Anna’s Adventures

I don’t want the yoke. Fuck it. I kick the fucking thing.

I’m happy, I’m satisfied, and I don’t have a promise of love eternal, or monogamy, or even friendship. But I also am not being strung out with the promise that I might get these things if I behave.

I currently have friendship and I’m so happy. There ain’t no restraints on me today.

I get to pursue what I wants. The view of the future is so sweet coz its my future. Not “ours”, not “yours”, mine.

I’m really really nervous about tonight, about this weekend and about my immediate future. A big part of me wants again to feel the yoke on my neck, but I need to struggle against that longing for comfort with my conscious mind.

There’s something in the air that’s taking me back to the sex of my adolescence. No, I’m not revisiting a time of innocence and discovery, but a time without shame. The first thing I had to do as a teenager, was to lose the part of my shell which kept me back from loving and accepting myself.

But losing that shell carries the rise of being exposed to nasty people.

Something happened, though. Some monumental shift of cogs and gears within me let it all click: internal validation is the name of the game and pleasing my own tastes is the aim. Now, by this I hardly mean orgasm or various ways to reach one. I do mean selecting my partners in sex and love and friendship with much greater care.

I’ve had partners who were distant. I’ve had partners who didn’t care. I’ve had partners who cared too much, and I’ve had partners who cared to the psycho point of manipulating me into submission.

Now this thing that’s happened has shattered all the silliness, all the shell and safeguards I’d put in place and left a naked truth or 2.

First off, and most obviously: I’m fine, and what I want to do is fine.

Secondly, I don’t like being grabbed by sweaty guys with one hand on their cock and nothing to say for themselves about it. I’m attracted to people who have some understanding of the world past “food/fuck”.

Fact 3: In the past I’ve tended to go for people who’s intellect beckoned me onto new paths, but I’ve since found that they aren’t what I need. Sure, they are very pretty in conversation and they have (usually) good spelling and grammar, but they simulate intelligence and inquisitiveness through competition and domination. If you question them, then you’ll be quoted out of the water before you can pick up a reference book.

Fact 4: There are some smells I really like. Skin, light sweat, motor oil, the salty lake at Swansea, ginger and roasting lamb.

Fact 5: I like engines. Eh, what can ya do?

Fact 6: Some people use honesty as a way to manipulate and hurt. They do the wrong thing with eye wide open, and then confess to their partner, who can only suffer and offer absolution or create drama by resisting. I’m not into that kind of honesty.

Fact 7: Honesty in itself isn’t a bad thing, but I flinch when I hear people tell me that its important in a partner / friend. I’d rather be lied to than routinely stuck like a voodoo doll.

Fact 9: (Many of these aren’t facts precisely) Its not that I don’t like men, I just don’t like lots of things that many of them do. To me. To the ladies I love. To themselves. Urgh.

Fact 10: The most degrading sexual act I can think of is sex without consent. I won’t allow it to happen in any form in my world. That’s not to say that I’ve been raped, but it is to say that I have seen some behavior recently that’s made me question how some people obtain consent, and I am not happy.

Fact 10b: (I’m really not into the idea of shit in a sexual context though - just me!)

Fact 11: It’s OK to routinely fall in love with people, things and the world. All that love comes back. I’d rather make love and fun with friends than have undramatic sex with the same partner for the rest of my life.

Fact 12: I’d rather have sex with a polite stranger than a violent lover. I’d rather have sex with a violent lover than a manipulative partner. I’d rather have sex with no-one than with a bland partner. I’d rather have sex with a bland partner than a sleazy moron. I’d rather make love with friends than most of the above.

Fact 13: I’m not going to make you complete, and I’m not going to wait for you to make me complete.

Fact 14: I don’t mind waiting sometimes. But not too often. And not for nothing.

Fact 15: I’m not jealous. Not anymore.

Ai, what a week!

I had some amazing dreams! In one, Kal told me that he’d got a lewd tattoo in full colour. In another, I murdered 2 men. The first was a thin young man who ran in front of my car and who a white fatty spray all over the road when his body shattered. I dragged him into some woodland and drove on. The second was and older fat man who I killed in rage, dismembered and buried. Later, I was walking along, and saw some coins and differently shaped keys on the ground and I began to collect them. As I dug, I noticed papers belonging to myself and my sister, and I remembered that this is where I buried the fat man. I really hoped that I wouldn’t get caught, and woke with the sense that it was a real memory!

On Saturday morning, I dreamed of lactation. I dreamed of touching my nipple and having it spring forth in a multi-directional white spray of nutritive life!

In other news, I went to the gym and punished myself at cycle and at personal training. I so ♥ Kel, my trainer. She is just honest, nice and sweet.

Then after my training sesh, I got ink! Bluebeard is dead, I inherit the riches of the castle.

