Mollena Williams

March 31, 2009

And that’s a wrap.

Filed under: Going's On.,kink events,Processing — Mollena Williams @ 4:28 pm

I want to thank the folks at Kinkfest once again. What a well-run event, and how much of an honor it is to be able to spend time there.  Even if I weren’t presenting, I’d attend KinkFest. They do a smashing job.Skin Two: Electric Boogaloo. Deepest Kudos to Mike. His patience and generosity towards me were remarkable.

These days, going to BDSM events is no longer a “Vacation” from “Real life” for me.  Alternative Lifestyle stuff IS my job right now. And so it is kind of surreal to wake up after spending 4 days awash in leather and kink and think “OK, back to…umm…back to the porn and the cock-shots and the videos of people conducting themselves scandalously!”

People often ask me if I’ve “Had a good time?” at BDSM events, once I return. Usually they want to hear tales of ribaldry, hot scenes, sordid sex, tawdry encounters…I can say I haven’t many. In the past year, I’ve been asked to play at a BDSM event…once.  I’m not complaining about that.  I’d trade any number of standard-issue scenes for that particular encounter.

But it is an odd rift to receive the support and awesome feedback that I do when I present and, at the end of the night, go back to my room alone.  This might sound pathetic, but I avoided even going to the Dungeon playspace because the thought of watching so much of the energy and heat and connection that permeates big play parties race past me and know I had no outlet was too daunting a prospect.

At the end of the weekend, a friend I’ve gotten to know a bit online who was also in attendance was kind enough to come to meet me for breakfast. As I was pissing and moaning being single at a big KinkCon, he pointed out that it isn’t always easy for dominants and tops to approach submissives.  Not that I was unapproachable, but that the whole situation is skewed.

So…dominants have a tough time approaching submissives? 

Yeah, I know, they’re only human.

But Jeebus, ain’t that their fucking job? To swagger in, grab you by the throat and sweep you to your knees?

Yeah, way to set the bar impossibly high, Mo.

I realize I have a rather unique set of benchmarks for my submission. I’ve rarely done anything that would look like a kinky courtship. My history is such that I’ve been pretty much smitten from the get-go by anyone towards whom I was inclined to submit.  I have knee-jerk visceral reactions and voila, I’m on the ground in tears wondering what truck hit me.

I love that.

And that is a tall order.

I’m not unapproachable. I know I am easy to talk to, to embrace, that I listen well. I know I am compassionate with people, and I’d never be harsh or cruel. But that does not, my friend assured me, make it any easier for people, especially dominants, to make that approach.

On the one hand fine. I mean, if you don’t think you can take me down…well…you can’t.

This also means that I don’t get swarms of douchebags skeeving me, and I don’t have to fend off poseurs all of the time.

I think I can live with this.

My new friend did make sure to warn me that I’ll not be safe from him next we are within proximity.

And I think I can live with that too.

March 28, 2009

Kinkfest II: Electric Boogaloo.

Filed under: Going's On.,kink events — Mollena Williams @ 11:30 pm

Today’s class went well. Minax was FAN-fucking-TASTIC!  Whatever people say about us Twins, I’ve found working with other Gemini people is amazing for me because the fluidity and spontaneity isn’t seen as flakiness or strangeness and the capacity for on-the-feet-thinking is mirrored.

 I am honored that she trusts me enough to gamely step up to the plate…at TEN A.M., FOLKS…and bring SO MUCH to the presentation.

 Curtsy

Minax. Thank you. You honor me deeply. I’m proud to stand next to you and share.

OH! Before I forget. The badass fucking Buddhist monk I mentioned in class is Thich Nhat Hanh. Go immediately and buy all of his shit.  Start with THIS book, as it is the WIN.

 I had some troublemakers in the back of my class…Mister FetLife, John Baku, and several cohorts were the Detention Row…the Group W Bench back there.  I’d be more harsh on them for being so irreverent but for two facts: 

 

Voodoo Doughnut. INsanity. Yes, bitches, those ARE Cocoa Puffs.

Voodoo Doughnut. INsanity. Yes, bitches, those ARE Cocoa Puffs.

1)      I don’t take myself nearly seriously enough to give a fuck and

 

2)      He gave me a Voodoo Doughnut. It is called the Triple Chocolate Penetration
(chocolate doughnut, chocolate glaze, and cocoa-puffs)

 ’Nuff said.

 Post-class I had a really overwhelming amount of kick-ass feedback. I think I may have to believe that there isn’t a national plot to blow smoke up my ass and yeah, I do well in presenting in Kink and I can relax a little and not get so nervous that I am nauseous before classes.

 We’ll see how that works.

 I had a moment of connecting with another woman who kind of eerily mirrored back to me the feelings of frustration I have in finding partners. Sure, OK, I pound my own coffin nails into any chance I might have of finding someone when I tell a room full of people I’m not easily intimidated or intellectually or physically dominated and you had best be fucking ready to prove to me why MY time is worth sacrificing to you.  I realize this. But I have this compulsion ot tell my truth. What can I do?

As we were talking after the class I said something…I dunno what…and she looked at me and said “Wow I can really see how that impacts you…your energy just totally dropped right now.”

 Note to self: there ARE people who “See” you, and you aren’t fooling them.

 Ever.

 But those are the people who you need to reach out to. They’ll be the ones to help when the mask DOES need to come off.

