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Everyone has a Self

Rabbit White — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 01:53:31 +0000

Everyone has a self. Remember this, mantra-like.

I imagine it like a house. Each person in the house is mirrored, their body-double also living there. There is me, then there is my self, cushioned somewhere in the cool, dark space under the house. There is my sister, then her self. My Dad’s self is caught in a tree in the yard. My Mom’s is in the attic, or escaped somewhere into the clouds.

“Self” is the psychological and philosophical concept of a true-you, your inner-most being or “soul”, the deep source of love inside that makes you feel whole and healed, that brings strength.

In the house the people are always bumping into one and other. Mindlessly in the hallway, briskly out the door. Sometimes a self will bump into a non-self. And the self will say “That’s ok” or “I am sorry”– but mostly there are non-selves knocking against each other. Their elbows always pointed and out, spreading little bruises to flower.

Imagine across from you, in a chair, sits your Mom– facing you. Now allow her to morph into your sibling. Your best friend. Really, for a second. Now imagine that sitting across from you is your Mother– with a self. Your sibling with a self. Your best friend and their self.

As humans we like to categorize, box people up in a label that makes sense. Good person//Bad person. But this doesn’t work. We are far too complex, too vast. All of us have parts that cause us to act defensively, bad, out of turn. And we all have a self, which is inherently loving, good.

We each have a responsibility to be conscious to our decisions, to be in self. But self-awareness isn’t perfect, it won’t always happen. So what would happen if you remember that everyone around you has a self? When they are destructing themselves, they have a self, when they are happy, self, yelling at you, there is a self. Mom, best friend, sibling–each with a self. What would that change?

Music in Relationships

Rabbit White — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 17:42:32 +0000

I was sitting across from Eric, an ex. We were getting comfortable between gold pints, starting to loosen. “Y’know, you are the only ex that I’m not friends with.” he said. I looked sideways “really?” We talked about his exes. I realized, he was just a nostalgia junkie.

“I know. I am.” He looked into his beer, guilty. “I have a hard time letting go of anything, even if I didn’t like it that much! It’s why I still listen to terrible music, NOFX, mxpx.” I remembered as much about his music collection.

“Music is a big one, only second to smell. Like if I hear Iron and Wine’s Creek Drank the Cradle–which you turned me onto–I’m right back with you” he said, face to the side.

There’s the concept of “your song” when you are a couple. The phenomenon of the mix tape. And in the moment, it means something. Music is a natural accompaniment to falling in love, to help filter how you feel, to hold onto or survive it.

When I got my first real boyfriend it was fall and I was awake in bed, listening to Gish by the Smashing Pumpkins. There was a thump, a rock on the windowpane. I lifted it to find him, a bike collapsed in the grass, guitar in arms. He strummed, voice just loud enough to make out “She’s in the air…In be-tween mol-e-cules of Ox-y-gen and Caaarbon-Dioxide”

I remember thinking “wow this is, like, romantic.” I cupped my face with a hand and felt aware of my facial expression. I moved my hands to my sides and then to my hair. When he was done I wondered if I was supposed to clap.

If I hear “Only in Dreams” now, I do think of this. To hear the song then, is to witness clouds parting, discovering a message scripted upon your soul.

One summer I had a fling with a hairdresser. He was tall with black hair, light blue eyes and guns tattooed on his hips. I’d come over and he’d make tall drinks out of liquors that didn’t go together. He’d cut my hair and after our limbs got floppy we’d tangle up in his white bedding. He’d put on the discography of Placebo.

One night, as ice cubes melted in my drink of pomegranate liquor, rum and vodka, he had a hair inspiration. He bobbed around, squinting and deciding. He stopped to look and let his fingers graze my cheek. When he presented me with a hand mirror, I had a widows peak. I had Brian Molko from Placebo’s hair-cut. It was over between us.

Maybe we look to songs to relay what we think and feel. To communicate to our partner for us, since there isn’t a model for honest communication, since we aren’t taught how.

I had this fuck-buddy, who was a DJ. We DJ’d together at a club in Wicker Park. The songs were secret messages for him. Heartbeat by Annie. The Knife. I was jumping and the music was singing “I’m in love, love with y–” He pulled the record. Later, when he shouted “I love you” at me, in the street, I didn’t know how to respond.

Across from Eric, I was laughing. “See, and I don’t even own any Iron and Wine albums” I said. His nostalgia hoarding was important to feel authentic. It was finding himself, being connected to his past. But I thought finding myself was leaving the past behind.

