May 19 2013

#mencallmethings: “fucking ugly. Kill yourself.”

Categories:

Feminism

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Comment from Kali Dali, in the discussion on the post Some Thoughts on Secular Meditation and Depression/Anxiety:

goddamn you are fucking ugly. Kill yourself.

#mencallmethings

A few notes:

1: Who the hell tells someone to kill themselves… as a comment on a post about clinical depression?

2: In the context of this weekend’s Women in Secularism conference: If anyone is still wondering why so many of think atheism needs to pay attention to sexism and misogyny, at the absolute minimum as an internal matter within our own movement, and why we need to actively work on making atheism more welcoming to women… wake up and smell the coffee. Wake up and smell the toxic cesspool that women, especially vocal feminist women on the internet, swim in every day. I don’t even get the worst of it: other women get it worse than I do, and more consistently. (Documentation; more documentation; still more documentation.) If you’re wondering why we need events like Women in Secularism, and other pieces of unique attention paid to to the experiences of women in this movement… this is Exhibit A. Except it’s not Exhibit A. It’s more like Exhibit W. It’s more like Exhibit W (2) h (iv).

3: Who the hell tells someone to kill themselves… as a comment on a post about clinical depression?

4: I’m going to issue the standard request that I always issue when the #thing that #menhavecalled me is some version of “ugly”: Please, unless you’re a personal friend or someone I’m having sex with, don’t try to make me feel better by saying that I’m not ugly. If I write about fashion or post the hot pic of myself in the Skepticon calendar, you can say nice things about how I look… but please don’t do it here. I’m not calling this out to garner reassurance about my appearance. I’m calling this out to show people the kind of shit women routinely deal with. I have a thick skin, and I don’t get my feelings hurt by sexist jackasses calling me names. That isn’t the point.

The point isn’t that I’m not ugly. The point is that it shouldn’t matter.

5: Who the hell tells someone to kill themselves… as a comment on a post about clinical depression?

6: The #mencallmethings hashtag does not say #allmencallmethings, or #mostmencallmethings. If you want to learn more about the history of this hashtag and why people started using it, please read But How Do You Know It’s Sexist? The #MenCallMeThings Round-Up and Why Are You In Such A Bad Mood? #MenCallMeThings Responds! on Tiger Beatdown, where the hashtag originated. And please do not start a “but not all men are like that, so the #mencallmethings hashtag is reverse sexism!” argument. That has been addressed, at length, in the comments in the #mencallmethings: “FUCKIN HOE,” “FUCKIN FEMINAZI SLUT” post, as well as elsewhere. Please read Why “Yes, But” Is the Wrong Response to Misogyny if you’re wondering why I will not take kindly that that particular line of conversation.

7: WHO THE HELL TELLS SOMEONE TO KILL THEMSELVES… AS A COMMENT ON A POST ABOUT CLINICAL DEPRESSION?!?!?

Do you understand that it’s fairly common for clinically depressed people are suicidal? I’m not, as it happens… but it’s a very common symptom of the illness. Who the hell goes to someone with an illness that puts them at risk for suicide, in a space where they’re talking about this illness, and tells them to kill themselves? I mean, who the hell tells someone to kill themselves anyway, ever… but seriously? Who the hell tells someone to kill themselves… as a comment on a post about clinical depression?

I’m just sayin’, is all.

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May 17 2013

Some Thoughts on Secular Meditation and Depression/Anxiety

Categories:

Philosophy/ Life

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(This is part of a series on mindfulness based stress reduction: a secular, evidence-based meditation practice that I’ve recently started.)

Note to self: This works.

It has been a bad, bad couple of days. I don’t want to get into a lot of details… but it hasn’t been good. My depression, which has largely been lifting over the last couple/few weeks, relapsed with a resounding crash. I’ve been feeling alarmed, unsafe, exposed, powerless, despairing, unmotivated, hopeless.

I’m on a plane as I write this. With several hours to sit in one place and do nothing, I decided to meditate.

