50 Shades of Fuckery

For some time, there was a war on my Facebook newsfeed. There were soldiers on both sides in my friends list, and thus I was confronted with both sides of the argument. I read all the comments, looked at the articles provided as evidence for each side, and in the end, I still didn’t feel like I could properly choose a side. So I’ve embarked on a strange, often boring, usually repetitive journey to enlighten myself so that I might be able to make a rational and constructive opinion about this war, so that maybe I can choose a side. And what have I found so far? I don’t really agree with either side. I do agree with bullet points from each side, but not the entire argument. And what battle am I referring to? Why, none other than the legendary battle of 50 Shades of Grey, the ones who love it versus the ones crying “abuse!”.

Before I read the first book, I read the articles online that vehemently protested the book, claiming it was no dreamy fantasy, but instead a disgusting portrayal of abuse and violence that painted the BDSM lifestyle in ugly and untrue colors. I read the statuses of friends who know a thing or two about the BDSM lifestyle saying the same things the articles were saying, and begging their friends not to go see it or read the books, but instead to find better literature about BDSM. I learned from my few explorations into these lists of “better literature” that I’m not entirely sure there has ever been an “accurate portrayal” of BDSM in the media… At least, not in the general sense of it and not a portrayal that seems to go to the extreme side of the Master/slave end of the spectrum. This includes (so far) the first book of The Beauty Trilogy by Anne Rice and the movie The Secretary. I may yet do a short review on those, but that is still to be decided.

Now then, 50 Shades of Grey. I read the book with a keen eye set out for any funny activities that I could yell, “A-ha! Christian Grey, you abusive scum!”, at. Weirdly enough, that never happened. And I had to wonder, who was claiming these books portrayed abuse? Was it the masses of hyper-sensitive people our generation has seemed to breed? Did my friends even read the book, or just listen to the articles with their carefully selected sentences and short excerpts from the book? It’s actually taken me a minute to get this review finally typed up because I was nervous to put my actual thoughts on this book out there. It seemed I was a lone grey area (ha!) in a sea of black and white. But then musician, poet, writer, artist, Dominant William Francis, aka William Control, himself went to see the movie and came up with a similar response to mine.


I’m sure everyone has heard by now that 50 Shades started out as Twilight fanfiction online. For anyone who has read Twilight (I admit, I read about 2 1/2 of those books. That’s another conversation for another day), it’s easy to see the influence Stephanie Meyer had on E.L. James and the reason they same women who loved Twilight have become smitten with Mr. Grey. The writing in the books is childish, in my opinion. It’s basic, though she does try to throw in some big words here and there. The leading female character is immature in generally all aspects, no matter how hard the writer tried to make her seem strong. I suppose the reason for this is to make her more “relatable”, but I can’t relate to a woman who mentally refers to her self conscious as a seperate entity from herself and has an “inner goddess” who is seperate from both herself and her subconcsious. I also cannot relate to a woman who refers to her vagina as “… there“. Pussy, cunt, vagina, sex, gaping fuck hole. I don’t care what you want to call it, just please, anything but “… there“!

I admit, from the first chapter where I was convinced that the reason Anastasia Steele was a virgin was because she was secretly a lesbian in love with her best friend/roommate, I was mentally chastising myself for allowing myself to feel obligated to read this rubbish just to have an opinion. It’s rough, obviously, living in a world where we need to feel relevant. Most of the time I don’t care. But for some god awful reason, I just had to have a relevent opinion on this… Damn it.

So, klutzy girl next door Miss Steele has to interview mysterious sexy billionaire Mr. Grey because her best friend/roommate is sick. And basically the next day he shows up at the hardware store she works at wanting to buy rope and cable ties, after not being told where she works. “Oh, Christian, fancy meeting you here in Portland at this little locally owned hardware store that I just so happen to work at. What ever made you come here from Seattle basically the day after we met?” Gag me, please, and in exactly the way Ana later decides she doesn’t want to be gagged. Ya know, cuz I’m actually into that shit. But, this turns out to be a regular occurence. And this is the start of where some people start calling out abuse the way you might yell “fire!”. Because, yeah, it’s a little stalkerish. Especially when he starts doing stuff like that a lot. Like, tracking her cell phone. And it’s true that if this were being said about some middle-lower class guy living in a trailer, we’d be freaking out. But, since this is the uber sex god and inconceivably rich CEO and self made hunk Christian Grey, it sets mouths and other things to watering.