“I’ve deleted whole music collections more than once, thrown away 70% of my closet a few times. For a long time it was how I moved forward.” Eric winced, the thought of trashing entire music collections was too much.

But, I know that cutting off from my past self was not the answer–as embarrassing as all of the mix tapes and memories were. I also know that while songs promise that true love means happily ever after, no relationship can complete you. But songs about saving yourself just aren’t as fulfilling.

photo by Alison Scarpulla

Who’s Afraid of Bisexual Men?

admin — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 17:58:13 +0000

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. The room is dark, filled with the sound of flesh smacking flesh and throaty “ahhhhhs.” Next to me are huddles of middle aged men, standing, pants-off, half-hard. I’m sitting upright, purse in lap feeling a bit overdressed.

In front of me is a triple set of couples, all in the doggy-style position, fucking in front of a mirror. Guy on girl, guy on guy, guy on girl. The earthy smell of anal sex filters the air.

It’s a swinger party. Or “lifestyle party” if you prefer. But something here is different. This party is Chicago’s first and only all bisexual lifestyle party. Usually, guy on guy sex is sort of not allowed.

I’m here undercover, doing a story for Gapers Block (click for entire story) In the lifestyle, I’ve learned, male bisexuality is taboo. Just like on TV or in small towns or high-schools.

I admire bisexual men. Not only do I find them strong and courageous and cool but I have a thing for them. They’re my “type.” Or, everyone is secretly bi and I just pull it out of the guys I date. Okay, I don’t *really* believe that, but because I’m bi, I tend to assume everyone else is too.

With swingers, female-bisexuality isn’t just encouraged, it’s expected. But why is male bisexuality feared? Is it because we associate homosexuality with taking on a female role? A silent patriarchal ban on men acting like women? In ancient Greece, homosexuality was permissible–only when the man was in the “top” role.

At the party, one woman said what set the bi party apart from the regular parties was that it’s a bit more aggressive. At most parties, women have control and men are less active in initiating. But in this space where men hit on other men, testosterone flourishes. I didn’t feel unsafe, but I did feel this vibe. The guys were there to play, and it felt like a celebration of male sexuality. Is that why we are so scared of their bisexuality? I wondered Is it because we condemn and dismiss male sexuality as a whole?

This woman’s husband was the bottom-half in the guy-on-guy scene. I asked him, why the taboo? “Honestly, I think it is leftover from AIDS and the big scare that caused in the ’80s. I think since then we’ve had this fear of male bisexuality, not female bisexuality.”

As homosexuality is no longer erased, it seems bisexuality would adjacently become acceptable. But I think that homophobia hasn’t gone anywhere, it’s instead pushed inside. Even the squarest, straightest people know it’s not cool to gay-bash. Instead of “you’re a fag” it’s become “well that’s okay for you, I guess, but I’M NOT gay.”

This makes exploring bisexuality kinda impossible. It takes a lot of self-awareness and courage to probe the fact that you might be bisexual and much more to come out (and play.)

Having Sex when You Don’t Want Sex

admin — Wed, 19 May 2010 18:26:48 +0000

image by Conrad Roset

My body floated into the bedroom in a cream baby-doll nightie. I found it hanging on the “nicer items” rack in a thrift store. It was Oscar De la Renta and still had the tags on. After buying it, I stood in front of a mirror, admiring the billowy layers of fabric that curved my ass in a heart shape.

I crawled over Ned to get into bed, he groaned, punctured by a knee or elbow. I wasn’t feeling particularly turned on. His hands felt my neck and chest, lukewarm. But, it was awhile since we had sex. At least a week. And it had been a long time since he’d come onto me. I wanted him to know that I was available, it was okay. I pulled him on top of me. I moaned when his cock entered me.

A few months ago, I wrote a post about having sex when you don’t want to, because you can’t say no, are too drunk to make a decision or “it seems easier.” I didn’t call this rape, but said these were gray-areas of consent. “Consent is not the opposite of rape” I said, “enthusiastic consent is.”

I’d urged Ned to come by waving my hips and saying I wanted him to cum, I wasn’t ” into” the sex, but it felt okay. I had made an executive decision. I’d evaluated my feelings. I looked at Ned, and took the emotions lined on his face, into consideration. When I pulled him over me, there was a feeling of warmth in my chest.

The next morning when I woke up Ned was doing dishes. This is because I set my alarm for 7:00–when Ned always does the dishes. Then I come in and say “hey” and if we had sex the night before, one of us will casually mention it. I still felt good about the sex, but weird about saying something. I recounted it my head. I decided the sex was okay but I didn’t want Ned to guess I’d had sex just to make him feel nice.

