I originally wanted to write a rebuttal of Guy New York’s post on polyamory. After re-reading it though, I don’t know how to use his piece as a jumping off point. He made a beautiful mess and there is a rawness that I can’t touch. I see his points and they all make sense, for him. There is also no reason to rebut what he wrote.
Despite the fact that people sometimes confuse us, Guy and I are pretty different people. We are in very different relationships. That being said I certainly consider him poly. He may not like the term, but it is useful to describe his lifestyle, and mine.
Through my teens and twenties it seemed like my heart and my head were constantly at war. Honesty, curiosity, hedonism, adventure, the things that I tried to base my life on, always seemed at odds with falling in love. And falling in love was the goal, obviously.
Falling in love has always been a cataclysmic, life changing event for me. It still is, to be certain, but I guess what being poly has let me figure out is that I’ve looked at love as a binary instead of an emotion or a connection. All in or all out.
Somehow, somewhere around when I turned 30, after a long and complicated and fucked up breakup, I decided that there was some other way to do it. It was hard. I didn’t do it right at first. I fucked up a bunch. Now? Now I feel like I’m living the way I have supposed to be living all of my life but didn’t know it.
I mean, I’m certainly in love right now. It is a love that has changed my life. It has changed me. But there are also crushes and flirtations and intellectual dalliances. There are certain people, for whom certain times mean certain furniture will be broken. There are silly flings and May-December romances. There is a circle of friends who are on and off lovers and it’s all complicated and lovely and despite the fancy new words, I’m sure none of it is new.
Maybe the new part is the communication. The hypercommunication. The biggest realization that poly has brought me is that honesty destroys guilt. Which is good, because I don’t do guilt.
So I try and be brave and ask for what I want. If I get it, that is awesome. If I don’t get it, I deal with it. You don’t have to be happy about it, but you do have to deal with it. Sometimes asking for what you want means people will not like you anymore. Be honest with those around you and respect their choices and expect respect for yours.
Anyhow, that’s all what poly means to me. It isn’t about how many people you are dating or how many people you love or fuck. If I were single I would certainly still be poly. To me it means that I am open to being attracted to multiple people at the same time and acting on those attractions in a honest and overt manner. It means that monogamy would be difficult for me. That’s about all.
And I like the word, even if it does have its own cache of cliche. Then again I’m probably more of a geek than Guy and I’ve even admitted to being a blogger in public without cringing. I don’t so much see things like polyamory as being labels as much as they are tags for easy searchability. Poly, kinky, skeptic, writer, so on. There are a few more that I am not sure I am and struggle with, like queer, artist, ally, but that’s a whole different post, which I’m sure will also be too long.
He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.
He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.
She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.
The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.
She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.
She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.
She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.
She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.
Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.
She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.
For a majority of my adult life a dream (more accurately a goal) was to take a year off and just write. To a degree, I did that last year. I was out of work from April 2013 to (almost to the day) April 2014. I travelled around Europe and the Southern US. I wrote a lot. I made headway on two novels and made some big decisions about how I want to move forward with my work in general.
Eventually the money ran out. I lived well that year. I pampered myself and others, I worked hard and played hard. I found myself in new ways, but in the end I had to go back to the daily grind.
My new job is interesting, easy, low stress, and it pays well. I can see a path in the company I am now with or others like it, where I can move up.
It is all a means to an end though. My heart isn’t in it. I will go and do the work and shake the hands, but it’s all biding my time.
Still, I’m not detached enough not to fall into the interesting rhythms and gossips of a new office. The interactions and currencies of a new workplace are always riveting to me. It fuels the archives; new faces, new quirks for characters, names and details.
But day to day, outside work, I find myself drowning in thoughts. The inspiration is still there and lunch breaks and weekend are filled with finding time to get the words all down. The muscle of writing has been exercised every day for too long and now I’m a race horse chomping at the bit, nervous in my stable.
So that’s where I am. Still, for the time being, broke, and still hungry, which feels good. Still looking for the perfect percentages of work and writing and money. The last few months have taught me how to live a little lighter. How to shrink my monthly bills to the bare minimum. What things are actually important to me. I can move forward from there and save up and keep my eyes open for new opportunities.
And I’ll get by writing through my lunch breaks and stealing an hour at a cafe to type type my smut and maybe even my important work. And I’m learning to forgive myself the differences between the two and respect all of my words, be they dirty, silly, or profound.
I’m still hopelessly in love with myself and living my life as art and aware and amazed.