 After the class I was thinking about what I’d just said, and all of the conditions, caveats and such I have learned, over the years, are important to me.

 And I was sad.

 Why would anyone bother with someone like me when they can have a far, far easier time with any number of other slaves or submissives? Or a number of them at once?  Subs and slaves who are grateful to even HAVE a place to serve, who aren’t fussy and want to have that connection, unimpeded, un trammeled, and, to he honest, singular?

 Have I set myself up for failure by being so stringent?

 Possibly.

 Time will tell…blah blah yadda.

 I’d an awesome lunch with some wonderful folks. I talked a lot. But I guess that was OK…they were asking me about stuff and I aims ta please!

 I went to the vendor area and OMFG fell in love with and splurged in a GORGEOUS leather skirt…fitted through the knee and flared beneath. I also ordered a matching bolero jacket.

 I think they will look lovely.

 Well, I should try to scrounge some food.

 I have another class tomorrow…what is it…edge play? Something or other.

 Though what is edgier than just LIVING in the present moment?  Not bloody much.

Kinkfest Opening Ceremony: (or “Those 35 years as a performer paid off.)

Filed under: Going's On.,kink events,Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit. — Mollena Williams @ 12:23 am

The Not Ready for Prime Time Pervert!

Like a true masochist, I thought it would be cool to offer to perform at KinkFest this year. And like the sadists they must be, the good people at KinkFest booked me for the opening ceremony.

Yep. I was barfulous with nerves. Add to my woes, even as I was rehearsing the song in my room, thinking “OK, I have 45 minutes to go, stay calm, stay calm…” I was perusing the KinkFest info book and my eyes ran over the opening ceremony page just as my phone rang, my wrangler was calling and I realized that I was FUCKING MISTAKEN ABOUT THE START TIME and the opening ceremonies were starting…now.

<insert stream of psycho invective here>

I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

Srsly.

SO I bolted over to the Convention Center part of the hotel and made my way there, spoke to the (OMFG smoking hot) DJ about the cues, and within 15 minutes was up on stage pulling the banter and patter out of my ass. Got through the first song, which is my kinky version “Crazy” and it went fine. Patter patterbanter banter and it was time for the second song, the and this time the kinky doggerel was to the tune of  “My Favorite Things.”

Thing is this: when I did it in 69Stories, I only did one verse and the chorus. It was quite short. But since I could get an edited version, I had to write 2 more verses.

And get them performance ready.

IN 2 days.

No problem.

But this karaoke version had a piss poor lead in for the second verse.

I couldn’t hear it.

SO guess what, I fucked it up.

I tried to recover and then was like “OK, you know what? Fuck it. Stop. Start again.”

I waved to the DJ “Hey, I fucked up. Can you stop the song and start again?” I saw him grinning at me from the back of the dungeon and I was like “OK I think he thinks I’m kidding.”

I waved more vigorously “Hello! Hi, hey, no I’m really serious! I really really mean it! Stop the soooong! Please to start it again, please!”

I smiled, curled the hands, snapped back to the assembled pervs, who were all grinning like bandits. Nothing audiences love more than seeing someone fuck up and recover. They’re all rooting for me, right?

I was so nervous but miracle of miracles, the jibblies bounced my vibrato and healed my breath. I didn’t fall off pitch and got through it fine the second time around.

But boy was my head pounding. Something awful.

I ran off stage at the end and people were all congratulating me and all I could think “Aspirin aspirin please please…”

But of course, I was on headrush and so the headache kinda had to wait.

It really is worth it, despite the nerves and self-doubt to have so many people pouring out such good energy. I hope it got the thing off on a fun foot.

It took me FOREVER to get outta there, because people wanted to say hi, and thanks, and say such wonderful stuff….Yay!

OK, I feel pretty happy right now.

Yes, yep. I do.

I’m sitting in the hotel lobby writing this. My little laptop is having Some Issues, but they have a tight ship here and I am comfy and printing out my notes for tomorrow’s class.

At 10:00 AM.

Kill.

Me.

Nao.

kthxbai.

March 26, 2009

H(otel) NT…hello, Portland.

Filed under: hnt,Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit. — Mollena Williams @ 4:16 pm

Portland, second year in a row for KinkFest. The folks here absolutely are among the most awesome hosts ever.

I’m a cranky nervous poopiepants.

The SuperShutle was late and had a harrowing series of pickups and a driver with no clue how to get anywhere aside from relying on GPS which, in SF, can be dodgy.

But I made it.

And the had a kind of lame flight and despite my less-than-stellar seatmate, I’m here and enjoying one of my fave fetishes…hotel staus.

Aaaaaah.

I had to change rooms, but the hotel folks were most generous and cool. But that ice machine was SERIOUSLY gonna keep me up, yo!

But I am here and a shower was had, and so I share it with you.

Happy HNT :-)

March 25, 2009

HEY PERVERTS: Don’t Fuck. Around. With. Strangers.

Filed under: BDSM In The News — Mollena Williams @ 11:52 am

This story made me cry. Please…my Perverts…my Family…my Tribe. Please be careful.

Know your partners.

We take so many risks just in the dungeon, in our bedrooms.

Please take care of yourselves.

And pray for Mr. Weber’s family.