It was difficult: my mind has been racing even faster and wilder than usual, and it has been perseverating on all the dark things, all the failures of my past, all the worst possible outcomes of my future. It was more than a little difficult to just sit and be: be with myself, be with my thoughts and feelings and sensations. I bloody well didn’t want to be with my thoughts and feelings and sensations. My thoughts and feelings and sensations were freaking me the fuck out. I wanted to shut them up, shut them out, drown them out. But I knew — both from my own experience and from the research that’s been done on this mindfulness-based stress reduction thing — that this might work: that this might quiet me down, restore some sense of peace. Or at least, restore some sense of self.

So I did it. I sat still in my seat on the plane, and closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing… and my breathing… and my breathing… and on the sole of my left foot where it was pressing against the floor of the plane… and on my left big toe… and on my left pinky toe… and on the toes in between…

And when I finished, I felt better.

Like, really better.

I’m still upset. But I feel… I don’t quite know how to put this into words. I feel like myself, feeling upset. I don’t feel like the upset itself. I don’t feel swallowed by the upset, or carried away by it. I’m still upset… but I feel like the stuff I’m upset about is manageable. And I feel like it’s worth it. I feel like the stuff I’m upset about is one sour note in a good piece of music… not like it’s swallowing me whole.

At the beginning of the session, my mind was stubbornly racing to all the dark things. It took me I don’t know how long — I wasn’t looking at a clock — to really feel the sole of my left foot, even for a second, and really experience the sensations in it. My mind would not shut the fuck up: I had to keep noticing the thoughts and gently pull my focus back… and notice the thoughts and gently pull my focus back… and notice the thoughts and gently pull my focus back… like every three fucking seconds. I wasn’t looking at a clock, but I suspect it took me a good half hour just to get through my left leg.

But by the time I got to my right leg, I was starting to feel better. My mind was still racing, still frantically jumping from branch to branch… but at least some of the branches it was landing on before I pulled my focus back on were happy ones, plans I was excited about, ideas I’ve been having fun with. By the time I got to my pelvic girdle, I was remembering that I actually enjoy meditation and take pleasure in it: that it is a deep and genuine pleasure to set aside time and experience my body, to notice that I am my body and to return to that awareness. (I always like it when I get to my pelvic girdle.) There was a weird scary moment when I got to my mouth and nose: the feeling of awareness of each part of my body felt like sinking into a warm bath, and when it got to my mouth and nose, I had a sudden panicky feeling like I was about to drown. But I noticed it, and paused, and just stayed with my neck for a little while, and finally I reframed the “sinking into water” thing as “sinking into a pool of super-oxygenated air,” and moved on. By the time I got to the top of my head, the process of noticing thoughts and letting them go to be in my body, noticing thoughts and letting them go to be in my body, had become second-nature. And by the time I was finishing, by the time I was experiencing my entire body as a whole entity and was returning to noticing my surroundings and my sense of myself in the world, I felt… not just calmer, not just happier, not just more hopeful. I felt like myself. I felt capable of experiencing pleasure, capable of managing the problems in my life, capable of doing the work that I love so much… because I felt like I had a self. I felt like there was a there there.

It was like a circuit-breaker.

This is not a panacea for depression. Far from it. I don’t think this would be working without meds, and therapy, and exercise, and sitting on the sofa with Ingrid petting cats, and all the other things I do to heal my depression.

But it sure as heck is helping.

So I’m writing this: partly to let other people know that they might want to check this out, but mostly as a reminder to myself:

This works.

So keep doing it.

I wrote something a few days ago about the meditation practice, about how after a week of doing it I was already seeing noticeable results…and about how then, inexplicably, I stopped doing it. As if it were a theorem in math, and once I’d figured it out, I didn’t need to do it again, and could move on to the next theorem. But it’s not a theory. It’s a practice. And there’s a difference between theory and practice. I can’t say to myself, “Aha! You now know that meditation helps with your depression and anxiety and makes you better able to focus — problem solved!” Any more than I can say to myself, “Aha! You know that working out builds your muscles and gives you strength and stamina — problem solved!” I have to actually freaking do it. Several times a week. Every day, if I can.

But when I do it, my life gets better.