Courtesy of The Illustrated Man. Wheeeeee! Oh yeah, and new friend didn’t say “I don’t like tattoos” or “that looks stupid” or even “hrpm” followed by silence. He said “that’s new” and later, asked about its significance and (wait for this) listened to the answer. Oh fuck I am in trouble!

Workmates said “that’s lovely!”.

On friday night, I went to hellfire with cleopatra eyes and a pushup bra. I was escorted by my own skirted centurion, which was rather lovely. But I must admit, the best part of the night was arriving and leaving on the antique Indian. It was nice to be introduced to people as we mingled. I even met some people under my own steam - a lovely young man named G* who’s costume theme was “if you find a cheaper outfit, Bunnings will beat it by 10%” and who appreciated my new tattoo. There was another bloke with lovely eyes who’s followed me about a bit and who I might speak to next time. I danced with this wildly enthusiastic lass who was dancing with everyone one by one. Yay! All in all, I was a bit subdued, but had a very nice time, some compliments, and I think some acquaintances. Although as we were leaving, I was accosted by some drunk dickhead, but he was easy to deal with: just said “No, I’m leaving now, goodbye”. I think that its good for me to practice the boundaries.

Yesterday, I had a lovely chat with KS. Yay! We talked about how sometimes you have such a hard time in relationships, and then realise that you’re just having them with the wrong people. I’m suddenly aware that there are heaps of people who’d wade a river of shit to worship me. Maybe that’s why my mum always wanted me to marry a plumber? (Actually, she wanted a son who’d be a plumber).

Today, my father is coming to visit us - wow. I had only found that out at 7am yesterday morning (after 3 hours sleep).

I’m really quite happy with myself!

You make love with a death’s head
Shaking in fear
Gritted teeth with concentration

Death baby, golden corn god
Shivering sheaves of wheat
Sacred rattle set fire to the sun

If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then what is my blog for?

The last few cycle / rpm classes, I have wanted to stop halfway through but just kept pushing. At the time, I think “oh I’m such a lightweight, I shouldn’t want to quit” but looking back, it means that I am actually making myself work (even if it only means working through tiredness).

I am reading A History of the Wife by Marilyn Yalom. Though I am not looking for a husband, or a wife, or a partner, I find it enthralling to see how my own attitudes to sex, love and partnership are shaped by very old traditions. My favorite parts are reading about the people who had separate relationships for family, partnership, sex and love.

I wonder what she will say (if anything) about polyamoury, polyfidelity and “swinging”?

I am sending back the key that let me into Bluebeard’s study.
Because he would make love to me
I am sending back the key
In his eye’s darkroom I can see
My X-rayed heart; dissected body
I am sending back the key that let me into Bluebeard’s study.

- Sylvia Plath

Yes, I am sending back the key.

When she was a virgin, the girl’s brothers went away to war. Her father was a cruel man, emotionally cold: needing warmth but untouched by the brightest lights. After he died, there was noone to guide the girl in choosing a mate.

When Bluebeard came a-courting, her older sisters were wary. He was odd-looking (the girl found him interesting); he was eccentric (she found him charming); he was rumoured to have married before and murdered his wives (the girl thought there must be a rational explanation).

So, she married him (and her sisters we relieved it wasn’t their duty to marry this monstor). He took her to his castle, through the fog, across the moat and gave her the keys to every room. She was mistress now. Though he asked her to never, ever, go into his study.

Of course she respected this privacy. What maleficence could possibly go on inside this man’s private space? When he went away on business, and her sisters came to stay they taunted her about her right as mistress to enter each room. What had he to hide?

So she creeps up to the room, peers through the keyhole, breathes in and takes out her key. On openning the room, she sees the glorious horror of Bluebeard’s previous wives; executed, tortured, mutilated and adorning the room. She imagines herself punished with the same fate for her curiosity and mistrust, and is so shocked that she drops the key.

Though it is a small key, simple and brass, she can’t remove the blood staining it. She scrubs it with sand. She buries it to purify it under the moon. She hides it, but the blood soaks through, staining her hands, clothes, and betraying her loss of innocence.

Her betrayal, the knowledge gained, changes her. When Bluebeard returns, she is afraid of him instead of fascinated. She flees as he pursues her up each flight of stairs in the castle, until she locks herself into a room and he pounds on the door with a sword.

Miraculously, her two brothers return from the war and murder Bluebeard and the girl inherits every treasure of the castle.

The secrets of a cold man no longer interest me. The mystique of cruelty and aloofness can’t compare to the pleasure of my own imagination, my own company and my freedom to love. Not to possess sexually, but to love openly, unreservedly without shame or fear of falling, without recourse to safety nets and artificial devices of the heart.

The brothers who rescue me are the males in my head and my heart. When I am a wife, these brothers remain dormant. When I am a daughter to my mother, these brothers are absent. When I am a lover, I forget them. But when I call them by name, they will come because they are my brothers.

I’ve begun a new love affair with myself.

Join me if you wish. But you must be able to share.