‘Violent sex’ ad led to murder of WABC newsman George Weber, confesses teen: Cops

Updated Wednesday, March 25th 2009, 1:23 PM

An emotionally disturbed 16-year-old (above) confessed to the murder of WABC newsman George Weber (below).

The troubled teenager accused of stabbing WABC newsman George Weber during drug-fueled rough sex is a 16-year-old Satan-loving sadomasochist with a knife fetish.

John Katehis, who is just 16 and lives in East Elmhurst, Queens, posted pictures of himself on MySpace.com with various blades – including one he held against his neck. He also issued a chilling warning.

“If you disrespect me then I will f—–g break your neck,” he wrote.

On his site, Katehis called himself “Extremist, an Anarchist, a Sadomasochist” and said he enjoys “long conversations, drinking, bike riding, hanging out.”

The teen also listed more sinister hobbies like “roof hopping, hanging off trains” and claimed be into extremely violent video games.

“I am a very easy person to talk to,” he wrote. “I like to do crazy and wild things … I’m always looking for a big thrill.

Katehis was on the run in upstate Middletown, when cops picked him up just after midnight. He admitted answering an ad Weber placed on the Internet looking for a partner in rough sex, police and law enforcements sources said.

“He saw the victim’s ad looking for violent sex and said, ‘I can smother somebody for $60,’ but it got out of hand,” a source said.

The teen admitted he stabbed Weber, but couldn’t remember how many times because he “blanked out” during the assault. He was in custody Wednesday at Brooklyn‘s 76th Precinct.

Cops found the suspect by combing through Weber’s e-mail and Web browser history and tracking calls he made from his cell phone, sources said.

The two met in Brooklyn early Friday evening and then returned to the newsman’s Carroll Gardens brownstone apartment under the premise of engaging in sadomasochistic acts, sources said.

Weber, 47, whose ankles were bound with duct tape, was stabbed repeatedly in a frenzied attack that sprayed the walls with blood.

The newsman fought back and wounded his assailant, whose blood was found in the bedroom and bathtub drain, the sources said. Cops believe Weber’s killer tried to clean up before fleeing the Henry St. home.

Weber had been writing a neighborhood blog and was freelancing for ABC’s national radio network after he was laid off from his job doing local news on WABC morning radio. His body was found Sunday morning.

“We are devastated by the loss of George – Jordy to us,” the veteran newsman’s family said in a statement Tuesday. “He was truly a caring person who loved and was loved by all he met.

“Jordy loved New York and its people, particularly his Carroll Gardens neighborhood. The outpouring of support by his friends and neighbors is a blessing to us and a testimony to his character.”

A memorial service is in the works, but arrangements have not been finalized, the family said.

agendar@nydailynews.com

March 23, 2009

Under 500: “Aftercare”

Filed under: Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit.,Scene Reports,Under 500 — Mollena Williams @ 3:09 pm

The line between consciousness and sleep blurs to a haze of breathing and soft contact and the tug of a hand on heated skin. There are moments you want to last because you can’t imagine anything better than what you are feeling right now; the slow twist of a sheet wrapped perfectly around your foot, toes in a cool spot, and the pillow that somehow has achieved the precise position that permits you to press your body even more firmly into the warm body curled behind you. The soles of your feet on the tips of their toes calves pressed one against the other legs interlocked thighs parted just enough to let one knee insinuate itself and apply delicious teasing pressure to your ass and a hand drifting with languid slowness that would be torturous except that it is the sweetest torture one can know than that is the agony of drinking in every moment as fully as possible… (more…)

from COLORLINES MAGAZINE: “Playing with Race” by Daisy Hernández

Filed under: BDSM In The News,News.,Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit. — Mollena Williams @ 1:13 am

Colorlines Magazine

Mollena Williams is gregarious, the kind of woman who makes a point of saying, “How are you today?” to the Walgreens cashier. She has a short afro and laughs easily. She works as an administrative assistant and at night, she pens her theater performances. She is also a masochist.

Williams is part of San Francisco’s BDSM community (shorthand for “bondage/discipline, dominance/submission, sadism/masochism”). By definition, a masochist receives pleasure from experiencing certain types of pain. By her own account, Williams loves pleasing her partners. That might mean a whipping. It might also mean obeying her partner’s commands or being called a “slut.” Her partners aren’t strangers. Like non-BDSM people, she expects to feel a connection and develop trust—enough to submit to a partner for the hour or the day or the week that they agree to. And she, in turn, expects a lot. Her partners have to be comforting, quick thinking, and treat her like the princess she’s always felt herself to be.

Contrary to popular notions, BDSM is not about abuse. It’s consensual and trusting and people refer to it as “play” (as in “I want to play with you”). The point of BDSM is not sexual intercourse. In fact, when Williams recalls her first experience as a masochist seven years ago, she says she met her partner, a white man, at a bar and “fell in love at first sight.” They made their way back to his hotel. “For the first time I felt someone could see who I really was.” And that was someone who found it erotic to be a submissive to her partner.

In recent years, Williams has added another element to her repertoire as a masochist. She’s begun to engage in what is called “race play” or “racial play”—that is getting aroused by intentionally using racial epithets like the word “nigger” or racist scenarios like a slave auction. Race play is being enjoyed in the privacy of bedrooms and publicly at BDSM parties, and it’s far from just black and white. It also includes “playing out” Nazi interrogations of Jews or Latino-on-black racism, and the players can be of any racial background and paired up in a number of ways (including a black man calling his black girlfriend a “nigger bitch”). White master seeking black slave, however, seems the more popular of the combinations.

