Tit(le) Torture

Everybody is giving me guff about my pondering a run for Mr. Northeast Leather Sir-r-r. Thus far, my therapist is the only yes vote. Edge argues that the whole sash thing is passe and useless; Diabolique feels that it's inherently exclusionary, and inclusion is a value he feels worth fighting for; Sweetheart Sir has had it up to here with the swollen empty heads that seem to grace the winners circles and the exploitation of those swollen empty heads by coniving bar owners. And everyone seems to feel that the whole deal is basically a ludicrous beauty pageant that is beneath me. (I'm flattered by this, but as I've pointed out before to anyone who will listen, I am a shallow person with a frighteningly fragile self-image.)

I want to correct a common misconception, though, that being: I'm hoping to get laid more. That is sooo not true. Nothing is clearer to me that pursuit of a title would be a fool's crusade. Ain't nuthin' gonna gain me any ground in that territory.

I never get laid. Well... not never. But the last time I got laid was at MAL. That was January. Three months ago. Am I happy about this? Would I like to get laid on a more regular basis? Yeah, I guess. But there are obstacles I face.

Relationship-phobia If'n we're flirting and I get the impression, correct or incorrect, that you're looking at this as being the start of something beautiful, you will see me disappear in a cloud of bobby-pins like Witch Hazel in Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Thermo-andro-phobia Aka, a fear of Hot Men. If a hot guy comes on to me, the wheels start spinning. "He's so out of my league! I must be misreading those signals. He's just being friendly. No way could he be wanting to get me in the sack; he could have anyone he wants!" And, also, the deep seated fear that somehow I've managed to disguise what I perceive as being my flaws, and that if he ever did see me naked (even though I might already be naked, so, 'naked really close up') he'd realize what a huge mistake he's made.

Geography I live in Jersey City. If traffic is not bad in the Holland Tunnel, I've clocked it at twelve minutes door to door from the LURE on West 13th Street to home. I can't imagine that if I lived on the Upper East Side I could get there more quickly. So that's often a problem. But I can't claim to be mystified by this reluctance to cross a river, because I'm the exact same way. When I'm home, I need a lot of encouragement to stir from my hearth, especially if it will mean driving around for forty-five minutes looking for parking.

What you just said This could be anything. I have this fear and dread of foot fetishists. I totally don't get it. (And this from a person who can appreciate scat, even though I can't claim to be into it or particularly turned on by it.) And then there was the guy who said that he was only eating raw vegetables right now to clear himself out. That same fear and dread of foot fetishists also extends to people with heavy food things going on. New-agey neo-pagan religions prompt rapid detumescence, too. An old boyfriend was a pagan. It got to the point that I wanted to phone in bomb threats to Enchantments, the witch store he would go to on East Ninth Street. And what deity are we worshiping this week, Sweetheart? I am so sure that those crystals you just forked over half your paycheck for are going to do a lot to clear up your complexion. Didn't you have to take Biology in high school? And then there's that whole gay thing about connoisseurship that drives me apeshit. And anything that could lead me to believe that you have a drug problem is probably not going to go over too well, as I spent a significant portion of my professional life working with people who had drug problems.

Timing If it's 11:15 and I have to be at work tomorrow, we probably can make it work. If it's 11:45 and I have to be at work tomorrow, I'll take a raincheck. And I'm a really really really really busy person. By my estimation, sex takes about two hours, not counting travel time. Chances are, I don't have two hours just sitting there in my schedule.

Shy? Stupid? Stupidly Shy? Shyly Stupid? So I see a hot guy out at a bar. Standing there drinking his beer. Not talking to anybody. My strategy: position myself in his line of vision--repeatedly if necessitated by his moving around in the bar--and see if he notices me. This, of course, is a strategy that is virutally guaranteed to never ever ever work ever. What is my problem? What??!!! What prevents me from walking over and saying, "Hey what's up?" I mean, chances are he's not waiting for a bus.

Now, I've actually had a good amount of scene play recently. In that department, I sure can't complain. I used to think that getting off was the point of S/M, but that is so not the case. There are so many simpler ways to get off. Although I find S/M to be unbelievably satisfying on so many levels, I don't know that it's entirely a replacement for sex. For instance, I'm good at doing a scene. I've always had the sneaking suspicion that I was sort of a wash when it comes to having sex. I think I'm downright bad in bed, selfish and self-conscious, prone to all sorts of technical difficulties and I want to go to sleep immediately afterwards. S/M is never like that.

Anyway, I've rambled on long enough. But suffice it to say that trying for a sash has totally nothing to do with me wanting to get laid more often.

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