"This isn’t exactly how I thought it would go," he said with a nervous laugh like a cough.
With wickedness in her eyes, Kay smiled her toothy grin and tousled his hair.
“Oh no? Do you want to stop?” she teased, moving her hand down to his throat.
"N-no sir, I mean, ma’am, I mean what do I call-" he said, his cock now hard and bobbing against his stomach as he tried to squirm out of her choke hold.
"Sir sounds pretty when you say it, why don’t you stick with that."
Emma kneeled next to them, her eyes huge as she watched.
"Doesn’t it sound pretty when he says it?" Kay asked Emma, who nodded emphatically.
Kay took Alec by the hair again.
"Now are you going to suck my cock like a good boy?" she said through her clenched teeth.
His whimper was like that of a hurt puppy. His cheeks were on fire and his face twisted with confusion.
“Don’t be scared. How about just a kiss to start? That would’t be so bad would it?” Kay said, her hand moving to his face, nails digging into his cheek.
He swallowed and she forced his head around, his lips inches from the thick purple cock.
He licked his lips, animal fear in his eyes.
Emma moved closer and pressed herself against both her boyfriend and Kay.
"Just kiss it, Alec," Emma whispered into his ear.
“Kiss it once for me,” she said and let her lips brush against his neck.
He closed he eyes and his lips touched her cock. Kay felt an electric shock shoot from her crotch up her spine.
He seemed to be trying to hold himself back, but once his lips touched it, the animal instinct was let loose. He opened his mouth and pushed himself forward, taking an inch of the cock, his tongue slipping under it.
The way his eyes closed and his mouth opened reminded Kay of a thirsty man taking a first sip of water. It took all of her will to pull him off her cock, but it was worth it to see the want and the disappointment.
He let out more puppy whimpers.
“P-please,” he said straining against her hand in his hair.
Emma was nearly jumping out of her skin as she watched, her thighs squeezing together rhythmically and she bounced on her knees.
“No, Alec, you have to say sir. You have to say ‘please, sir can I suck your cock,’” she explained with a tattle tale girlishness in her voice.
Kay held the boy’s hair tighter.
“Why don’t you show him, Em,” Kay said sweetly.
Emma smiled wide, licking her red lips. She took Kay’s cock into her mouth expertly, with the pride of a birthday girl who had gotten the most cake.
She is known as “the Catalyst.”
In the moments before 2am, when the party is made up of nothing but whiskey fumes and nervous energy, she wiggles out of her little black dress, tight as a snake’s skin, and with a bright smile and bubbly laughter invites the party to follow suit.
You can see the invitation ripple through the crowd. Ties loosen, blouses open, breasts spill out of the dangerously precarious grasp of bras they had been fighting all night. Then the hysterical image of boxers and blazers. Half dressed playboys are pulled onto couches to make out with strangers and old friends. Greedy hands closing around bodies red from corseted bondage.
The shy debate, making eyes with those they hoped might convince them. Those on the fence throw their knickers to the four winds with resolve. The ones who have been waiting all nights for a sign, strip naked and hurl themselves into the fray with abandon.
The Catalyst does not gloat over her effect. She is in the thick of it, bent over a table, possessed by the woman behind her who is pulling her hair and her strings beautifully.
And the party has only just begun.
A friend recently reminded me of one of the first things I ever read in public. It was at the Bowery Poetry Club, though it certainly wasn’t poetry. There were a few readings and some burlesque that night.
Little did I know that while waiting backstage to go on, all of the burlesque performers would get completely nude and casually chat with me, which was very distracting for novice Jack!
My reading went somewhat horribly, though I’m amused at the fabulously bombastic title of what I read. It’s also interesting how different my style was four years ago. I was more lyrical, but far more clumsy, which can have a charm of its own. Also, I am pretty sure I didn’t pronounce callipygian correctly.
The Callipygian Sublimation
She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.
She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.
She is smart, very smart, enthusiastic, very aware of her own desires. She isn’t in this to see, she is in this to get what she has needed for a while but didn’t have a name for. She wants to play, but not for keeps. Those words would be what a doctor would write on my prescription, if there were doctors for such things.
I’m excited to announce my new novella That Sort of Thing, the story of a woman named Valentine who meets a charming writer of risqué stories. As she is seduced by his words she is also confronted by the guilt of playing his taboo games. Will reality live up to the dirty fantasies?
This novella can be purchased as an ebook or an audiobook (recorded by me!) exclusively at writingdirty.com, though it will eventually be up on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.