Tag Archive: feminism


Engagement Rings and Feminist Things

If I am to be bound by the hand
To a lad to share my life
He’ll wear a ring to tell the land
That I have yet to be his wife.

There is one way I’d let this slip
And be the sole wearer of ring with rock.
Surely this is still a feminist quip —
He’d be wearing my ring around his cock.

Why We Need Feminism

I’m having a hard time with a project of mine.
It took me long enough to figure out what medium to start writing it in, but I can’t write the pinnacle scene. The reason I’m writing this show is to raise awareness about the origin of a certain aspect of rape culture; I can’t, however, seem to write the scene that it happens in. 

Because I imagine it as a dance, but I couldn’t for the life of you tell you what it looks like. 
Or, rather: raw, violent, manipulative, cunning, seductive, petrifying, and electric. 
But how do I write that into text? 
I do not believe she makes any sound.
Unless I actually feel it in music… Is this where my opera begins? Thus far the piece has been in verse format (indeed, I have included some text I wrote on this blog; the show ends with “Athena Learns the Truth”) and I’ve been wondering if – in order to have control as the playwright over the subtext of the dance – I’d have to write the music underscoring the movement. I am a composer, after all.
So far I have tried sitting at my computer, lined paper, plain paper. I have drawn a few stage pictures that may be helping one way or another.

My question is:
Where is the line between showing violence and perpetuating violence and encouraging violence?
How ‘interpretive’ can it be without also romanticizing it?  
Why subject humans to a violence that maybe only some of them will understand, and those that will are probably already the ones who understand what I’m trying to say? I do not want to preach to a choir; I understand that it’s hubristic to assume that I have the capacity to change minds; I also believe I have the capacity to change minds. 

Just have to keep sitting on it, I guess. Maybe soon at a piano. 

Self-Evaluation: The Winter Slogs On

I was cavalier in welcoming spring, such that I forgot to cover my heart chakra and look where it got me? My body fails me at the time my schedule cannot allow, and my heart tugs for someone equally busy and it is too soon for that kind of hope. 

I’m ready for an overhaul. I’m ready to leave these jobs that I’ve been experimenting with and to find one money maker that allows me to pursue my art in the meantime. I’m ready to let a few of these plates finish their spins and then pack them away in boxes. Good for me for saying yes, I will, and for staying open to the idea that other pursuits might be useful. I have tried it and now I know. The problem is whether I will remember I know as such the next time someone asks me to do whatever it is that is similar enough to what I’m doing now and hating; I am the number one culprit of “Maybe it will be better this time. Things are different now, after all.” I am a serial optimist, after all. 

Honey Jay seems to have disappeared. My other dancer, however, is interested in continuing our dalliances, and his suggestions of where we could go are enticing. The complication is that a new gentleman has entered the picture and I don’t know what to do. Let’s call him Gorgeous Gentle Giant or GGG (and for those of you who know Dan Savage, you will understand how else that acronym could be applied and I will happily tell you that he embodies that too) and guess what! He may or may not be a reader of this blog. Meh. If integrity is to be desired, then I suppose the secret sexcapades blog may be a good thing for him, or future honeys, to stay abreast of if so interested.

I hadn’t thought I’d be so ready to jump back on the relationship wagon, but I think that checking in with my notch number and having to reflect on all those experiences has jolted me back into alignment of what I’m looking for. 
It’s never changed, for the record, because it always was kindness and affection from interesting and dynamic individuals, but I have been suppressing an integral component in my defensive and healing phase and that is devotion. I want to pour all of this affection I have here, brimming at the edge of my fingertips and my cherry lips, into someone else. Let it course through his veins, protecting him and invigorating him and fueling him to be the best possible person he can be. Let him caress me and kiss me and care for me in whatever way I need, enough but no more than that. Someone with whom to pack survival packs with for an epic romantic adventure to … I don’t care! The mountains, the valley, the Europe, the city, the family farm, the tundra, the bush. Come with me. Hold my hand. Help me up and I will kiss your eyelids as you fall asleep in my arms. 

In the meantime,
I’m struggling to breathe without a wheeze,
to maintain my aim when the weapons I’m being handed are made out of rubber,
to find that men are kind and not just looking for a naked grind.
To remember what I’m good at,
to distill out what is innocuous,
to render myself spent but not weary,
busy but not frantic,
and valued but not idolized. 