Race play is considered on the edge of edgy sex, but workshops on the subject are becoming standard fare at kinky conferences as people like Williams become comfortable with publicly speaking about it. Like any practice making its way into public conversations, the workshops include everything from personal testimonials to theories on why people of color are getting aroused by what some would see as just racism. Like any controversial sexual activity, race play has its critics. In May, the title of a workshop at a BDSM conference had to be changed after protest over the original name, “Nigger Play: Free at Last.” Williams herself has been the subject of several e-mails from people of color who, while enjoying BDSM themselves, accuse her of self-hate and recommend she enter therapy.

But Williams doesn’t seem self-hating. If she is, then she’s pretty darn happy talking about her writing and desire to find a good man. If race play is not about hate, then what is it about? What does it mean for a person of color to be aroused by words like “nigger” or “spic”? For the people that I talked to, it’s made them neither freaks nor Uncle Toms.

Teaching Race Play

There are about as many ways to engage in BDSM as there are theories for why it arouses. For some, BDSM is having your boyfriend yank your hair and mumble a naughty word like “whore” during sex. For others, it is whips, chains and hot wax—all done in public before an audience in a space that ’s been converted to a dungeon.

Psychologists from Freud on down have speculated on BDSM’s appeal. Perhaps the most common perception is that it’s a way of working through childhood trauma. But some say it’s more akin to psychological theater where you abandon your mundane life role (all those responsibilities!) and act like a master or slave, for example. Still, others conjecture that BDSM alters body chemistry or proffers a spiritual connection.

In his coauthored book, Bound to Be Free, Dr. Charles Moser has put out what might be the most sensible theory, calling BDSM just another type of relationship. It’s consensual and erotic, he writes. People find it erotic to act like they have complete control over another person (or pretending that they give up control). It also has its own rules: people agree at the outset what the limits are.

Needless to say there are countless conferences, websites and parties, all of which loosely make up the “BDSM community.” It was at one such conference in May that Mike Bond was to present “Nigger Play,” a workshop on using the word “nigger” as part of race play. But a small public outcry from fellow kinky people, many of them apparently people of color, on several electronic listservs devoted to BDSM resulted in a change to the more demure, “Dancing with the Devil.” Ironically perhaps, people did not seem to object to the content, just to the word “nigger” being in the title.

Mike Bond, who declined a phone interview and answered questions by e-mail, is a masochist. He is a black man and emphatic that race play “is not a message about all of black kind.” He doesn’t suggest that all black folks enjoy what he does, but he says, “I have been floored when people have criticized me by saying [that] not everyone agrees with my fetish. So what? Not everyone likes cheese. ”

During his workshop, Bond told the audience about his own history. He first considered race play when a partner asked if it was humiliating for him as a black man to bow before her, a white woman. He hadn’t thought about it before. “But if that made it more embarrassing, ” he said, “then I was all for it.”

On the panel with Bond were three white women he has played with. They emphasized that race play isn’t about hate. For one woman calling Bond “nigger” was just another bad name that aroused him. But another woman, who is Jewish, said it took time and encouragement to be able to relax with race play.

After the talk came the demonstration: A woman dressed in a business suit and planted in the audience heckled Bond, then grabbed him by the collar and threw him down, all the while yelling about what gave Bond the right to criticize “her people” (rednecks).

As arousing as that scene might be for some, it is downright repulsive for others. Racism was institutionalized as social, economic and legal practices, in part, through rape and the white domination of black sexuality. Chupoo, who is a black woman and declined to give her last name, says it point blank: “I can’t do race play because I have people in my family who had to submit to that, where they had no choices. It’s too close to home for American black people.” Race play makes her think about her grandmother who had to sleep with her employer, a doctor, so that her children could have healthcare.

Chupoo is not anti-BDSM. In fact, for seven years, she’s been a submissive in a master-slave relationship with a black man. So, she’s delighted, for example, when in an erotic context, he calls her a “bitch.” “I can accept other people are able to rise above their sexism,” she says, adding, “The race thing is really a lot deeper. I guess it’s easier for me to deal—he understands that we have a partnership…I feel like my master respects me. I cannot imagine feeling that with someone around race play. ”

Those who engage in race play are quick to say that they keep politics outside of their bedroom (and dungeon). But their own relationships to race are telling. Chupoo sees race as central to her life; Mollena, not as much or not in the same way. Chupoo refuses to do BDSM with anyone who’s white and she says that when someone at a BDSM party ignores her partner, or pretends to not know his name, it’s disrespectful and has to do with racism. For Mollena, it’s most often the other person’s problem, and she’s had relationships with white men. Whatever trajectory brought the two women to these different conclusions, it may also inform what they do in the dungeon, making race play either titillating or disturbing.

The Turn On

Many presentations on race play, if not all, follow a similar format: personal history, explanation of race play, demonstration and time for questions and answers. The explanations vary.

Vi Johnson, the black matriarch of BDSM, has presented on race play at kinky conferences and she believes the appeal is different for each person. “When you’re being sexually stimulated, you’re not thinking that what’s stimulating you is a racist image, ” she says. “You’re just getting turned on.”

So, for some, she says, race play is about playing with authority and for others, it might be humiliation.