I’d been reading Why Women Have Sex, which contained interviews with women over a range of ages. Many women reported having sex when they didn’t want to. Some said they’d had sex with their husbands in order to get them to do chores. Another said she’d had sex with a man because he bought her a car. Some women said they felt like it was their “duty”. The book drew a line between these instances and gray-rapes, which others reported and often felt bad about.

I felt uncomfortable reading some of the accounts. I thought of my high-school boyfriend. He wasn’t in high-school, he was 23 or 24. We went out for 3 1/2 years and in the beginning, had sex 3 or 4 times when we’d see each other. Sometimes I’d bring costumes and he’d snap Polaroids of me: on all-fours in cat ears and a fluffy tailed pinned to my G-string; smiling in a school girl skirt and tie. Those Polaroids still exist somewhere. Probably.

Later, there were no costumes but still sex. We’d hang out, watching a DVD at his apartment. I remember, facing the light of the television, sometimes not even watching, but waiting for a hip thrust in my ass. I wouldn’t turn around. I let him enter me and close my eyes, waiting for it to be over. I don’t remember enthusiasm in my yes.

Sometimes, we have sex, not turned on at first and catch up in a panting breath later. I think it is important to remember that in sex there is not a “point of no return.” With Ned, I understand that stopping at any point is okay. But I also know doing this, takes strength in communication with yourself and your partner.

This morning, I woke up before my alarm. The curtains were still drawn, lighting the room in red. I went to find Ned at the sink and enveloped myself around his waist. “The sex we had last night was kind of weird” he said, a playful-concerned look on his face.

As we crawled into bed the night before, he rolled over to sleep. I caressed the ample curve of his ass. He gave a sleepy-happy sigh and muttered that it felt nice. His eyes stayed closed, his body limp and tired as he turned over, visibly hard. I raised my hips and he nodded, grabbing a leg to help straddle him. I slid onto his body and put my hands over his closed eyelids as he drifted, blurred between soft moans and half sleep.

My eyes flashed question marks, a concerned hand on the sink. Ned laughed. I trusted his responsibility for communicating a lack of consent. But as his partner, knew I should be aware of his enthusiasm. But in this space, able to talk about it over toast, we were safe. Safe to explore our emotions in the moment, and if it felt raw, to go over them again. Enthusiastic sex each time is not a given. “Purposeful sexuality” I thought. That was it.

Makeup Tutorial Reversed: Why Women Wear Makeup

Rabbit White — Thu, 13 May 2010 18:08:45 +0000

A make-up tutorial video done in reverse while I attempt to answer the question: why do women wear makeup?

Overview:

Why do women wear make-up? I wear and enjoy make-up. In one sense, it is a way to express yourself, your mood and your interior life. I love the whole transformation process and I an a fan of the ability we have to change our masks, especially with a key as transient & in the moment as make-up.

Part of the reason that women wear make-up might actually be biological. There was a study done that had men rate how beautiful women were–with and without make-up. The men consistently chose the women with make-up as more beautiful. Except when the women were ovulating–then men couldn’t tell a difference.

Ovulation is the human equivalent of “going into heat” it is when can get pregnant and our sneaky bodies are doing everything they can to help that happen. So along with a spiked sex drive, we also become more beautiful at ovulation. Our skin gets clearer, lips fuller and eyes more sparkly; kinda like you are wearing make-up. So the theory goes that because human’s don’t go into heat– we can have sex whenever we want– make-up has evolved as women’s way to attract males, making them think that we are in heat. It’s a biological magic trick.

But perhaps the biggest reason is cultural. I found a study online that claimed 8 out of 10 women prefer their female colleagues to wear makeup and the same number of women said they would rather employ a woman who wore makeup than one who didn’t. This might be about not rocking the boat. Since it is socially accepted that women paint their faces day in and day out, we’re not going to like those who buck against the norm.

Because of these very strong social ideas about make-up, I think most of us don’t naturally have a healthy relationship with our cosmetic cases. I think the majority of us feel like we NEED make-up. And as long as there is not a real feeling of choice there it’s not okay. So I challenge you to explore that relationship with make-up.

The heart of this isn’t just learn ro love yourself without make-up, learn that you are beautiful without it. The core of this is realizing that your real value and what you bring to relationships, to life is not your looks.

