The town of Furgeson, Missouri, is currently under a police sanctioned media blackout and no-fly-zone.
The reason? Protests and demonstrations and vigils for an eighteen year old brutally and senselessly killed by a Furgeson police officer five days ago.

The town is currently under, essentially, martial law.

Why this shit isn't everywhere, instead of Robin Williams, I'll never understand.

My first time in the dungeon

Miss Tease and I have been involved together for a few months now, and we've both comfortably moved into that amazing and terrifying part of a relationship called "dating", or otherwise known as "officially calling each other boy/girlfriend". Not only is the D/s part something fairly new for me, but the dating part is as well. As many who know me can attest, I haven't had much luck with relationships, and the ones I have had generally went nowhere or self-destructed very early in.

In fact, all told, this is going on to be my lengthiest and most successful relationship yet. Which is, in of itself, a little terrifying.

About a month into our thing, Tease mentioned that she had a friend who owned and rented out a dungeon. Said friend would be willing to go for half-rates for Tease and myself. I jumped, she jumped, and we planned it out. I'd yet to have proper dungeon play at all, ever. All of my play has always been in my house, mostly with the few toys and items I had on hand. The opportunity to be in a proper dungeon, with proper funiture and toys and tools was just too much!

Today was that day, and it was pretty nice :3

We got dressed, but Miss Tease had some minor issues as she was changing; her period, which was supposed to begin two weeks ago, picked the exact time of us beginning the dungeon session to begin. We both roundly scolded her uterus for being a jerk, then began for real.

The first bit was just a bit of a foot massage for her. I was sitting/kneeling on a large pillow and she was in a throne, her feet on my chest or lap. I'm not a foot person, but she likes having her feet massaged, stroked and petted. I'm not entirely grossed out by feet in general (unless they are... ripe. then ugh.), so I am more than willing to comply and make her feel happy, or relaxed, with some feet play. At one point, she put some clover clamps on me and started to tug at the chain with her free foot. We soon moved onto the main event, however.

I knelt down on a padded table while she pulled down my panties, and she gave me a light spanking. This is, again, another thing I'm not really big into. It's not a turn off, exactly, but that kind of impact pain play is just not something that wires into my happy-fun-time-sex-zones in my brain. Tease, however, enjoys it a lot and really wanted to do some.

She started lightly with her hand, then moved up to a light flogger. The hand hurt more, honestly. She switched back to her hand to give some harder spanks before finishing me off with a light strap. It certainly was a thing!

We moved on again, and she began using a small plug on me. We'd had sex before, of course, but it was all PiV. She's a fan of pegging, and it is on my list of things to try as well. Up to this point, the only real anal play I've had was self-involved, and it was a different feet to have someone fuck my ass with a toy. It was nice. The first plug, however, was too small and wouldn't stay inside (my poor loose butt :( now I'll never land a man because tightness is obviously the most important thing amirite), so she moved on to a different kind, with three slightly different sized ball-sections on it. She fucked me a bit more with that one, which felt *much* better than the first, very slim and simple plug. I couldn't really tell when the balls passed in or out of me, but the motion and feeling of being full was simply delightful.

I also confirmed something I had experienced in my own little experimentations; buttfucking causes my penis to shrivel up to basically useless size. I don't know why, as it's not an unpleasant or painful experience, but there it is. Something to consider for the future.

When she was done violating my virgin shute, she had me lay down on the table, face up, and locked me in a metal chastity tube, the kind that's literally just a short pipe with an open end. I don't much like this style of cage, and it didn't really do anything for or to me during the rest of the scene. Shame.

Then she started with a pinwheel. I had never tried a pinwheel before, and had never really heard descriptions of how they feel. I expected something of a pinny-tease touch, and didn't expect it to actually hurt as much as it could on certain parts of me. When she rolled it on my thighs, or chest, or belly it was an interesting sensation, but along my balls or near my nipples? Ye gods, little needles of fire shooting through my skin and making me jerk and writhe. So much that she finally shackled me to the table. After a while, she added a gag because I was being too "noisy".

When she was finally satisfied with the pinwheel, she moved onto the final toy; a violet wand. I was giddy, I'll admit. The wand was the thing I'd been most looking forward to playing with when she told me this dungeon came with one.

And ye lords was it something.

The attachement she used most often was the one that turns your entire body into the transmission medium. So lightly tracing her fingers along my skin would send jolts of static shocks into me, making me jump and whimper. Being still gagged, my vocalisation was a bit muted for my tastes.

I love that wand. It's a nice, sharp and warm pain that doesn't sizzle on for too long after her hand passes on, but is still live enough to make me notice and anticipate it with some dread. Especially as she played her fingers softly over my balls or *incredibly* sore nipples. About three-quarters of the way through the violet want scene, I asked for her to take the clamps off finally (they'd been on about an hour my then, and my nipples are *still* sore about five hours later. Clovers are evil but I love them so <3 )... Which then turned into an even bigger target for wanding. I may have jumped a few times when she hit my nipples right on the tip.

