November 23rd, AFTER Thanksgiving Dinner
Yet more update...
Dinner was a fine affair. My soup was a big hit, Mistress Donna's turkey was scrumptious, and PANTHER I'M SORRY - I was gonna have a big slice of that fine looking bread you brought with some warm butter on it and I plumb forgot.
Poor Panther and her clan are all in the midst of internet withdrawal, ATT @home having fucked them over worse than they did me. For weeks now ATT has been doing that _dreaded_ thing... "improving in order to serve you better". That means that the mail service that had been fine is being diddled with nationwide and I've had many angry conversations with their "support" desk and hours after hours of lost mail, mail returned because my box is over full [not], or just "try again in a few minutes" for hours on end. Worse than the intermittent mail service I've suffered, Panther's entire household is dead. Kaput. "We'll send a technician after the holiday". I tried to make light of it and that was a definite social failing on my part. I'd forgotten how humorless I was for the first few weeks when I quit smoking.
Jane has been in a quandary about her defensiveness [yesterday and today's entries] and I absolutely understand. Most recently, in my personal opinion, the person who she thought was laughing at her was just using the only means she knows of to say things, but wasn't really skewering Jane. I know where Jane is coming from in this however and have had to deal with it myself.
On one discussion board consisting of many online diarists I recently threw out a conversational gambit, asking if there was any tension or problems between mainstream diarists and those of us who include explicit adult content. For noting that there is _different_ content between the two sorts, I was accused of flaunting how adult content is 'better' [which I've never said]. Many of the responses were ad hominem, plucking things out of my journal and telling me [I paraphrase from memory] "anyone who has to line a room in plastic and sew his partner's vagina shut is a sicko". For being a pleasure activist, for simply being honest and open and proud of what I do, of who I share pleasure with and with how I do so, I'm branded as "bragging about being a sexual outlaw". And all these fine folks also told me I was absolutely wrong and paranoid to even suggest that the non-adult folks ever said anything poorly of the adult writers. I did get a small handful of pleasant supportive comments and many folks who didn't like my content complimented me on my writing, but if a Neutral Observer From Mars [tm] were to read the thread, some 50-60 posts long, they would conclude that the general thrust of response confirmed my original thesis.
Adult writers are acceptable to break the ice, to pilot technology and business practices for mainstream businessmen to later follow, mimic, and make a buck from. We can offer material for other folks to stealthily sneak in, wank to, and sneak away into the night. We're told we even have a right to personally enjoy our own sexual practices, paraphillias and all [ain't that generous of them?]. We just need to keep our fucking and our writing about our fucking behind the privacy of our bedroom door and don't shove it in people's faces, don't buy a house on their side of the tracks, don't get up off of the Group W Bench, and for gawrsh sakes don't even think about dating their sisters. And don't protest being treated like a minority, because that would mean that the people who are treating you like shit are prejudiced, and everyone knows that prejudice is a Bad Thing, and those good people couldn't possible be something so unPC.
But then I watch the Jerry Springer show. Standing in line with my groceries I read the cover of Cosmo. I tune in for a bit of the Trinity Broadcast Network. I sit at work and listen to the Peyton Place of my coworkers going on around me. I watch the President of the United States nearly toppled by an attack based on who and how he fucks. I realize that this nation is fucked up on the subject of sex. I realize that my 'out there' pleasure activism, my BDSM advocacy, my sincere endorsement of personal sexual rights... these things are worthwhile. These things are worthy of being a mission. These things are just and proper and the Right Thing for me to do.
And if Miss Grundy and Joe Sixpack were honest they'd admit to envy. They'd wish they had the guts to support us, to join us. In the real world, however, they have to attack us, they have to ridicule us, they have to stop us from achieving what they won't let themselves achieve. If we're right, they're wrong and that's untenable for them.
Now, not everyone is Miss Grundy, and I think that's what Jane ran into. Some folks aren't malignant, they simply don't have our same vocabulary and when they discuss us they may seem to flounder or sound like nervous junior high schoolers. It can be difficult to read the comments of someone like that, more or less happy with us but unsure how to say it, and in the imperfect medium of words on a screen. Reading those comments through our defensive shields can lead to being overly sensitive and defensive.
If all the above seems to be wordy and defensive, so be it. I know deep in the cholesterol-laden chambers of my heart that every day when I say "Life Is Good", I know I mean it sincerely, with gratitude, that I continually resolve to make it so, and that there are millions of people out there who can't say that.
Sancho, my shield, my sword!
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