Well-known sexuality and SM educator Midori, who is Japanese and German, often presents her theory that humiliation in BDSM is linked to self-esteem. Take the woman who likes it when her boyfriend calls her a “slut,” Midori says. Perhaps the woman internalized the idea that “good girls don’t,” but she enjoys her sexuality. Because the boyfriend sees her in all her complexity, Midori says, when he calls her a slut, “he is freeing her of the social expectations of having to be modest.” That’s different than having some stranger (and jerk) calling you a slut. The stranger doesn’t see the full woman. It’s similar with race play, Midori says. By focusing, for example, on a black man’s body, while he’s bound as a slave, she’s bolstering his own perception of himself as strong and powerful.

Of course, race and gender have a different history. So does that make it easier to play with the word “slut”? Midori tells me to not take it the wrong way but it’s a question of my youth. She’s known women of other generations, for whom the word slut is painful to hear.

Her workshop demonstrations have included full auction scenes mimicking those of the Old South. In them, she is the plantation mistress inspecting a black man for “purchase.” He’s in shackles and “I slap him on his face and push him down on the ground, make him lick my shoes,” she says, emphasizing that she only does the demonstration after the “psychological” talk.

The audience’s reaction? “Everything from horror to sighs of relief to uncomfortable arousal to validation to hooting and hollering, including people walking out.” Midori stresses again that race play is “advanced play.”

Advanced players have had their reservations. Master Hines, a black man, joined the BDSM community in the early 90s. He’s a sadist who’s more than comfortable flogging his white submissive. But with race play, “I thought I’d feel like I was being racist. I thought it was very extreme.” He changed his mind when someone likened it to people playing out a rape fantasy. In that case, he wouldn’t consider that person a rapist because reality and fantasy are different.

While most workshops focus on black and white, every color line is up for grabs. Williams facilitated a workshop in Washington, D.C., three years ago where a Mexican friend helped her. When it came time, she mentioned “wetbacks” and her friend who was sitting in the audience burst out, “What’d you say bitch?” The scene that followed was an erotic struggle, verbal and physical, between him and Williams. When he had her down on the floor, he barked, “Now what? Now what bitch? ”

“Now we stop,” she replied, and they both started laughing and hugging. Williams adds that even for kinky people, the race play is still so new that it’s important for them to know that she and her partners are real friends.

Williams stresses the emotional care in race play. Because it is psychological, “no one knows that you’re hurt,” she says. So, she advises seeing it before trying it and having a go-to person for comfort after engaging in race play. She reminds the audience to think carefully before doing it in public. “You’re putting your reputation on the line —are you prepared for that?”

The Reality of Play

A curious thing about race play is that it is pursued by people of color but often consumed by whites. The BDSM community is largely white, so those watching a public scene are more often white people. The community itself is not free of racism. Chupoo sees this evidenced in the men who approach her. “I get more white sub[missive] men hitting on me than anything else,” she says. They’re hoping she’ll be a big, black dominant woman. “It’s their thing. It ’s their racist fantasies of what black people are.”

Bond has had similar experiences but he and others note that the white people they do race play with are not racists. “Truth be told, you have to get a white woman to like you before you can get her to beat you or call you racial names, ” he says.

However, discomfort in saying the word “nigger” during race play doesn’t make someone racism-free. A related concern is the relationship between the sex industry, much of which operates on race as fetish, and those who do race play. But white men flying into Havana for morena prostitutes reduce those women to racial and gender stereotypes. It’s not a consensual relationship (or any kind of relationship). They don’t have to consider that woman’s needs. By contrast, Williams only does race play with about four people she’s come to trust.

Still it is tricky matter, race play. Williams says that in considering a partner for it, you have to ask yourself, “Do you know in your guts of guts that [racism] is not their point of view?” Even knowing the answer to that, she says, you have to be ready for that moment, that quick second perhaps in which you might find yourself doubting the person’s motives. It’s like wondering if a boyfriend would cheat, Williams says. The moment should ideally pass quickly but if it doesn’t, she says, “Are you ready for that moment?”

March 22, 2009

Perfectly flawed.

Filed under: Going's On.,Processing,Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit. — Mollena Williams @ 1:29 pm

 

Being submissive and desiring slavery, craving physical and emotional ownership would seem to place me at a disadvantage, relationship-wise

I have to be the one looking to fit into the right “place,” right? I mean, there is the topdominantowner, fully formed and domly and all, needing me to be what THEY need in order to get the fucking equation to balance.

Chameleon, cuttlefish, octopus, me. All my life shifting colour texture shape size and the very fabric of my spirit to be pleasing.

Submission seemed to be just the thing for me. Easy. Natural.

After all, I am an Adept in these skills. It is nothing for me to build emotional dams, aqueducts, sewers and channels so that my emotional slop didn’t muss the hair of my partners. You don’t like that about me? It is gone. Sorry to have bothered you.

Of course, it never works that way. A placid pool, minding its own business, can be thrashed to fury by the mere suggestion of change. I am sure I thought I was handling myself well, damming up my emotions and kneeling and serving and trying, trying so hard, to be perfect.

But I seeped through the cracks. My very transparency gave lie to my struggle.

And when that didn’t work out, I was told I wasn’t “slave material.”

That I lacked the “heart of a slave.”

Which is a pretty shitty thing to hear because, Ganesha knows, it took years to get to the place where I could even acknowledge who I felt I was. To have spiritual insurgents in my heart conquer my city and then find it lacking was more than devastating.