I’ve been pondering Self-Care v Motivation a lot lately, most recently as I dragged a razor blade against shins for the first time in weeks. Do I shave for me or for the idea of him later? The answer is both, and then of course the feminist in me asks is that okay? And you know something? I think the answer is yes and here is why:
I already know he finds me beautiful and desirable with healthy active hair follicles. 
While I enjoy the phenomenon of being smooth, trim, and together, frequently there are other items that take precedence like sleep, work, Lionel Vincent, Ron Swanson, or Baby Beluga. But the anticipation of being touched, with skin as soft as a baby’s, is exciting and I am happy (especially in this sluggish snotty slump I’m in) to indulge in self-care, especially if I know it will add an extra oomph to my delight in being delighted in. It gets to happen for me because it could be for him because I would like to be in such a way should he decide to shuffle his stuff to be in my life. And even if he doesn’t, I’m still one sexy beast. So there. 

Catharsis, Come Relieve These Weary Bones

I have fallen out of writing about myself.
I have fallen out of writing about myself, for myself, and for no one else.
I started this blog as a space to tell someone else all the things I couldn’t tell PM
(even though I may have been entirely in denial about that at the time)
and I realize now that the loss of such dedication, such maintenance, of a private journal is one of the relics of this relationship.
He and I have just started talking again. I can’t tell anyone who knows all that we’re civil because they will think I’m softening my constitution, I can’t tell anyone who partially knows because they don’t care enough to want to listen, and I don’t feel like telling any more strangers. I’m tired of being that girl, who has that baggage, such that I’ve even stopped mentioning it to playmates except in the context of “What, you don’t want commitment either? Great! I’m toting around all this emotional baggage; let’s definitely not date; do not worry about me as clingy.” … which is so much better than being that hot mess of feelings, even if they refrain from including ‘weepy’.

I am still so angry at myself.
My roommate my junior year knew it; she watched and she spoke out and still I didn’t listen. God, all that feminist spine just crumpled. Wilted at the sight of beautiful big brown cow eyes that I got a jolt of electricity, deja vu even, the first time I ever made eye contact with. Is that just what I’m destined to carry as a curse; the ability to fall in love at first sight? See, while I tote around a whimsical mental list of future fiancés, I’d never had someone reciprocate. Or even respond to my pursuits.
What occurs to me now is that perhaps I misinterpreted his general ambivalent tone to mean compliance, or even interest. Did I think I snagged the world’s biggest procrastinator, the world’s biggest shmoozer, the world’s best politician (oh my goodness if he ran and had good political stances I’d be his domestic partner in a heartbeat. he’d actually be getting stuff done and I could do plenty of “culture” to give him mad bonus points and I’d get lots of funding in return! For the arts! … this entire idea, for the uninformed, is ludicrous because PM is about the least actively ambitious people; he is all talk and no walk. Unless it’s to the fridge to get a Diet Pepsi … or a beer. And so when I say that I’d be the wife to his politician, I actually mean it. Because his pursuit of something like that (while of course a popularity contest and pats on the back all around if you were picked team captain for kickball!) would mean that he was … getting something done. For someone, maybe, just maybe, other than himself.

So what am I doing for other people that’s not for myself? Isn’t an unpaid internship, rather than merely being free labor, a complete and total desperate attempt to say PAY ATTENTION TO ME PLEASE I WILL DO ANYTHING EVEN BARTER MY GOD GIVEN TIME AND TALENT TO YOU FOR NO RETURN EXCEPT THE VAGUE PROMISE OF TOMORROW IT BECOMING BETTER?? (Mind you I just wrote an article for an up-and-coming socio-political blog about this. See if you can find it.) … I don’t want to get into that now, except to say that both of the design jobs I’m doing are for theatre companies whose missions I believe in aka they produce new work potentially by people like me, ergo one day me if I keep sucking cock. Does the cock taste good? This time better than last time, but ain’t that always the way when you know what you’re doing…

My handsome harem, whom I can’t quite call my stable mainly because they are not all my subordinates I mean my submissives … they are good.
My one sub seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, making me surprisingly glad I didn’t take him up on his offer for cyber-commitment … a sliver of my devil pries as to whether it was that lack of affirmation and public posession that has caused him to disappear but then I remember that his mother is dying and … that is probably why he hasn’t been in touch. Sometimes Lady Ray can remember her place. As a person. In the context of other people, rather than as Princess.

