  You advocate advancing toward the other side to listen to their viewpoint and share yours.  The rest of your group looks at you in horror and flatly refuses to move from behind the cover.  You don’t understand why, after all, how will the fight ever stop if you can’t engage them in a conversation.  Meanwhile the bullets are punching holes all around you.  Finally, someone in the group points out what has been obvious to them but that you’ve overlooked:  you’re dressed in head-to-toe Kevlar and are virtually bullet-proof.  You can afford to stand up and walk toward the opposition without concern about your bodily safety.  The others in your group don’t have that advantage, they’re all in regular clothing and some have been hit by bullets in previous fights and are struggling with PTSD.

Privilege is having bullet-proof clothing in a firefight.  Privilege is having a shield that others don’t have.  Privilege comes in the form of advantages you have that you take for granted and don’t even realize other people don’t have.  Allyship is about leveraging your privilege in a way that helps those who have less advantages without further oppressing them. If your allyship includes making assumptions about what others can do based on your own capabilities, you are not being an ally, you are part of the problem.

The Kevlar analogy is just one way to communicate this concept.  Some people respond to sports metaphors.  If you are in a position of trying to bridge the gap of understanding about privilege, I think it’s useful to find out what that person’s interests are and design your metaphor accordingly.

I have come to this place where I am someone who does attempt to bridge the gap, though there are times when I will close ranks and refuse contact with opposing views for my own emotional safety.  I may look like a straight white guy, but inside I still bear the scars of being shit on by society. Sometimes you just have to pull back into your shell for safety.

Regardless of my past, my transition has resulted in me gaining a layer of protection and advantage.  It has also moved some of my social activism from that of a member of an oppressed group to that of an ally.  This element of social transition has been a difficult one.  I’ve spent most of my life dealing with shit because I was a recognizably queer woman, and later as a butch queer woman.  I added my stories about experiencing oppression through homophobia and misogyny to the chorus of others.  I was part of the group, I was recognized and welcomed into those circles and my opinion and ideas mattered.

Now, I’m the guy with the Kevlar suit.  Even though I can still remember how it feels to be disrespected because of my sex and taking abuse because of my sexual orientation, my reality has changed. It has changed not because my past has been erased or my experiences have less validity, but because of external perception.  That’s all it takes. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t ask for it.  No one asks for oppression, and the privileged don’t need to ask for their advantages.  The reality of privilege and oppression is that each is determined by other people based on what they see and perceive.

I have the Kevlar now, but I didn’t always.  That perspective allows me to speak from my lived experience about oppression and disadvantage. As I continue to unpack my privilege, I recognize more and more the assumptions I make from my position of advantage and recognize those assumptions in others.  I can enter men’s spaces and areas of privilege and that means I have a platform from which to educate.  Increasingly, that’s the form that my social activism is taking.

 

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Thank You for the Comments

Several people have taken the time to leave comments for me lately and I super-appreciate each of you.  For those of you who are loving my Daddy/girl stories, I wanted to give you a little taste of what I’m working on, and ask you a question.

“Daddy?” she asked.

We’d been watching TV together in a very non-kinky way after eating dinner.  Speaking that single word brought my whole body to attention.

“Yes, sweet girl?” I answered.

“I have an idea for a scene.” She continued when I nodded.  “I want to seduce Daddy. You’ll be reluctant and I’ll bring you over to the dark side.”

I chuckled, even that short description created a preview in my mind that was very compelling.  “Oh you will, will you? Should I resist very much?  How hard should I make it for you?”

 

Now, the question… for those of you who have done Daddy/girl play, have you ever flipped things like this and seduced Daddy?  If you have and you don’t mind sharing, I’d love to hear about the experience.

And now, back to writing.

 

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Pic

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Working on a New Story

I’m working on a new Daddy/girl story… are you excited?

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Smart, Vulnerable Posts on my Partner’s Blog

Red has been doing some deep thinking lately about gender and sex. You should check it out:

Never Say Never: More Gender Stuff

#realtalk #IPEEWHENISQUIRT

This latter one is particularly vulnerable… and this is what I think:  If you temporarily lose control of your bodily functions when having sex, YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT!  No one has a right to shame you for what your body produces.  Along with unpacking privilege and disabling racism and misogyny  and fat shaming, I think dismantling the norm of shaming sexual practices is important work.  Shame is the root cause of a lot of problems in our culture.  Are you with me in committing to that work?

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Reading is Sexy

10288756_823035587730388_3287626445466034200_n Read something. A book, a magazine, the back of the cereal box, the newspaper, that post your friends are all reposting, the blog  you’re so behind on, the erotic stories that turn you on, the childhood favorite you’ve already read a million times, the book you borrowed from a friend and should get back to them, the instructions on how to do something crafty or arty, the voter’s pamphlet, the HR policies of the new company or agency you’re getting at a job at to make sure they do right by LGBTQ people, the posters on the walls of your favorite social gathering place, the stories people of color write about living under racism, the stories indigenous people write about living on a continent they had rights to before invaders came and made them second or third class citizens, read about history, read about the rise of fascism in Europe and the rise of communism and the rise of democracy and how any political system can be perverted by greedy people who already have the most privilege but want more, read about people in different countries, from different states, from different classes, with different histories and contexts and expectations and biases and assumptions, read.  FUCKING READ IT ALL.

Reading is smart.  Read to children, your own or others. Read to show them it’s fun, to show them reading is meaningful, to animate stories for them, to create worlds and characters for them, read to show them the world as it exists and the worlds that could exist.

And after you read, think.  Think about how there are no new stories and yet people keep writing, think about how history repeats itself, think about your privilege, think about the assumptions you make and the ways your thinking is biased by privilege you have the most trouble seeing, think about how to unpack it, think about how to acknowledge that your perspective and assumptions do not apply universally across the world or the universe. Think about the fact that we are more alike than we are different, we all are born and breathe and consume and shit and fowl our nests one way or another.

Think, read, think, read, think, repeat.  Sit still and think.  Watch the clouds and think.  Watch people and think.  Feel the blood in your veins and the breath in your chest and think. Think about the fact that all feelings are valid.  Think about meeting people where they are.  Think about what you’ve read and how it has opened your mind and your heart and see if it doesn’t enable you to meet people where they are.  Look people in the eyes when you speak to them.  Connect as one living solidity of stardust to another.

Think, read, breathe, connect.  Repeat.

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Posted in anti-oppression work, meditation, word vomit | Tagged , | 1 Comment