But, is it abuse? It’s a little odd, yes. However, it just doesn’t scream abusive to me. I realize that some people who are involved in the kink scene are afraid of people being inspired by these books and not taking proper precautions before attempting their own kinky fuckery, getting hurt, and then shining bad light on the lifestyle. But, Mr. William Control said it best himself when he said that, “The sanctimonious, whining interpretation of this mild BDSM as a cover for domestic abuse is absurd. The notion this is a complete or accurate example of BDSM is shallow… Maybe you’re new and want to find out more about these things you feel hidden within your heart. Ask questions, there are answers to be found. Here’s a little piece of advice: Don’t Google search ‘Submissive’ and expect a full picture of what that actually looks like, because the meaning and achievement of that role is quite different for everyone.”

Ideally I wanted to make this review a little more in depth, with nice littler excerpts from the book and page numbers so you folks could follow along. But I ended up sending the book back to the library before I found time and motivation to get into this. What I can say is that I read through the entire first book, and not once did I see him do anything abusive to her. “But, didn’t you see where she said no and he didn’t lsiten to her?!” Ummm, not really. I saw her say no, and him not do anything to her until he finally got the yes that she didn’t at first say because she was just innocently nervous, not because she didn’t actually want to do the things he wanted to do. Another excerpt from WIlliam Control’s review sums up my thoughts on this nicely: “...Christian spends nearly the whole film politely requesting Anastasia’s consent, trust and devotion. This gesture is probably the most realistic portrayal of a BDSM relationship in the whole placid plotline.

I’ve heard more negative uproar from the feminist extremist community (not the feminist community in general. Don’t start giving me lip, mother fuckers.) and kinksters who themselves are maybe a little more sensitive to rape and abuse than others. And I can see the whole thing from their point of view. I just don’t agree with it. The few portrayals of BDSM in the media I’ve seen seem to focus on a Master/slave dynamic and fall into more extreme places on the spectrum. And this is not an unknown occurrence. But you know what? Floggers and restraints and nipple clamps have been sold in sex stores forever. Putting a 50 Shades of Grey tag on them suddenly has everyone scooping them up, yes, but that’s okay. This is the tamest BDSM portrayal I’ve ever seen, some of the softest of the soft core erotica I’ve ever been subjected to, and if it shines a little more public attention on kinky fuckery, then more power to it, no matter how poorly written it may be. Because the ones who are serious about it will find their way.


My Daughter

My daughter,

You are so tiny, Little One. I wasn’t expecting to hold you for another month, but you had other plans. You didn’t make me wait very long, and after about 24 anxious hours of light contractions and 1 hour of hard labor, I was holding the one person I love more than anything or anyone else on the face of this planet. 5lbs 5oz and 18 inches long. They only let me hold you for about 5 minutes before they had to take you because you were having breathing problems. I spent 4 hours pining for you, waiting to have you back in my arms where you belonged. Those poor hospital workers. I basically refused to put a shirt on the whole time I was there, because I couldn’t get enough skin to skin time with you.

We had breastfeeding issues, and I worried myself into crying fits. I felt like a failure, like an unfit mother. You seemed so hungry, and I only wanted you to be full and content. And once we finally got the hang of it, you and I, words cannot even express the lightness in my heart to hold you close and look into your eyes while you nursed. The closeness, the bond, that I feel with you gives me strength. You give me strength, Little Miss. You make me want to be better for you and for us. I love you so much, my little strong one. And you are so strong, rolling onto your side, trying to hold your head up already. When you were born, your cries were so weak from your lungs not really being fully developed. And now, only 2 weeks old, and you sound so strong when you cry. I can’t even be aggravated by your cries, because I’m so relieved you’re getting stronger.