Some of them are swarming. I am overwhelmed, mainly because while I enjoy the attention, I want the commitment. Honey Jay, let’s call my ballerino sub, stood out (I think I’ve mentioned this right here before) at the beginning because he was paying attention and called me out. I stated what I wanted and he retaliated calling me out on fallacy. Which is funny, mainly because no one had ever questioned me. Probably because I’m trying to want what I can, in fact, have? Or is it I am finally wanted by the men who can’t or shouldn’t or oughn’t have me, but want me and pursue me anyways? Those guys are fun as playmates but I don’t want to be by myself all the other times…

My friends are busy and popular. And I keep trying to invite new friends into my space, but they are all busy and popular too so I either need to go out and keep them company in these spaces where they go for social world and networking, but I don’t need any more extension time out in to social space — I need the introvert’s Claritin — the one-on-one or maybe a group of three. And I know I could have it with someone I’m related to, many of them are just a phone call away but the phone is not the same.

I’m hoping the presence of this roommate will improve this, because it will be realfacetime with someone else. I’m apprehensive because she has stated she wants to keep all things separate, which is fine with me for food and toiletries, but for cookware too? We’ll have to clarify when she gets here but I was hoping to live with a buddy. When will my casserole dinner living partner come in? I think that’s living with someone you love. Whether you are also (sexually) naked with them is a different question. Or want to be, anyway. I’d like that, please. Whether it be friend, or honey. No more foes. No more discomfort in the home space. I am apprehensive but not without benefit of the doubt.

It is with heavy lids (after two early mornings for open calls where non union were dismissed after many hours of waiting idly by … I am also feeling discouraged in the world of one of my professions. It may be about time to start working on a very exciting, very ambitious project that I will be writing that I hope will embody everything that is to Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologues AND Lin-Manuel Miranda’s In the Heights. Plus they both starred in theirs. Rock on.

I would like to start imagining my celebrity doppelgänger is Lucy Lawless.
Lucy Lawless in Xena: Warrior Princess. MCA
My first reaction: A girl can dream
My real reaction: …oh wait, except there are so many reasons why it’s okay and no one will actually bat an eye so calm your titties Lady Ray, you’re awesome.

It’s kind of awesome to be your own cheerleader.

The cure to cooking food you’re bored of is to make something that you do not know what the taste will be.

Sexy Sleepover PSYCHE.

Wow. Well, that was awful. Remember X[]M date? Well, he’s a fail. In short, the moment I suggested or tried anything that was for me, so that I could “have a turn” he checked out. As in, he came, I said, “Hey you can take that off and maybe I can have a turn?” and he takes the condom off, goes and sits on the couch in the hotel room, and turns on the television. I — WHAT?? I am LYING ON THE BED, NAKED, FUCKING HOT and READY TO GO, and you … are going to watch Japanese fashion television. Cue Ray making up a stupid excuse of I have to feed my cats. And GOODBYE.

I will not be calling you after Baby Jesus Day. Because in addition to this INCREDIBLE faux pas, you are boring and bad at conversation and I can’t deal with someone who doesn’t listen to anything I have to say during sexy time. Get the fuck out of my face. It’s about everyone’s pleasure.

Is that what feminism is? Is that what sex positivity is? To feel good and sexy and naked and pleasured at giving and receiving pleasure? 
I guess so, but Lord I didn’t know it was so hard to find. I’m getting a little discouraged, folks. Notching is not all it’s cracked up to be if the sex is bad and the people are lame. Maybe I need to be more discretionary when choosing conquests, but I could have sworn that I was being open and hopeful and kind and considerate and clear and yet these things still happen. Of course, no one is going to be PM but at least someone could be attractive, fit, intelligent, and good at sex? I’m not looking for a life partner but I am looking for someone who is INTERESTED IN HELPING ME CUM for god’s sake. 