It was killing.

The problem with the Henry Higgenses of the BDSM community is this: We Eliza Doolittles step up to the plate. We lose our flavor, willingly slaughter our ego, suppress our id. We talk pretty one day, and we have the spit-shine and the downcast eye.

And then, we outshine you. We have outgrown you.

And you have no fucking idea how to use us.

Your assumption that you have the capacity to MAKE US WHO YOU WANT US TO BE is fucking hubris.

Hubristic and damaging.

And we let you do it.

I let you do it.

I don’t know how long it will be, if ever, that I find the worthy person who, when they look at me, really see me and understand who I am, and not only that, are convicted that I am who they must have in their lives.

I’ve spent many years making myself ready to prove myself to the right person.

But I recently realized that I have no control over what people want. I don’t even have control over how people see me. Sure, I can set up smoke, mirrors, costumes, masks, curtains and soundtracks to keep up my desperate duplicitous dance.

Love me love me love me but please do that from over there. DO NOT get too close, because then you’ll see me for what I really am and THAT Mollena can’t bear any but the softest touch. She isn’t tough. She isn’t strong. She isn’t confidant and she needs more love than I trust you to give her so back the fuck off and leave us alone.

Next show at 10:00.

My relationships have been based on compromises. Some massive. But sometimes, a series of seemingly small compromises. And frankly, that was OK. Because they met some or most of needs.

Maybe I wasn’t your ideal physical type. But you liked me anyway. Sure I may be too heavy to get your dick hard, but I was also a heavy masochist and that got you hard, and I was proud to be able to take that. And that was enough.

Maybe you really didn’t want to date someone as twisted and perverted as I was, and you judged me deeply. But my nature meant you could do anything to me you wanted, and I was essentially obedient, and that was endlessly fascinating to you. And that was enough.

Maybe you relished the unnerving instantaneous bond that we immediately felt, but distance and your “Real” relationship would never permit that to blossom. Yet it was pleasing to you to let that fire smoulder , with occasional stoking with stolen phone calls and the grandest larceny of all: giving me hope that one day, you would change your mind. If music be the food of love, you fed me so over a decade. And that was enough.

Maybe I was not suited to the type of service you were convinced you needed, but you were patient and would teach me to silence my needs and my wants and my spirit and my fire and be the silent invisible slave you sought to adorn your stable. And I was giving up myself for you. And that was enough.

And throughout all of that what I sit with now is a battered steamer trunk of memento mori, and maudlin yet meaningful memories.

I had had that trunk under control, I thought. And I had left mostly silent the whispering submissive, craving ownership, craving a place, wanting to be seen for who I am and accepted.

But of late that has been kind of fucked up. Ganesha, remover of obstacles, put me into a situation, in a time and a place where my defences folded like night flowers at sunrise.

I can’t sit on top of it any more. Those previously dormant emotions and feelings are chattering and clawing and dinging cracks through which they can escape.

They have quite a bit to say.

And I can only sit and listen. To my own desires. My own fears. And I have nowhere to escape. Alcohol’s oblivion isn’t available. Running away to dilute my pain with the pain of others isn’t appealing either.

Listening. Listening to myself. Scared because I rarely know what I am going to hear.

But it is not painful, listening to my desires, my needs.

Noisy. Gods yes, noisy, yes. Many many voices. Many fingers hands, many eyes blinking in the new light. Many voices finding themselves.

My desires and fears are hungry. Starved, really, and they want to be fed, please.

 

Whenever you get the chance, but please, don’t let us die.

 

I don’t want them to die. I want to be all of me. And I now know, and I accept,  that I cannot do that alone

As much as I’ve had pounded, beaten and etched into my psyche that I HAD TO BE independent, that I could never rely on anyone, that people are only human and WILL disappoint you, I have to be OK with that.

That emotion, that desire, that longing, is NECESSARY.

How else will you feel the quicksilvershaprmess of that desire being fulfilled if you don’t fucking let it breathe and speak its name?

Pain is to be felt. That is what it is there for. Avoid pain at your own peril.

Part of who I am…a substantial part of who I am…doesn’t thrive unless it is in concert with another.

I cannot be the performer I am unless I have collaborators, an audience, a director.

I cannot be the writer I am unless I have readers, people who can hear me, and support me.

I cannot be the bottom, submissive, slave, girl I need to be until I risk, again and again and fucking again, if necessary, putting myself in front of the oncoming train of my emotional process so that I can feel the impact and absorb that energy.

The most precious expensive, rare and dear things on earth aren’t for everyone. They are often volatile, often hard to find and even more difficult to keep.

I am not suitable for most people.

But rather than assuming that this lowers my value and that this is my fault and I need to stoop to be conquered, I think I am going to try this new thing.

*Deep breath*

Yeah, I fucking rule.

You think you got game?

Bring it.

March 20, 2009

Say It Loud…

Filed under: Going's On.,Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit. — Mollena Williams @ 11:55 pm

I had occasion today to enjoy a quiet moment in a hotel room high up above the city, idly gazing upon a broad swath of terrain from the cold blue of the Bay to the fog-lapped crests of Twin Peaks.

Meandering thoughts mostly disconnected…some deceptively so…were doing their best to distract me from remaining in the moment.