So yeah. Note to self. This works. Keep doing it.

Other piece in this series:
On Starting a Secular Meditation Practice
Meditation and Breakfast
Meditation, and the Difference Between Theory and Practice

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May 16 2013

Godless Perverts Social Meetup Now A Regular Thing! Next One This Tuesday 5/21!

Categories:

Atheism, Queer/Bi, Sex, SM

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Reminder: The Godless Perverts Social Meetup is now a regular thing! And the next one is this Tuesday!

Wicked Grounds iconJoin us every third Tuesday of the month at Wicked Grounds, San Francisco’s renowned BDSM-themed coffee house, for an evening of conversation and socializing. Community is one of the reasons we started Godless Perverts. There are few enough places to land when you decide that you’re an atheist; far fewer if you’re also LGBT, queer, kinky, poly, trans, or are just interested in sexuality. All orientations, genders, and kinks (or lack thereof) welcome. There’s no admission, but we ask that you buy food and drink at the counter, or make a donation to the venue.

The Godless Perverts Social Meetup will be every third Tuesday at Wicked Grounds, 289 – 8th Street at Folsom (near Civic Center BART). The next one: May 21st, 7-9 pm. Hope to see you there!

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May 16 2013

“She loved being bent over”: Excerpt from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More”

Categories:

Books and Language, Porn, Queer/Bi, Sex, SM, Writing News

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Bending coverExcerpt from “Bending,” the erotic novella that’s the foundation of “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More.” Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords! Content note: Kinky sex.

*****

She loved being bent over. More than any fiddling that might precede it, more than any fumbling sex act that might follow. The moment of being bent over was like a sex act to Dallas, like foreplay and climax blended into one swooning, too-short moment. A hand on her neck, pressing gently but firmly downward, felt like a tongue on her clit; a voice in her ear, telling her calmly and reasonably to bend over and pull down her pants, felt like a cock in her cunt.

She always masturbated in that position. She sometimes masturbated by getting in that position and then doing nothing else. She would stand by the arm of her sofa, by the side of the bed, at the edge of the kitchen table; and she would bare her ass, slowly, and slowly bend herself over… and then she would stand there, bent over, hands on her hips or behind the small of her back, thinking. Thinking about what she looked like, thinking about what she felt like. Thinking about the feel of the air on the skin of her exposed ass. Thinking about hands on her thighs, paddles on her bottom, dicks and dildos in her asshole and her cunt. Thinking about what a dirty hungry girl she was. Thinking, until she came.

The furnishings that crowded Dallas’s apartment would be a dead giveaway to anyone who knew what to look for. Sofas and armchairs with wide, firm backs and arms; tables and dressers that were all waist height; a small but varied collection of hairbrushes, vintage and modern. A padded table she had had made for her, its height easily adjustable so her head and torso could be raised or lowered as the mood required. It could pass for a sewing or card table. She called it the bending table. She tried not to use it too often, for fear of using up all the magic.

It was hard sometimes. She saw a video once, where a man bent a woman over a toilet and shoved her head in it while he fucked her in the ass. She thought she would pass out. She watched the scene ten times, pale, wet between her legs, a shaking hand on the remote. She watched it ten times, and then took the video back to the rental place and never watched it again. It made her stomach hurt, the thought that this act had happened — literally, physically, factually happened — to someone who wasn’t her.

She did have lovers. Many of them over the years. Dozens if you counted them all, more if you counted very carefully. More than one of these lovers had accused Dallas of being a black hole, an accusation she felt was deeply unfair, not to mention inaccurate. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to give anything. She simply felt that what she did have to give was sufficient. Her pain, her submission, her ass in the air presented like a jewel on a satin pillow, her willingness to do almost anything a person could do in that position… Dallas felt that all of this was a tremendous gift. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to give anything. It was that she had yet to find a lover who wanted what she had to give. She found this tremendously annoying. Hurtful, too, for sure, and frustrating at times to the point of despair, but mostly just annoying as hell.