I hope with all my heart that you retain this strength you’ve shown from the start. If you’re anything like me, you’re going to be willful and headstrong and independent. And I would die before I’d try to squash any of that in you. I don’t want to cage you as you grow, but I want to watch you flourish and thrive and really live. I will discipline you when you need it, because the world will not be kind and you must learn to listen. But, I will also always listen to you, and I will be both your mother and your friend. I want you to be able to talk to me, and I want to teach you to have a good, responsible head on your shoulders. My love of books, and art, and music are all things I wish to give to you. As you grow, I will find joy in the passion in your eyes and pride in all your accomplishments as well as your attempts, even if they don’t end in success, because I don’t want you to ever be afraid to try.

I really can’t tell you enough how much I love you, my beautiful, strong, amazing Little Miss. And I can’t wait to see the beautiful, strong, smart, amazing woman you grow into (But don’t grow too fast… i want to enjoy your childhood just as much as I want to make it enjoyable for you).


Fools Loving Fools

We were on and off and on and off. And the whole time you were playing the same games with other girls. And it’s been a year since you finally left, and there are other women experiencing their one year marks of lovers lost and not feeling anything and I’m still dreaming about you almost every night and feeling that sickness crawling beneath my skin.

I’m left with so much uncertainty about everything involving you and who I was when I was with you and what I became with and without you. I don’t want to feel anything for you anymore. You always told me that I never knew who you were, but the more I think and the more people tell me, the more I think I know you better than you know yourself. You are diseased, and I was in love with all your pretty lies and the curve of your back and the hope that you could change and be better than you’d ever been before. But I was not in love with you, the real you, the liar and the cheater and the fool.

Am I still in love because I didn’t love something real? It’s not like you changed, you just revealed your truths to me and tried to trick me into believing the lies were truths and vice versa. And though I know you’ll never change, and you’ll always believe the lies that you try to feed women, I can’t stop thinking about the fake you, the one with the firm but gentle hands and the sweet words and poisoned promises. As much as I hate who you really are, I love the lie you can be.

Asking For Help

Folks, I’m not doing so well. The girl who always finds a way can’t find a way this time. And to be honest? I’m fucking scared.

When I found out I was pregnant, I quit being a stripper and instead found myself employed as a delivery driver at a Pizza Hut in a small town. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being a delivery driver, it is that I still mostly hate everyone.

This job hasn’t been easy on my car. Lots of wear and tear when you’re driving all over Hell and God’s Creation taking pizzas to people who were too lazy to go get the food themselves, or else didn’t want to waste the gas. So they waste my gas. And yes, I’m bitter. Because I’m trying to prepare for the arrival of my little girl in January, and I keep getting stiffed on tips. Not to mention that my tips are spent after I fill my gas tank and buy a few groceries so I can eat for another day or two. My checks go entirely into my bills, and I’m paid biweekly. And currently, everything around me is breaking down. My car, my air conditioner (which I thankfully don’t need now that autumn is upon us, so I can worry about it later), my washing machine, the carpet in front of my washing machine.

I got my check today. Opened it at work. And cried. Immediately started balling because I was scared. My check was only enough to cover my rent for the month and then I was $10 short of being able to pay my water. This check was also supposed to pay my car insurance, but thankfully I had lent my mother some money, so instead of making me pay it back, she’s going to just pay my car insurance for me (since my car and the insurance are in her name).

I’m unable to put any money back. Saving is just not something I can do right now with the limited funds I’m getting and the expenses I keep having to shell out for. And just when I thought I was doing okay, I got shoved back down in the mud. I’m 6 months pregnant at this point, and there’s no way I can find another job or even a part time job. No one will hire me this far into the pregnancy. And when I go on maternity leave, I won’t be making any money. I’m so overwhelmed by all this right now. And that’s when a friend suggested I put my pride aside and accept the help I have so much trouble accepting. So I have created a gofundme. I’m only trying to raise $1,000, so I can put it aside to live off of while I’m on maternity leave.