This, I think, is where FetLife comes in. Where I say, “Alright asshats. I’m in charge. I’m hot, you’re hot — especially when drooling all over me and how hot I am. And now you get to watch me touch myself and you can’t do anything about it but become more and more desperate until I finally thrust my voluptuous breasts into your mouth and you suck as hard as you can as my nipples become firm against your tongue and I teasingly drag my fingertips along the tip of your cock. 
THIS IS SEX POSITIVITY. WHERE IS THIS. I WANT THIS. Or at least someone who asks me if I’m enjoying it. Rather than, “You can make noise, you know.” 1, buddy, I’m quiet. 2, believe me, I’ll make noise if there’s reason to. But … sorry. No go for you.

PM, I miss you. I miss your lips I miss your skin I miss your fingers I miss your cock I miss your earlobes I miss your knees I miss your heart but most of all I miss your eyes and how when we locked gazes during sex, no fire, hell or high water was going to stop us from helping each other along to the very top when we could both release together in one glorious fell swoop. You know how people say that ‘real people don’t have simultaneous orgasms; that’s only in movies’? WELL I AM HERE TO TELL YOU THAT THAT IS WRONG. The first time it happened, we high fived and were like, “Yeah, THAT was awesome and I’ll bet that was the best it’s ever gonna be. Go us!” … and then it kept happening for 18 more months. So, skeptics, it’s possible. Which why I know I can keep looking for all the other things that you think are impossible, because somewhere they will be real. I don’t know where, I don’t know how, but I will find them. 

In the meantime, I grow weary on this journey. I wish there were just someone who would hold me while we sit quietly together, just being. I’m so tired of having to Be On for these people. Perkily checking in, making sure they’re having a good time. No one fucking cares if I am, though. All I want is for us to just be, and of course we’re having a good time, because just to be with you is what I want. Adventure? Okay! Stay in? Okay! Walk? Sit? Stay? Lie down? Roll around? I’ll do anything as long as one thing is certain: that I want to be with you. Then the world cannot offer me a path I do not wish to try, with you. 

Help A Screenwriter Out?

My Dear (As Far As I Know) Monogamous Male Friends,

[this merely means an interest in monogamy as a thing that some people, sometimes yourself?, practice.]

I am writing a new story. This is my very first screenplay. I need to do some research, like I’ve done before except that I’m… not interested in finding strangers on teh interwebz. So, instead, I’m going to ask you, whose opinion(s) I enjoy and respect, to tap into your sense of empathy and maybe your character backstory creativity (#theatrboiz?).

In this story there is a character I believe to be in his mid to late 30s, with a wife and two young children, both boys, ages 7 and 4. He has a one night stand with someone else.

This is not the central event of the movie, except that it is What Happens in order for Everything Else To Happen. But why it happened which will change entirely how I write him. And therefore the story. So I need to figure out some things about him so I know how he deals with this situation (that is the rest of the story that I’m not going to tell you).

What I would like to hear from you is why, or how you could imagine it coming to be that, a man who has been married for about a decade, with two young children, would cheat on his wife? What would he be seeking to fulfill? I have my own ideas, but I want to make sure they are not cliché or contrived, etc.

What is a scenario in which that could happen? (if you say, “he was a dumb shit and had too much to drink and made a poor life choice.” — that’s awesome. because that could be what happened, and so maybe I’ll put that in. But then, if that is what you think — I’d also really like to know: How does he try to fix it? What are is first 2 tactics that he expects to work? Tell her v. don’t tell her?

[this is not a personal ‘how would YOU justify yourself cheating on a significant other?’ // ‘Now I will judge you and insinuate that this is what you really desire!” // I couldn’t give less of a shit about you. Hence why it’s not about you. I just am looking for ways that you would justify in character work for a scene of a man in such a situation.]

This response can come in the form of a list, a scene, an example, a fanfic, a link, a poem, I don’t care. I’d just really like to hear from you, if you feel so inclined.

Thank you for helping find something closer to truth in this character.

Love and smooches,
Ray

Gently Please [or] Why I Haven’t Yet Fallen Out

I have thought of a new way to cope
that jives with the way I boogie
in that I write down a list
of all the times you cross my mind 
to know which things to tell you
the next time we talk
because I know
we’re
going to 

I think I may be using
this time
to learn what
meaningless sex is. 
When you say you’re horny
and then ask when I last came
I have to tell the truth and say yesterday

[but nothing else]
[like it was too rough]
[gently please]
[and he was too drunk to be hard]
{why is that a common theme?!}
[and he was obese]
[with crowded snaggly teeth 
and
a wiry vagabond beard of steel wool]

God how did I let that happen to myself,
is what I really feel.
But because I also need to learn this
[so I’ll stop wondering what ifs]
and hopefully someone
beautiful and kind and smart
will happen
in a casual
and sexy way

Correction: I have learned what revolting sex is. 