And the accusation — “You only like to do one thing” — completely baffled her. It wasn’t one thing, she argued to herself on her way home from a particularly frustrating squabble. It wasn’t one thing, any more than so-called regular sex was one thing. Being bent over was a whole field of things, an entire genus, with a zillion details that could vary. Wriggling and weeping versus serene submission; being gently guided to the edge of the bed versus being shoved onto the floor; jeans and cotton panties yanked down to her knees versus a flimsy skirt slowly pulled up to reveal her sluttily un-pantied bottom… these were distinct sex acts, obviously and self-evidently, as different as, say, intercourse and oral sex seemed to be for the rest of the world. The portion of the world that she’d been fucking, anyway.

Certain details about her lovers didn’t much matter to her. Male, female, neither or both, any of these were fine. Age, race, height, weight, occupation or lack thereof, smoking habits, voting habits, all those things that kept showing up in the personal ads; none of them made much difference to Dallas. Lately, it was beginning to make less and less difference whether she even found them attractive. It was beginning to matter only whether they were willing.

For example.


Read the rest of this entry »

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May 15 2013

“Mad Men,” and How Kink Gets Used as a Marker of Evil — or Damage

Categories:

Sex, SM, Television

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Mad Men DonI want to talk about “Mad Men.” I want to talk about how kinky sex and sadomasochism get used in pop culture as narrative markers to show, either how evil a character is, or how damaged a character is. And I want to beseech the producers of pop culture to please, please, knock it the fuck off.

I’ll get this out of the way first: I love “Mad Men.” I think it’s one of the best programs currently on TV; actually, I think it’s one of the best programs that’s ever been on TV. This isn’t a “Mad Men did this thing, therefore they suck” piece. This is a “”Mad Men did this thing, and I still love the show, but I really wish they wouldn’t do this, especially since it’s such a depressingly common pattern” piece.

So. In last Sunday’s episode, “Man With a Plan,” Don Draper and Sylvia Rosen take their torrid affair into a hotel room… where things get seriously kinky between them. Don orders Sylvia to crawl on her hands and knees and fetch his shoes — and although she declines to crawl, she does fetch his shoes…s and gets on her knees in front of him, to put his shoes on his feet. And thus begins a very intense interlude of sexual dominance play between them, in which Don orders Sylvia to undress, get back into bed, and stay there in the hotel room waiting for him, while he comes and goes at his leisure. In which he phones her, instructs her that she’s going to wait for him without knowing when he’s coming back, and then orders her not to pick up the phone again — an order that she obeys. In which he sends her a beautiful and sexy evening dress from Saks Fifth Avenue, and then, instead of taking her out to dinner, orders her to take it off for him, right there in the room. In which he takes her book away from her, controlling even what she thinks about when he’s not there. In which she asks him for instructions, asking, “What do I do now?” — and he tells her, “You fall asleep the minute I close that door. I’m flying upstate — and when I come back, I want you ready for me.” In which he tells her, “You are for me. You exist in this room for my pleasure.” In which both Don and Sylvia both seem to be getting off, hard, and at great length.

We’ve seen Don’s kinky side come out before. When he and Betty broke up and he was living alone, he hired a prostitute to slap him in the face while having sex with him. And he and Megan have some sort of kink going on in their sex life… kink they only talk about obliquely (when Don suggests that Megan is picking a fight so they can have rough sex, she uncomfortably says, “This isn’t about that.”) But this episode spells it out much more clearly, and at much greater length, than the show ever has before. And I won’t deny it — as a kinky person, I found last Sunday’s sequence incredibly sexy. The fantasy of having a willing human sex toy holed up in a secret room, for you to enjoy at your whim — or the fantasy of being that sex toy — is, for many kinky people, super-duper-hot. Myself included. And it’s a fantasy that could easily be acted out consensually, by any number of sane, ethical, happy sadomasochists.

mad men sylvia and donBut here’s the thing. In this scene — in all of these scenes — Don’s kinkiness is used as a narrative marker for how broken he is. The fact that he wants to dominate and control Sylvia in the bedroom, and keep her secluded and away from the world for his use only… it’s used as a marker for how he wants to isolate and control the women in his life generally. The fact that he and Megan play dominant/ submissive sex games… it’s used as a marker of how screwed-up the power dynamics are between them. The fact that Don hired a woman to slap him in the face… it’s used as a marker of how guilt-ridden Don is, especially when it comes to women and sex, and of what a dark place he is at this moment in his life. It’s not just that Don is kinky, and is also emotionally broken. It’s that Don’s kinkiness is being used specifically as an indicator of how broken he is.