She also had possibly the most even toy I have ever felt. It's a metal rod that, at one tip, has loads of little metal necklaces. The ones made with little metal balls connected by a wire. That thing, with the wand, is unmitigated agony and cruelty. She just trailed it lightly over my skin and there were times where even just it sitting on my thigh was enough to make my eyes water. Fuck.

I asked her to take the manacles off, because my arms were getting sore (one of them fell asleep almost as soon as I was able to move it again, and felt really heavy. To the point where I couldn't lift it to do much with it except let it thunk beside me), and she moved onto the final bit. She took the tube off my cock, and started getting me ready for some fleshlighting.

Saddly, that one never went anywhere. We were trying to get an erection to stay, the fleshlight prepped, and a condom on with very little time left to our session. We ended up just letting it drop and cuddling on a cushion for a bit, before cleaning up the toys we used and the dungeon area.


All in all, it was a nice experience. I enjoyed it and would do it again, perhaps with a proper scene or list of scenes drawn up between me and Miss Tease so we can both maximise our time spent. I didn't 'space, however. I'm not sure what if it's because of what we did, or just that I need more time, but that's one thing I am sad we didn't get to. Ah well, next time!

I haven't looked at this in a bit

I've been kind of busy and tired. Well, been *made* tired by a certain Miss Tease (who is nonetheless wonderful).

I don't exactly feel like posting too much porny about what we've been doing, but sufficed to say that she's a good person, a good Mistress, and a good lover. :)

Workwise, I was passed over for the Team Leader spot I was aiming for. Not much of a surprise really, since I am still relatively new at the store and have little to no management experience. Still, I thought I would have been ace at the position, since I already mostly know just about everything there was in the position itself. ah wells.

I am generally doing better on the mental health front, due to both the meds and the afformentioned Miss Tease. Not sure which is more the cause, but I'll take it anyway.

I need to write more.

my legs are so sore why :(

To Miss Tease

It's only been a few short weeks since you took ownership of your cock, and already I have trouble remembering why I ever thought that being in control of touching it, stroking it and making it come was a good thing.

This morning, when I woke up, your cock was rock hard and aching desperately to be touched. I wanted to run my fingers over the whole length of it, and stroke it gently at first and ever quicker and harder until I exploded all over my hand, spent and drained. I wanted to feel the delicious rise to the edge and heartstopping plunge over it.

But your instructions were clear, and did not brook argument. I was not allowed, not yet. As much as your cock ached to be stroked, my entire body ached to obey your commands and deny myself the pleasure until you gave permission.

That's what it comes down to; the control I have you, that you took so happily. The control over your cock and what happens to it, and when. I always knew I wanted to give it up to someone, but it always comes as a shock to me how deeply and desperately I do until it happens. Many crave the rush of orgasm and the sweet caress of sex in all forms, and while I do as well those feelings pale when compared to my need of not being in charge of my own sexual pleasure. The feelings that rush through me when I ask for permission to touch your cock are indescribable, and never depend on your answer. It is not the act of touching, or stroking, or coming that get me off. It is the act of asking to touch, stroke and come, and submitting to your answer, whatever it may be, that does.

Your cock exists to bring you joy, and to torment and tease me with delicious anticipation. My orgasms are yours, to do with as you please, and I would not have it any other way.

My only regret is that I do not have a cage for it yet, so that you could hold the key.

Hello Internet, I've missed you

My modem has been on the death for the past weekend, so I couldn't do anything internet related. I have discovered that TV really *does* suck, Soccer is actually pretty interesting at the international level, and video games are more annoying when you can't look up what you're doing wrong at a moments notice (how the fuck did we survive the 80's and 90's as gamers?!)

But it's all fixed now, so I can resumed my aimless wanderings about the internet. And get Game of Thrones before being *too* horribly spoiled (even though, as a book reader, that's not much of a danger).

I have started another writing project which, hopefully, will keep me at least writing something until I can get back to working on Lanos more. It's going to be kind of a porny Dresden Files inspired modern/urban fantasy thing. I'm still sussing it out but I'm having some fun writing it. It's a lot more fluff than Lanos, so it tends to go down smoother than struggling with the heavy metaphysics and philosophy I want Lanos to involve. Ah well.

I've also gotten myself an E-Cig, since my new lady friend (what should I call her... Heart? Adorable? SexyHobbit(she's really short)?) dislikes cigarettes a fair bit. I've been needing to quit for a while, this is just a kick in the pants to get working on it I guess.


I devoured the last Dresden Files (as you may have imagined since I'm working on something Dresdenesque) and enjoyed the living shit out of it still. It may not be the highest of literature, but goddamn if it isn't a good, fun read. Just wish they lasted longer.

The taste of you

The lights are dim once again, and I am kneeling in front of you. You smile down at my naked body, your stockinged foot gently running down my chest and stomach. I groan, shivering with need and emotion, my cock trying to swell up before you but being contained by the solid steel of my cage. You grin wider, playing with the key around your neck.