And we didn’t even have sex sex. 
I’m not even on birth control right now
and as much as I want to
comfort you
with that news
I know that I’ll inevitably also mention when I return to being on it
such that you will 
then
begin to fret about what sort of 
Herculean Underwear Model for LLBean Who Sings
[or whatever he imagines my perfect mate to be]
is seducing me  
and have I fallen
out of love
with him.

Maybe I will. 

But if I do it will be glorious

[and sad
because I will have 
to break a man’s heart
whom I have been loving
far too hard
for far too long
compared to what it has delivered thus far –]

BUT YOU SEE
HE WILL DELIVER
BECAUSE I HAVE THIS ONE THING
CALLED HOPE

please
let it come true
whatever this thing called
happiness is
I want it
please

If I am swept off my feet by some perfect [for me] human,
then there I will go
[this here feminist!]
because …

I’ll know?

I’ll know… what’ll I know? 
I’ll feel it?
Maybe.

One thing I know
is that I crave intimacy
even with this man I love
Because of the way 
I respond when the
kind and caring
firm and efficient
male
hairdresser in our little town
washes my hair before cutting it
[it should be remarked that I irrationally fear cutting my hair more than most things, including planes and being suspended from a rope, for example in rock climbing]
He knows what he’s doing
He talks to me intently
[there was a study that showed haircare folk are confessed private information to more than the average profession, along with therapists -duh- and bartenders]
and I feel my eyes start to sting
as this firm kind touch gives me
the most devoted focused loving attention
I’ve had all day
and I wish I wasn’t weeping
I wish I knew how
to ask for
in the correct words
[that you will understand
both how to interpret and how to execute]
what it is 
that I 

desire?
request?
need?

yes, and

will be. 

I groggily open my eyes to a squint this morning as he lumbers into bed next to me. I turn and snuggle backwards into him, but he does not respond. Heavily, I reach over and lift his arm over my body and try to rest his hand in the crook of my waist. He grumbles and rolls over and does not move. His face is smashed into the pillow and his arms angle out awkwardly. I look at him for a moment, perplexed, and realize that it is somewhat lighter outside than it had been when I went to sleep alone last night. We didn’t part Saturday night on bad terms; on the contrary, we made out in the stairwell and he promised he’d come over for homemade brunch date at noon today. So, an endearing move on his part to come early and wake up with me… Keep reading.

Just as I roll back over, he thrashes and a cascade of things topple off of his bedside table, including a cup of water and my bong, who just so happens to be synonymous with this blog. Crisis. I swiftly lift myself out of bed and glide into the closet to get a spare hand towel to wipe up the water all over the floor. As I turn to go back into the room and hear what can only be described to the most empathetic of ears as the unfortunate sound of retching.

I appear at his side with my desk’s wastebasket, only to find him slump-shouldered on his stomach, neck strained in a valiant and desperate attempt to keep his face out of the vomit all over the solar plexus of my double bed and both pillows. Deftly I navigate his head to the left with my hand and thrust the trash can into what can only be described as all of his field of vision. He looks at me, bleary eyed and wincing, and says, “I’m sorry.” I say, “Don’t worry about it. Can you walk to the bathroom or do you need a hand?”

Ultimately, after some bashful and unnecessary hiding in the water closet on the first floor, he is able to be convinced into the shower on the second. Humbly he stumbles up the stairs and I exchange trash bags, bundle up the bedding, spray disinfectant on my school’s saran wrapped mattress and take him a towel upstairs. Again, he mumbles an apology and I tell him it’s cool; he isn’t the first and he certainly won’t be the last.

Downstairs, I put on sweatpants and heave the soiled bedding into the back of the minivan. On the way back to my room, I sneak a look at the oven clock. 6:27 AM. While I decide not to address it right away, I slip the following into my mental back pocket: For how many consecutive hours does one have to have been drinking (since I left him at 1:30 AM) in order to be so drunk at 6 AM that he thinks it a good idea to walk all the way to my house, undress, climb into bed with me, and then throw up all over it?