And I am sick, sick, sick of this shit. I am sick to freaking death of kinky sex — or even just a display of the outfits and equipment of kinky sex — routinely getting used as a cheap, easy, quick-and-dirty way to indicate that a character is either evil, or damaged, or both. Read the rest of this entry »

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May 15 2013

9 Questions That Atheists Might Find Insulting (And the Answers)

Categories:

Atheism

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Some questions make atheists feel second-class — and make you look like a jerk for asking them.

question mark signAsked of Hispanic-Americans: “Are you in this country legally?” Asked of gays and lesbians and bisexuals: “How do you have sex?” Asked of trans people: “Have you had the surgery?” Asked of African-Americans: “Can I touch your hair?”

I think every marginalized group has some question, or questions, that routinely get asked of them — and that drive them up a tree, questions that have insult or bigotry or dehumanization woven into the very asking. Sometimes the questions get asked sincerely, with sincere ignorance of the offensive assumptions behind them. And sometimes they get asked douchily, in a hostile, passive-aggressive, “I’m just asking questions” manner. But it’s still not okay to ask them. They’re not questions that open up genuine inquiry and discourse: they’re questions that close minds, much more than they open them. Even if that’s not the intention And most people who care about bigotry and marginalization and social justice — or who just care about good manners — don’t ask them.

Here are nine questions you shouldn’t ask atheists. I’m going to answer them, just this once. And then I’ll explain why you shouldn’t be asking them, and why so many atheists will get ticked off if you do.

*****

Thus begins my latest piece for AlterNet, 9 Questions That Atheists Might Find Insulting (And the Answers). To find out what these questions are — and why I think people shouldn’t ask them — read the rest of the piece. Enjoy!

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May 15 2013

“Maybe this will be a live one”: Excerpt from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More”

Categories:

Books and Language, Porn, Sex, SM, Writing News

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Bending coverExcerpt from “A Live One,” one of the stories from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More.” Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords! Content note: Explicit sex.

*****

What an asshole, Sheila thinks as she plays with her pussy. He’s been popping quarters into the booth like they were rock candy. A smile wouldn’t cost anything extra.

She smiles down at the customer through the glass, a sugary, seductive smile full of bubble and promise. He responds with a blank stare, the same blank stare he’s been giving her for the last five minutes. His face is flat and listless, a cheap cement statue of a gloomy frog, with a faint trickle of hostility leaking through the stone set of his mouth.

She sighs and spins around, giving up, turning her face away. She sticks her butt in the window, bends at the waist, and runs her hand slowly over her ass. The fucking brick-wall men, she thinks. I’ve never understood why they come here. I mean, I can give them the sight of a dancing naked woman, but I can’t give them the joy of watching a naked woman dance. Don’t they get that they have to bring that themselves?

She licks her forefinger and runs it up and down her pussy as she gyrates her hips to the thumping music. She catches Tanisha’s eye and gives her the contemptuous look she can’t give the customer. Tanisha rolls her eyes, gives a quick nod of sympathy, and turns back to Danielle. The younger girl is sprawled over Tanisha’s lap; she squirms and rolls her hips dramatically, putting on an extravagant show for the two drunken sailors in the corner booth. Tanisha scowls ferociously and slaps Danielle’s tight, round rump; Danielle gives a theatrical squeal of pain and fear and wriggles in delight.

I like a girl who enjoys her work, Sheila smiles to herself. She knows these two: they’ll be doing the real thing later on. They love faking the guys out, but they never do it for real for money.

She hears the window panel slide down behind her, and glances over her shoulder. Yup, he’s gone. What a tragic loss to the human race. She arches her back, aching from bending over, and looks around dutifully for a new customer.