I keep wanting to tell people, “No, it’s okay! I’ll be fine! Don’t waste your money on me!”. But I know it won’t be alright, because my checks at work aren’t going to be getting any better. And it’s not just about me anymore. My daughter needs me to be able to provide for her, and I can’t get a better job or go back to school until after she’s born. Any little bit is so very much appreciated. And even if you can’t donate, sharing the link is very much appreciated as well.

I think this is another lesson in growing up for me. Putting my pride aside and knowing when to ask for help.


Loves Lost, Lessons Learned

The several times I lost one of my ex’s, I always felt like I was going to die. It was so hard every time, even when I pretended it wasn’t. Even after I knew about all the cheating and all the shit he put me through, I still just wanted him. And I’d be lying if I said to this day I didn’t think about him and wish that he had been the man I had thought he was in the beginning.

When I lost my last boyfriend, we hadn’t been together all that long. Our relationship started fast and consumed us quickly and wholly. Including the girlfriend he already had that I ended up dating as well. And it hurt like hell to lose both of them, but him especially. I did care about her, but things were always different with her. I never felt like she was really trying to involve me and make what we had something special and real. Not that I could blame her, I don’t think I could have been the woman who took in her boyfriend’s new girlfriend and tried to love her, either. But I feel very keenly that loss, still to this day. Essentially, he was everything I was looking for. He was what I considered an ideal match. Let’s call him M.

M was tall. He was handsome. He was also a dom, and knew how to handle a paddle and just what to say and how to say it. He made me feel safe and cherished and loved and fulfilled. He had a job, and his 2 kids from his previous marriage were so fucking cute and sweet. He liked to have fun, he liked to show me off, and he liked to let me be me.

But M had a girlfriend I didn’t know about when we first met and got involved. And M never told me he was polyamorous until it was too late and finding out about another woman hurt my feelings. But he managed to talk to her and get her to agree to take me in to their relationship and make it one that we were all in equally. And it could have worked, if things had gone a little differently. But she couldn’t handle it, and I couldn’t stand hurting this poor innocent girl who’d done nothing but happily sacrifice and try to do whatever it took to make the man she loved happy. So I left, leaving him angry at me for “not trying” and her probably secretly relieved, though I never got her to admit to as much.

They’re happy, though, I guess. I had a dream about them, and got curious and checked out their Facebooks and they seem to be just as much in love as when I found and left them.

And now, I’m having issues finding a man to spend any kind of time with, even if it’s just a date to get lunch or coffee. Because I’ve tasted what I want, and now I don’t want to settle for less. But it turns out there aren’t that many men out there that I find attractive and have a dom style that I enjoy. And let’s not forget I’m pregnant, and there aren’t many men out there who will happily deal with a newborn that isn’t even theirs.

This pregnancy has me dreaming nightly of people I know or have known, and a lot of dreams revolve around exs. And it’s been making me think of all the loves I’ve lost and the things I’ve learned from each relationship and it’s respective ending. I know what I don’t want in a relationship, and what I definitely don’t need. But my wants are proving hard orders to fill. But I owe it to my child as much as to myself to do what makes me happy, and not settle ever again.

Depression Like Mine

Do you know what makes depression hard? Do you know what makes depression like mine hard? The fact that it’s not really about you. It’s about everyone around you, your friends and family. It’s about how it makes them feel. It’s about how selfish you are and how they’ve done everything for you and care so much and love you so deeply and you just curl into this dark ball of fetid loathing for the world around you as much as for yourself and hurt them. All you do is hurt them. So you keep your mouth shut. You let them talk and stab you like they tell you that you’re stabbing them and you keep it all bottled up until it gets so bad you can hardly stand to breathe, but still you keep your mouth shut because you don’t want to be selfish, and you don’t want to hurt anyone, because you know what it’s like to hurt. But if they find out that you’re hurting, then they get hurt by feeling like you don’t trust them and like you’re hiding things from them when you should just be honest and let them try to help you.