I was exhausted from the previous night.  Thursday was the opening ceremony and show for the International Ms. Leather Contest, and I’d spearheaded a campaign to have my employer represented by sponsoring one of the many “Receptions” that this event offers to attendees. This is a fairly low-bandwidth way to do Community Outreach among the Leatherfolk, and as one of the handful of kinky people at my company, I’m in a unique position to cross the streams, so to speak, and have my day-job find its rightful place in the BDSM community.

However, I hadn’t anticipated being physically exhausted and having a voice-over recording that same day. It was going to be a pretty exhausting end to the week, and I was near tears several times on Thursday.

Ain’t nothing like being in the midst of Bloody Abdominal Injustice while having to haul around cases of water and wine and bags of snacks.

Thankfully I had a co-worker (Yaaaay!) who was also volunteering at IMsL, and she was there to keep things going.

Somehow, we did it.

Of course, we had everything set up and ready to go, free schwag primed, and then…no one showed up.

We sat for 10 minutes, 25 minutes.

A few people trickling in mentioned that the opening show was still going, and that many attendees were still there, and that was why the reception wasn’t filling up.

But when it did, boy howdy, did it ever!

Old habits die hard and I snapped into the smile-on-the-face-super-attentive-chatting-and-laughing-party-hostess…make sure the cheese is out and the chips are there and the bottles are open and there is enough wine and cheese and…and…and…

Fret not. We rocked it. Everyone was pleased.

Several people who had joined me for my recent class on “Race Play” were in attendance, and took a moment to tell me that not only did they think the class was important for the community, but that they were personally grateful, to me, for doing it.

Their timing couldn’t have been more critical, because not long before that I’d learned of some less-than-optimal reactions that some people are airing publicly.

People who don’t know me, who haven’t heard what I have to say. Or, in one case, someone who took my words and torqued them into a most damaging and fearsome misrepresentation of my reality.

And then we have the nauseating nadir: people who openly threaten violence if they ever were to walk into a play party and see a race play scene happening.

Pardon me if I take this shit personally.

It is tough enough to find play-partners because I am a shy freak and exceedingly picky, selective and intimidation resistant.

And now, am I supposed to tell a prospective play-partner than he or she may be subject to rude speech, threats of confrontation or even physical assault simply for playing with me?

Really???

Meet my new DOM. Too bad my safeword is "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."

Meet my new Dom! Though, it is rather troubling that my safeword is "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."

Well, it is convenient then that my play partners tend to be really…really big! And trained in martial arts and strapped with stun guns…and with sharp pointy teeth…so there! 

Sigh.

Yes, I acknowledge that it may be bluster and bullshit.

But the more I sort through this, the more I wonder what the fuck is up with my fellow perverts.

I wonder what about this not uncommon fantasy it so dangerous it drives people to threaten physical violence.

And I wonder why none of these people actually care to be open, and interact with me.

No, I know why.

It is easier to scream from your perch of fear than it is to try to settle in and confront your own demons on someone else’s terms.  Because I think differently than others, and there is a chance you might see me as human, your Comfy Throne of Righteous Indignation now teeters on the edge of reason.

Is it so hard to empathize?

I’ll say it here and loud and clear.

If you hear some crazy bullshit about me, and you aren’t sure whether or not it is accurate, you know who the fucking authority on Mollena is?

OK, aside from God…

Ya, that would be me.  I’ve been stuck in here for almost 40 years:  I know my way around, and I give frequent tours. Stop and and have a cup and I’ll tell you what is going on, OK?

As I stood behind the improvised bar at the party, I managed (I think) to be welcoming and I smiled and introduced myself to as many people as I could. Many old friends were there, and it was lovely to catch up. Hopefully no one could hear my insides whimpering and feeling clumsydumboutofplacecrampyexhaustednervous and anxious.

At one point I overheard and adjacent conversation in bits and starts. There were several Black woman gazing at me intently, and I overheard “Mo Williams…” and “Yeah, she did the “Race Play Class…” and I tensed up. I couldn’t tell from their expressions what their take on that was. 

We were formally introduced and they said that they were sorry to have missed the class, and that they had initially planned on coming to see it, but couldn’t make it. Thing is, they aren’t local. They were planning on coming form Canada to see the class. I confess I was very taken aback and nervous. I had wild fantasies of a squad of Black Domme Avenging Secret Agents sent to take me out for setting back the evolution of our people.

But that wasn’t quite it.

I chatted with them a bit, and as it was a rather loud and busy party, it wasn’t conducive to a more private discussion. But we made a date to chat for a bit the next day.

I hope to talk further, possibly, about working with these folks in terms of BDSM oriented education.  They had done their homework and had some really provocative questions for me about my classes, my approach, myself.

Plus, damn, they are so cool!

But something else….it was a new sensation for me. With all due respect to all of my friends of all ethnic and racial backgrounds, something new has happened for me in the past few months. I am experiencing  a strong redemption for me in having other Black Women REALLY SEE ME and tell me I am OK. I spent almost an hour re-connecting with a woman of many years acquaintance, and have a new respect for both of our struggles as outsiders among outsiders.

This is another benefit of being openly fucked up. Other people who feel like you, outlier, find you and share their struggles and then you aren’t alone anymore.

But this is new, feeling specifically connected with Black women. Women here in SF, in Arizona, in DC,  in Chicago…and it is shocking to me.  This is many, many years coming.