Sure enough, just as she finishes stretching, the panel in the other corner booth slides up. She glances at Lorelei, who’s busily spreading her pussy for a middle-aged man with a briefcase in one hand and his dick in the other. Guess the new one’s mine, Sheila concludes. Conscientious as always, she shimmies over, squats in front of the guy, and smiles. “Hi,” she hollers over the deafening synth-pop din. “I’m Chloe.”

In response, he pulls a pad and pen out of his pocket and begins scribbling. He holds it up to the window and smiles back. Hi Chloe, it reads. I’m Henry.

Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised and impressed. Smart guy, she thinks. Inventive. And he actually wants to talk to me. Maybe this will be a live one.

*****

If this intrigues you, check out the rest of the book! Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords!

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May 14 2013

“And then she got the Webcam”: Excerpt from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More”

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Books and Language, Porn, Sex, SM, Writing News

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Bending coverExcerpt from “Open,” one of the stories from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More.” Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords! Content note: Explicit sex.

*****

When it started, it seemed pretty reasonable. Manageable.

It’s still manageable. Just in a different way now.

It started as something she liked to do in bed, with her lovers. A simple request: “Spread me open.”

She wanted her pussy lips spread wide apart. As wide as they could go. Or she wanted to be asked — or be told — to spread her lips apart herself. She wanted to open herself, or be opened… and she wanted to be looked at. To be seen.

It moved on. She started asking her lovers to take pictures of her, showing her pussy, spreading herself open. Then she started taking pictures of herself. Then she started putting the pictures on the Internet.

And then she got the Webcam.

*****

If this intrigues you, check out the rest of the book! Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords!

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May 13 2013

“So now I want a second chance”: Excerpt from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More”

Categories:

Books and Language, Porn, Sex, SM, Writing News

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Bending coverExcerpt from “Doing It Over,” one of the stories from “Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More.” Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords! Content note: Kinky sex.

*****

I was seventeen years old the first time that a lover hit me on the ass and asked me if I liked it.

Well, okay, he wasn’t a lover. He was really just some guy I’d picked up on the street; just some guy I’d smiled at, who smiled back and bought me ice cream and took me home. Just some guy I’d fucked and fucked and fucked, for hours and hours, in every position we could think of, until the skin of his dick was rubbed raw and I could barely walk. It doesn’t matter who he was. What matters is what I said when he hit me on the ass and asked me if I liked it.

What I said was No.

No, I don’t want to do that, I lied. I’m not into that.

He backed off immediately. I’m not into that stuff either, he lied.

And I spent the rest of that night, and all the rest of the nights we spent together, thinking to myself: Tell him you changed your mind. Tell him you want to try it. You know he really wants to; you know he’ll do it if you ask him. Go ahead. Ask him. I spent the rest of that night, and all the rest of the nights we spent together, trying to find the courage to change my mind…and failing.

So now I want a second chance. I want to tell the story the way I wish it had come out. I want to do it over.

*****

If this intrigues you, check out the rest of the book! Now for sale on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords!

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May 11 2013

Welcome Ally Fogg to Freethought Blogs!

Categories:

Atheism, Feminism, Writing News

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Ally FoggWe have a new blogger in the Freethought Blogs network! Please welcome Ally Fogg, and his blog, Heteronormative Patriarchy For Men. Tagline: “Splashed of mud from the trenches of the online gender wars.” Here’s what Ally has to say about his own bad self:

Ally Fogg is a UK-based freelance writer and journalist, whose day job includes a weekly column on Comment is Free at www.guardian.co.uk and miscellaneous scribbles elsewhere, mostly on issues of UK politics and social justice. This blog is dedicated to exploring gender issues from a male perspective, unshackled from any dogmatic ideology. Ally is often accused of being a feminist lapdog and an anti-feminist quisling; a misogynist and a misandrist; a mangina and a closet MRA, and concludes that the only thing found in pigeonholes is pigeon shit. He can be contacted most easily through www.allyfogg.co.uk or @allyfogg on Twitter.

Please go say Howdy!

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