There's some kind of Arctic weather phenomenon happening this week: sharp winds in from the north, temperatures falling into danger zones. I can sit in my window seat and see the winds whip the water in the courtyard swimming pool. Oh, I have some expensive artisanal hot chocolate with a heavy shot of dark rum, and I'm wrapped up in black merino wool. But I still feel deeply empty.
This afternoon I discovered that several websites for fetish enthusiasts have agreed that the actresses Emma Stone and Emma Watson were tied for the honour of being the most sought-after foot fetish photo girls on the web. I wonder of course how the two Emmas are taking the award. I hesitate to speculate on the trophies.
I'll admit that I've always found Emma Stone attractive, all the way back to a film she did called "Easy A". Very lovely, very good comedy actress. Yes, excellent eyes and excellent legs. And it does occur to me that I might--- albeit shyly, politely ---pay her either compliment in person. But even if I were a foot fetish person, I'd never, never say anything like, "Congratulations on your foot fetish award." I'd certainly never say, "Pretty feet!" I've no idea why there's an absolute line between complimenting her on her eyes and complimenting her on her arches, but there it is. Some compliments are beyond the pale. Lovely collarbones, lovely legs---- those things are acceptable. Cute toes--- no.
All fetishes, all sexual preferences, all sexual interests come with a set of social rankings attached. I think that's just a given. Some kinks are socially acceptable, some are instantly dismissed as lower down the rank-order. Your fetishes define you--- isn't that just something Edmund White said thirty years ago? They define you not just in terms of what your desires are, but in terms of where your desires fit in a social hierarchy. Desires can evoke all sorts of responses--- disgust, amusement, fascination, arousal ---but they always make a statement about where you fit in a rank-ordering. BDSM is the intellectuals' kink, thanks to French erotica. It's a bougie kink, too--- equipment and accessories are expensive. Role-play outranks cos-play. (Query: does voyeurism outrank exhibitionism, or is it the other way round?) Age-play is no longer acceptable. Gender play was briefly edgy and cool, but nowadays it's lost itself in the hellscape of the Trans Wars.
There's a always a rank ordering, though. Telling a girl you want to blindfold her with silk and whip her with a riding crop can be spun as sexy and stylish. Telling her you want to suck her toes will never be read as stylish; you'll get no social points for dark elegance.
It's cold tonight and I'm thinking of how I've lost the ability to tell a girl about any desires I might feel. I'd certainly never ask for anything these days. I'd certainly never tell a young companion that I had any preferences or interests, and I'd never tell a girl that something in particular gave me pleasure. There's always the risk of being laughed at--- at, not with. There's the even greater risk that you'll be regarded as pathetic or low-status.
The risks seem all the more daunting these days. Pleasure and the things that give lovers pleasure are too fraught these days. Revealing oneself to a lover--- and very possibly to her social media circles ---is too risky.
Once upon a time, I had no problem talking about desires and hopes and kinks and pleasure with young companions as part of the process of seduction, as part of the process of opening oneself up to a new lover. Not any more. On a cold night with hard winds outside, all I can say is that there's no way these days that I'd tell a lover about anything I liked about them--- let alone anything that might give me pleasure, or be something for the two of us to share.
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Saturday, January 26, 2019
Two Two Five: Paper
I've been thinking about love letters.
In the past few years, I've received a handful of emails that were romantic enough, and a few that were deeply passionate or erotic. I can't recall when I last received an actual love letter.
I do want to say that I miss love letters. I miss receiving them, and of course I miss writing them. I miss ink on paper, and I miss opening a letter from a lover. I miss the days when young companions wrote me and used wax seals on the envelopes.
I may still have one or two of the emails lovers have sent me since the early or mid-2000s. Twenty years ago I probably would've printed them off and saved them, but these days there's something suspicious about anyone who'd do that. Most of the email exchanges I've had with lovers are long gone, though. It's far easier to delete emails when an affair ends than it is to throw out (or ritually burn) letters from an ex-lover. It's painful to go back and read over letters from lost loves, but destroying the letters or deleting the emails leaves a gap in your life and history.
Love letters were a kind of proof, a kind of archivable evidence that I had value to someone. I did archive any that I received, and one of my regrets is that over all these years and so many moves, the boxes with letters from girls who did once desire me have gone missing.
I know that I wrote letters to girls with whom I was involved, and I can still remember some of the more intense or passionate ones. I can remember choosing the right stationery and sitting up late at night with a fountain pen and hand-mixed inks to write a lover. These days, though, I'm not sure I'd do that. I think that these days I'd be hesitant to risk writing a love letter. These days--- in the days of the gender wars ---I'd be afraid that love letters would be used against me.
When I was twenty or thirty I would never have been afraid of that. That I loved someone, that I felt desire for her, that I imagined ways that the two of us could make love--- I'd have owned those things in a heartbeat. I couldn't have imagined being ashamed of those things. If a lovely girl and I were involved, I'd have been proud of that, proud of being with someone like her. Even if the affair ended, even if it ended badly, I'd have remembered the good parts.