We climb into the car together, along with my basket of regular laundry which I don’t feel bad making him pay for washing while we’re making the laundromat trip. 8 blocks away, I tell him to stay in the car while I check if the place is open yet (what with this being a small town before 7 AM) and drop the keys on the console between the two front seats. I run over to the door, it flies open at my grip, and I turn to see him shuffling towards me, carrying my full wicker basket. The car doors are closed. “Did you lock the car?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Ah. Well, there are the keys.” I point to inside the car.

We put the laundry we have into the washer (the odorous sheets and comforter remain in the now enclosed space of the minivan interior) and walk home, to my cell phone and AAA card. I decide to text my father to alert him that I am using our AAA service, with a brief explanation of laundromats, illness, and a misunderstanding of locking the keys in the car. I decide to avoid the part where the young man crawled into my bed at 6 AM on a Sunday morning (Mother’s Day, no less!) after having partied too hard; while they know that he is important in my life and do enjoy his company, the concept of entertaining even the most rudimentary conjecture that would point towards evidence of my having any sort of intimate relations (or participation in illegal activity, such as drugs, for instance) would certainly put my easily flummoxed parents in a tizzy.

The triple AAA people are charming and somewhat prophetic in how they guide me through the phone tree of customer assistance. This post is truly dedicated to Debra, the voices of the AAA call waiting commercials, Mike, and the man who rescued my keys. The man arrives, indeed, in under an hour, just like they promised he would. Even with my having given the vaguest of addresses, with the nearest intersection I could remember being three blocks away, he arrives on the scene with minutes to spare. Alas, I have stayed at the intersection and my besotted significant other is the one who is holding vigil at the laundromat and watching over the trusty fallen metal steed.

After the text “He’s here” buzzed in, I stride the three blocks only to arrive to a departing AAA trucklette and a sheepish boyfriend holding keys. I charge inside to change the wet wash over to the dryer while charging him with getting the vommie sheets. We zip over to his house quickly to pick up his laundry quarters, seeing as my stock will not cover the 14 required by the industrial washer we have stuffed my comforter and pillows into. While everything is sudsing, we sit in silence. I play Scramble. The dumpy lady with greasy orange hair and leopard leggings eyes us as she folds her laundry. We switch it into the dryer, I drop him at home and go pick up sponges (which my house has desperately needed since my housemate’s girlfriend and sister used and tossed ours after scrubbing the floor to rid it of the grime from my housemate’s senior film premiere after party … while my housemate sleeps off his hangover … they really are from the South and this feminist doesn’t like their devision of labor, to say the least) soap, tissues, allergy medication. I buy two flavors of soy milk, a new pill box, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, two kinds of cereal. I end up forgetting sponges and soap. Did I mention I’ve only had 4 hours sleep, my boyfriend threw up in my bed, AAA had to rescue my keys from my van, and I vaped in the car before going into the store?

Walmart circa 9 AM on a particular Sunday in May is full of the men of Middle America buying Mother’s Day paraphernalia; I hadn’t expected this many to have left arrangements so late. That said, we don’t buy my mom anything. We just (try to) do nice things for her.

The bedding is still damp. I drive back over to his house to get quarters (I promise: when I say small town, I mean worth driving to his house for quarters at 9 AM on Mother’s Day morning is worth it rather than to find an open establishment that could furnish me some) and pray that it is unlocked. It is and I enter without breaking to find him passed out on the futon imported from my family’s home to furnish his somewhat barren living room. I grab the abandoned quarter jar and try to rouse him with a gentle leg rub to alert him that he hasn’t been robbed; he is not to be stirred.

The laundry is now probably dry but I have returned home with my groceries and small portion of clean clothes, including my other set of sheets. I am torn between retrieving the laundry, out of necessity to not have it remain an annoyance and out of fear that it will be heisted, and leaving it be for a few hours while I pass out in my bed, having just eaten a delightful scrambled egg breakfast and smoking out of the delightfully synonymous pipe that just so miraculously survived its fall from an unbridled swat this early morning from an overzealous party boy.

I doubt, my good friend, that you can say that your morning was more outrageous than mine. If I am not correct, please speak up and in good faith, I will concede. But only after as sordid a tale.