Truth?

I have been consistently rejected by many of  my “Sisters” for my entire life. Even the gossamer illusory kinship pf BDSM gave me nothing but chimeric rapport. And that heat mirage disappeared, all to often, when the going got weird.

I feared derision, scorn and rejection from other Black women.

That sucks. A lot.

How much of a fucking gift, and a startling one, to now find women who look like me meeting me in the eye and speaking with respect for my humanity.

This is…I don’t know precisely what to say.

I don’t know what it means yet. But it is changing my life.

March 18, 2009

HNT: Blood Makes Noise.

Filed under: hnt,Perversions.,Real-Honest-To-Ganesha-True-Shit.,Scene Reports — Mollena Williams @ 11:26 pm

I’ve had a mixed relationship with my body when it comes to menstruation.

I started when I was 12, and was a little pissed because I had swimming class that day, and my Mom was broke, and she only used pads.

 

I was running late but had to get money off of my already strapped Mother, run down 6 flights of stars, go to the store, get back up 6 flights of stars, figure out how the hell to put this thing in my vagina, and get to the YMHA in time for our swim class.

 

It was not a beautiful coming-of-age moment.

 

My first boyfriend was not impeded at all by the flow of blood. Not. At. ALL. In fact there was no behaviour he cared to modify sexually because of a little blood. Blood was just something that came out of me, he reasoned,  and therefore flawlessly beautiful.

 

I neither realized how rare a position this was nor fully appreciated it at the time.

 

In subsequent years I’ve seen men run away like scared rabbits from menstrual blood. I’ve heard women use terrible language in regard to their own bodies when it comes to their periods.  I’ve had partners decline to fuck because I was bleeding…despite the fact that I really really want to fuck when I am bleeding.

 

And that fucking sucks.

 

A few years ago I was traveling round Europe. I wound up in Norway…in Oslo, specifically.

 

Don’t ask.

 

Shit happens.

 

I was vising a friend I’d met online, and we were going to hang out for a few days. There was a modicum of sexual tension, and the unilateral approach was “Well, let’s see what happens.”

 

The first night I was there, my period, which was an almost constant companion due to my unstable health and spiraling alcoholism, re-surged with a vengeance.

 

I’d been at Vidar’s huge brooding dark Victorian house with its slick wood floors and huge windows and vaulted ceilings for a few hours. Having known one another online for a while now, the transition to real-time was very simple.  I was grimy from my travels,  and as he prepared some roasted reindeer for supper, I sat in a hot bath watching my insides slowly turn the bathwater pink.

 

“Well, so much for any fucking anyway.” I thought.

 

So I thought…

 

After aperitifs, roast game, many rounds of boozy conversation, and booming glorious stertorous Edvard Grieg rolling through the place, I was fairly certain that my Viking friend had some mischief in mind.

 

Seriously…seducing someone to Grieg is best left to crazy fucking Black Metal Norwegians in whose veins runs the blood of Vikings. Don’t try this at home.

 

I was trying to ascertain when the appropriate moment to advise him that I was bleeding…profusely…might roll around.

 

I’m not a presumptuous girl, so I thought it might be best to wait until I was pretty certain a fucking was imminent before saying anything.

 

And sure enough the fucking was soon imminent and before the ropes got too elaborate and the cuffs were secured to the bed I mumbled something about him needing a towel. He furrowed his brow, pale blue eyes observing me coldly.

 

“Why? For a little blood? Pfft.”

The bear hat is mine. I requested he wear it to mitigate the Evil.

The bear hat is mine. I requested he wear it to mitigate the Evil.

 

Well, OK, whatever you say…

 

Not long after that it was more than a little.

 

It looked like an episode of Law & Order SVU: Oslo in this bed. Seriously. There was even a bloody hand-print on the wall. How that got there I’m unsure.  But slicked with blood and sweat and my bodily fluids everywhere, a long while later, I was pretty ready for  a break.

 

I was still twisted into some impossible position and half bound to the bed when he got up and strolled across the room to fetch his cigarettes. Sitting back down beside me on the bed, he said nothing as I lay there, regarding him silently.

 

His forearms, dusted with copper coloured hair and thick with muscle and sinew were, I realized, slicked spotted and smeared with blood.

 

Blood was under his fingernails, and his rough callused hands were slapdash with red.

 

I was about to mention this terribly obvious fact as I watched his bloodstained hand grope to his bedside table to retrieve  his lighter.

 

He casually flicked the lighter on, the whoosh of the flame’s  ignition drawing my eye away from the curve of this thick rippling shoulder to his other hand, also blood darkened, and caressing a cigarette.

 

My mouth parted slightly as I watched him light his cigarette and draw slowly  on it, bringing the smoke from the smouldering tip into his lungs and out through his nose.  As he dropped the lighter back on the table, I could not tear my eyes away from the deep red pigment that clung to his fingers as he raised the cigarette to his lips, bloody fingers and cigarette and cool amused stare noting my round-eyed expression.

 

His gaze wandered over me, over the bed, taking in the sheets the walls the rumpled stained blanket, and he took another drag on his cigarette.

 

His free hand, also blood-gilded,  caressed my chin as he grinned, his thick accent corduroy in my ears as I smiled up at him.

 

“Quite a mess, little girl, yes?”

 

Yes.

 

Quite.

 

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday ;-)

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