I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. Breathing hurts and makes the nausea worse. I can hardly motivate myself to get out of bed in the morning. I can hardly motivate myself to do anything anymore. And I’m so lonely… This loneliness hurts more than anything, keeps the weight firmly splayed across my chest. It doesn’t take much to make me cry. I can’t figure out how to crawl out of this. There are no lights at the end of the tunnel, or the top of the well, or whatever place my mental state has spiraled into. Sometimes I feel the need to run, although my laughable fitness level wouldn’t let me run far, but I can’t run anyways because jarring activites like that are not safe for the baby if they weren’t already a part of your daily routine. I guess it’s just the need to run away. I’d be content with driving, if I had the gas and money to drive anywhere.

How is living so easy for some people?

Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror



If there is a mirror in the nearby vicinity with it’s reflective face turned to yours truly, chances are I’m casting surreptitious glances it’s way, checking my posture and hair and more than likely whether or not my slightly chubby cheeks and jawline are making my face look as round as I abhor it to look every time I laugh or smile or look down.

I’m self-conscious. I always have been, and I think it’s probably a safe bet that I always will be. I envy the girls that can pull their heads back and turn their necks into layered rolls just for the laughs. I would kill for confidence like that. But, no, I’m constantly trying to make sure that the double chin that has been trying to make a home with me is safely tucked away from judging eyes.

There’s a twinge of guilt for admitting all of this, because I’m afraid I’m coming off as judgmental myself. I am not. So many of the women I find attractive and desirable have traits that I try to hide on myself. I just… don’t like it on myself. It’s kind of like how my younger sister says she wants to look like me and thinks I’m beautiful, but she’s bulimic because she wants to be able to see her bones and thinks that that is what’s beautiful for her. It’s not that she judges me for my lack of a thigh gap, she just doesn’t want one herself.

Do I like what I see when I look in the mirror? Sometimes, honestly. When I’m posed just right and my makeup is done and I’ve created the image I want the world to see. Not many people are aware how bad my self-image is. I mean, I’m a stripper. We’re supposed to think we run this bitch with just our bodies, right? But there are so many things I want to change about myself, but that’s probably a topic for another post on another day.

Do You Understand?

You would never understand.

How can I even begin to make you understand the way I feel, this mind crushing depression? How do I explain how the line between mania and depression keeps becoming blurred as both feelings bleed together to create this mass of emotion and internal turmoil?

What can I say to make you be able to understand these self-harming urges to grab the nearest sharpest object, press it into the skin of my forearm or thigh and pull it across until I see the skin split and blood slowly drift to the surface and spill over? How can I put into words why I feel the need and want to do it, why it feels so good and so bad at the same time, and why I feel no remorse when I do give in?

If I could, I would bash my head into the wall, over and over again, until the pain brought tears to my eyes, and even then would I stop?

I have no coping mechanism. I can not talk about it, because it’s a tried and true fact that no one fucking cares. They all just get tired of listening to the same shit over over about how I just can’t get over it, And when their suggestions are of no help, they just get mad because they’re trying to help, I just don’t want their help (obviously, right?). 

This feeling leaves a knot in my throat and hot tears waiting for the chance to plunge down my cheeks and fall from my trembling lips onto my trembling hands. My head feels too full of everything, as if it’s being pushed from both the inside and the outside. The urge to pull at my hair, claw at my skin, to release this tension and anxiety makes me nervous and fidgety.

I’m only 20 years old, and already I’m so done with life. I’m no good at it, and I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I’ll never be good enough at anything, and being mediocre at best is crushing any self esteem that might ever try to lift me up.

Falling In The Darkness

I acknowledge that I basically have little to no reason to feel this way right now. Things really aren’t going too bad in my life, except for the one thing that seems to keep me on this perilous edge; money. 

(And to keep things absolutely in perspective, I’ve already backspaced an entire two very long sentences because my insecurities are fucking with me right about now)

I was diagnosed bipolar when I was probably 12-13. I don’t remember the doctor visit, or the diagnosis except for them telling my mother that I was “manic depressive”. A little personal research found that title to be directly tied in with bipolar, and suddenly a lot of things made sense. I’ve tried different medications, none ever making me feel better. I am a recovering cutter, my most recent self harming happening almost 6 months ago. But I’d be lying if right about now I wasn’t thinking about doing it again, even if I know I won’t.