Uncircumcised Penis Love & Penis Evolution

Rabbit White — Fri, 07 May 2010 16:44:33 +0000

I read this theory last night, and woke up a bit puffy eyed and excited to share it with you.

Overview

A new theory published in Archives of Sexual Behavior shows again that men and women aren’t that different. This theory explains the shape of the human penis and how it evolved to where it is now. In this explanation the foreskin as an important part of the penis and it’s evolution.

So this study says that while the glans scoops vaginal secretions, the foreskin absorbs them. Now why would it do that? Well there were some studies awhile ago that proved that semen actually had psychological effects on women by releasing certain brain-chemicals, making them less depressed and more bonded to their partner. So, basically it works both ways. Like semen, vaginal secretions also have a psychological effect on dudes. Eurohormones are released that are associated with bonding and are thought to trigger protective behavior among males for their partners. So potentially by cutting the foreskin off, you cut off this natural sexual effect.

In the mainstream we have this idea that male sexuality is so simple where-as female sexuality is shrouded in mystery, you’ve got to push the right buttons and pull the right levers to unlock it. Of course, this is dismissive of guys sexuality and just not true. Biology shows that our sexual responses aren’t all that different.

To me, the the un-cut cock also shows this.

Seeing a foreskin, I feel like we don’t actually look that different from one and other “down there”. There are all those lame jokes about a woman’s smell, but if you know an un-cut man intimately you know that genital-smell is a human phenomenon, not a female one. Also we have lubrication and they have lubrication–the foreskin helps guys retain that moisture.

I was talking to a friend recently and she reminded me of when we were younger and she told me her boyfriend was uncut. My response was all “eww how do you deal with that?” I was talking shit when I had no idea what I was talking about, I’d never even seen an uncut cock.

But, I think that is a normal reaction for American girls. We aren’t used to seeing it, and the unfamiliar is easily dismissed. But it’s natural. It’s the way men were meant to be, the way we were made to have sex with men.

So, to 19 year old Rabbit I say, hey keep an open mind. Also, do your research about foreskins, sex with foreskins and what circumcision does before you form an opinion. Think deeply about it before you speak.

If you want to learn more about circumcision and foreskin check out Penn & Tellers Bullshit episode of circumcision or the work of Marilyn Milos of NOCIRC.

Reflections on Graphic Sexual Horror

Rabbit White — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 16:29:47 +0000

www.youtube.com/watch?v=O52U33cGnLY

Graphic Sexual Horror is a documentary film about the late, hardcore BDSM pornsite, insex.com. I recently had a chance to see this documentary with fellow writer, Arvan of Sex Gender Body, at the Leather Archives as part of the Sex Positive Film Series.

Check out my review & reflections on the film at Sex Gender Body.

One thing that my review touched on was the question of consent in sex-work:

“Yet my inner feminist, as laid back as she might be, did inevitably stir. One of the ex-models described her first set and explained that before coming into film, they are asked what they are willing to do or not do, and what they might be apprehensive about. This model had never had anal sex, and was clearly apprehensive about doing so. On her first shoot, PD broke that boundary. As she laid tied up, ass up on the floor, he penetrated her anally with a nearly baseball-bat sized instrument. She went onto say that although she hadn’t used her safeword, she felt like she had been raped.

When this was brought up during the discussion after the film, a woman who had been invited on stage because she had once done a session herself with PD said, “she said she felt like she was raped, it’s not the same thing as being raped.” I agree it is not the same thing, but I don’t think it is the opposite of rape either. I don’t think consent is a yes-no/black-white issue. What it seemed the model was explaining is a tight-rope walk of that delicate, fuzzy line of consent.”

What I didn’t go on to say in this review is that this is a sticky subject. I have said in the past that what I do define as the opposite of rape is enthusiastic consent. When pay instead of pleasure is on the enthusiasm end, where do the gray areas of consent fit in? After-all, any job has things that one will not be enthusiastic about doing. Additionally, there is a power-dynamic going on, as PD is the model’s boss, as well as the dominant in the scene.

Ultimately, I think the line of consent is up for the person in the sexual position to decide, if this woman is questioning being raped, I don’t think it can be anyone’s place but her own to decide. However, in gray areas of consent I don’t think that “rape” is a blame to put fully on one partner as the perpetrator, but as somewhat a reflection on both partners who didn’t pay attention or communicate about those blurred lines. I’m not saying one who does not have the tools to express non-consent should ever be blamed, but I think a society that doesn’t teach us how to effectively communicate what we feel in the moment, should.

Read my review on the film here.