These days, though, love letters--- even those sent to someone with whom you were deeply, mutually involved ---could be spun to seem disturbing. Love letters could so easily be made to seem stalkerish and demanding and "entitled". Any declarations of passion could be made to seem disturbing and threatening. Any statement of romantic or sexual interests or preferences could be made to seem pathetic or coercive. Here in these days of the gender wars, love letters can far too easily become evidence against you--- literally so. At the very least, love letters can be used to show how inept and hopeless you are at writing anything romantic or sexual, or that your sexual tastes are stunted, sad, contemptible.
No one uses telephones for long conversations any longer. Phone sex is a dying art. More's the pity about that, since phone sex allows you to construct long, complex fantasies and adapt to a lover's responses. Phone sex is far more intimate than sexting could ever be. And it has this advantage--- unless someone is actually taping you, it's much harder to use against you than a love letter would be.
It's sad enough that I'm thinking about this. I miss love letters, miss being able to look through my archives years afterward and remember someone I loved, remember that once upon a time someone felt passion and love and desire for me, remember that once upon a time I was worth the time it took to write me letters. I'd wanted to talk about how much love letters meant to me back in the days of long ago. I'd wanted to talk about how love letters were archived, and how much they meant to me as part of my history.
Right now, though, I can only talk about how much of a risk love letters seem to be, and how I'd be afraid to send anything that might be taken as a love letter (let alone anything about sexual tastes and hopes) to a girl with whom I was having an affair. Right now, no matter how much, how passionately someone and I were in love, I couldn't risk leaving a paper trail. I couldn't risk the ways love letters could be spun to make everything I like, or want, or feel seem contemptible.
In the past few years, I've received a handful of emails that were romantic enough, and a few that were deeply passionate or erotic. I can't recall when I last received an actual love letter.
I do want to say that I miss love letters. I miss receiving them, and of course I miss writing them. I miss ink on paper, and I miss opening a letter from a lover. I miss the days when young companions wrote me and used wax seals on the envelopes.
I may still have one or two of the emails lovers have sent me since the early or mid-2000s. Twenty years ago I probably would've printed them off and saved them, but these days there's something suspicious about anyone who'd do that. Most of the email exchanges I've had with lovers are long gone, though. It's far easier to delete emails when an affair ends than it is to throw out (or ritually burn) letters from an ex-lover. It's painful to go back and read over letters from lost loves, but destroying the letters or deleting the emails leaves a gap in your life and history.
Love letters were a kind of proof, a kind of archivable evidence that I had value to someone. I did archive any that I received, and one of my regrets is that over all these years and so many moves, the boxes with letters from girls who did once desire me have gone missing.
I know that I wrote letters to girls with whom I was involved, and I can still remember some of the more intense or passionate ones. I can remember choosing the right stationery and sitting up late at night with a fountain pen and hand-mixed inks to write a lover. These days, though, I'm not sure I'd do that. I think that these days I'd be hesitant to risk writing a love letter. These days--- in the days of the gender wars ---I'd be afraid that love letters would be used against me.
When I was twenty or thirty I would never have been afraid of that. That I loved someone, that I felt desire for her, that I imagined ways that the two of us could make love--- I'd have owned those things in a heartbeat. I couldn't have imagined being ashamed of those things. If a lovely girl and I were involved, I'd have been proud of that, proud of being with someone like her. Even if the affair ended, even if it ended badly, I'd have remembered the good parts.
These days, though, love letters--- even those sent to someone with whom you were deeply, mutually involved ---could be spun to seem disturbing. Love letters could so easily be made to seem stalkerish and demanding and "entitled". Any declarations of passion could be made to seem disturbing and threatening. Any statement of romantic or sexual interests or preferences could be made to seem pathetic or coercive. Here in these days of the gender wars, love letters can far too easily become evidence against you--- literally so. At the very least, love letters can be used to show how inept and hopeless you are at writing anything romantic or sexual, or that your sexual tastes are stunted, sad, contemptible.
No one uses telephones for long conversations any longer. Phone sex is a dying art. More's the pity about that, since phone sex allows you to construct long, complex fantasies and adapt to a lover's responses. Phone sex is far more intimate than sexting could ever be. And it has this advantage--- unless someone is actually taping you, it's much harder to use against you than a love letter would be.
It's sad enough that I'm thinking about this. I miss love letters, miss being able to look through my archives years afterward and remember someone I loved, remember that once upon a time someone felt passion and love and desire for me, remember that once upon a time I was worth the time it took to write me letters. I'd wanted to talk about how much love letters meant to me back in the days of long ago. I'd wanted to talk about how love letters were archived, and how much they meant to me as part of my history.
Right now, though, I can only talk about how much of a risk love letters seem to be, and how I'd be afraid to send anything that might be taken as a love letter (let alone anything about sexual tastes and hopes) to a girl with whom I was having an affair. Right now, no matter how much, how passionately someone and I were in love, I couldn't risk leaving a paper trail. I couldn't risk the ways love letters could be spun to make everything I like, or want, or feel seem contemptible.
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