The last psychologist I saw I barely talked to because he had me talk to some student intern and then had her fill him in on the details. And when he saw that I called myself bipolar, he looked up at me over the rim of his glasses and in his condescending tone that set in stone the fact that he had just lost me as a patient, told me that I was not bipolar, and to never call myself bipolar.

I hate it when people tell me I’m not bipolar, and to never call myself bipolar. I generally seem to hate it when people just dismiss my feelings in general, as if I don’t know what I’m feeling or I’m just being “irrational” and not understanding myself. 

So, this morning I wake up in a funk. And I’ve been feeling it coming on for a few days now, but I’ve tried to ignore it and hope that it goes away before it started. No such luck.

So what’s wrong? (Because God knows I’m not exactly in the mood to talk about what’s right, so bear with me, please). I am a 20 year old white female with little to nothing to put on a resume but one fast food job and strip clubs living on her own who, without friends and her grandmother, wouldn’t even be able to eat. I just started working two different strip clubs in the area, because I was getting seriously burnt out on one of them only making maybe $8 a 6-hour shift. I’ve got bills coming up that I’ve got to pay, I need a oil change and new windshield wipers. Fuck, i need gas money, since both of the clubs are 30 minutes away from my house.

It’s all this money stress that’s bringing me down. And listening to my mother stress about her money stresses and feeling like I’m supposed to do something to help but not being able to because I can’t even help myself. Fuck, I even bought my mom new windshield wipers while I’m still barely able to see on my long drives to work and back when the snow is slushy and my windshield wipers only make the problem worse. 

So now I’m on that slippery slope, and even though i try to buck up, IT’S NOT FUCKING WORKING. I don’t know what any one expects me to do, honestly. I can’t fucking help the way I feel. Oh, sorry my depression and anxiety is getting in the way of your happiness or is cutting into your depression. Here, let me console you and help with your problems and we’ll pretend mine don’t exist. 

I guess I kind of know where I was trained to feel like my emotions didn’t mean anything, and like my problems weren’t that important. And it’s stuck with me. I can’t help but feel like I shouldn’t talk about my problems. I’m so afraid everyone’s going to get tired of listening to me bitch and moan and rant. I’m so afraid of being a bother….

And it sucks, because I’ve got a pretty awesome guy that actually wants to be around me and thinks I’m pretty cool, and I don’t want him to have to deal with me. I don’t want anyone to have to deal with me. Which is also probably the reason I have friends, but don’t really talk to them. I know my shit gets old, that everyone eventually just gets tired of me being tired.

Now I guess we need to pose the question: Will my blog ever stop being so damn depressing? Yeah, eventually. But I’ve got to take it one day at a time. And these days aren’t so bright in my head.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Family


The first thing I thought of when I saw the word family was my biological family that I grew up with; my mother, sister, and brother. Admittedly, we all have a strained relationship with each other for various reasons.

The next thing I thought of was my friends, those people that I turn to for advice and support and company. But, truthfully, I don’t exactly have any familial friends, for various reasons.

The image my mind settled on, thinking of family, was one of groups. To my left, I saw my biological family, standing together looking at me. And to the right, I saw the friends that I’m closest to, standing in a group and looking at me. And away from both of these groups I stood, looking with each of them in my sights and both too far away for me to reach out and become a part of. I don’t even have my arms outstretched, I’m not even trying. 

But, I do have someone. Someone who doesn’t question me, who always wants to be with me, who never hurts me. And right now, it’s kinda just me and him in our little family. His name is Little Prince of Darkness, or Prince for short. And it’s his unconditional love that keeps me going sometimes. Sure, it gets lonely only having your cat as your closest family, but in the end, when people’s shortcomings keep them out of arm’s reach for me, I still have a little ball of fur that just wants me to hold him and love him.