“Aww, is someone horny?” you tease lightly, foot grazing the steel. Your other hand slides beneath your skirt and I can begin smelling your arousal already. “Does someone want that poor, mean cage off so you can stretch and grow?”

I nod, whimpering in the high, needy way I know you love so well. Your foot lists up my caged penis, supporting it from beneath my balls, and I moan again the flesh pulsing warmly inside of the metal. You give a moan and bounce it lightly on the top of your foot, sending more shivers through my body. A clear drop of precum forms at the tip of my cock as my heavy balls bounce on your foot, and I groan again deep in my chest, shivering again from the need of you.

“Poor slutty kitty. Well, maybe if you take care of me right, I'll take care of you.” You grin wickedly again, and lift the hem of your skirt up. I can see the glistening wetness of where your fingers got started, and my mouth began to water already. You lick your probing finger clean, then summon me to your crotch with it.

I barely needed the invitation, as I almost plunge my face between your thighs. Your smell invades my nose as my face slides into the shadows beneath your skirt. One one your hands grips my hair, wrapping the locks around your fingers, to bring me in harder to your dripping cunt. I oblige. Normally, when I eat you, I like to begin slow and teasing, kissing and nibbling my way from your mouth, down your throat, over your chest, across your stomach and then finally cover your inner thigh entirely in kisses and love bites before plunging my tongue into your folds and going to work. But today you are in no mood for it, and you press me tightly against your pussy and begin to grind. I whimper, my cock straining harder against your foot as you use my face as your toy.

I do my best with your movements. My mouth and lips fumble at your labia, sucking and nibbling on them as they come within reach. I thrust my hips at your foot and moans again, the taste and smell of you all over me turning my arousal into overdrive. After what feels like ages fumbling against your movements, I finally grab your hips and pin your ass to the couch, which causes your fingers to tighten in my hair. I don't care, as I can finally show your cunt the worship I feel it deserves.

I begin on the outside, my tongue tracing the outer edge of your majora. I kiss it gently, moving from the soft tickle of your pubic hair to the musky taste of your ass, and back up on the other side. The warm, plump lips are covered in kisses, and I take care to suck every inch of them into my mouth.

I move my attention to your protruding inner lips, using my teeth a bit more as I nip and tug at them. Your smell is stronger now, and I stop my ministrations of your labia to give your hole deep, languorous licks, dipping as deep inside as it can reach. I swallow your juices, purring, before resuming my slow and methodical work.

I finish with your labia, and then attack your clit. My tongue swirls around it in circles as I suck it between my lips. I grip it tightly, but gently, keeping my teeth away from direct contact with anything but your hood. I can hear you moaning more as I swirl and suck, and my own movements become more desperate. I whimper louder, my slurping becoming less measured and calculated as my lust overwhelms me. My hands leave your hips, on moving between your legs to slip two fingers inside of you. I hear you gasp as they slide in easily, and I curve them up to hit the fleshy mound of your g-spot. Your hips buck in answer, and your hands bring my face tight into you again. You grind away at my face, my fingers fucking you, my mouth desperately sucking and licking your clit as it passes by and crushes itself into my face.

It is not enough for me. I need more of you, and my movements increase against you. Your legs tighten around my head as I feel you get close to your orgasm, and I desperately try to bring you there. I moan at the thought of your juices exploding on my face, in my mouth, all over me, dripping heavy and sweet to the ground.

I feel you shudder, and your flow becomes thick. I greedily slurp it up as your hips raise strongly from the couch, pressing me against you in orgasmic bliss. Slowly, your body relaxes but my mouth continues it's work, my fingers slowly popping out of you. I gently cover your swollen cunt with soft kisses and gentle licks, soothing the reddened flesh with my loving tongue. 

I lean back from you, my face a sexy-smelling mess, and breath hard at your feet. Your gentle teasing of my cage cock never stopped, and several drops of precum have landed on your toes. You don't seem to mind, lounging lazily from your voluptuous orgasm.

"Good pet... Now come, lets go to bed." you smile tiredly at me, and I moan, cock twitching and more precum pearling at the tip. Once more, blue-balls for me.

Whoa

Outside of a few friends who know me out there and meatspace, I've been keeping this little thing close to my chest for a little bit, 'cause I've been terrified of jinxing it and having it slip through my fingers.

But, after a few weeks and some more assurances that it is not a fluke, and will not just turn into shapeless smoke if I say something about it, I'll just reveal my good news.

I found someone to play with ^.^

This may not seem like such big news for some people (mostly those who don't know me well), but for me it is amazingly huge. I don't play very much at all, online or off, so even getting someone to fool around with me in text or cam form is a huge gain over my usual time. To, on top of that, find someone who is caring, warm, fun, experimental, open, and *local* to me who is willing to explore and experiment with me is... Kind of something that has never happened before.

And yet here I am, with exactly that warm, kind, fun, experimental, and incredibly pretty woman who is willing and able to do dirty, sexy things with me. There are times where I felt I was walking on air, because of how nice and good it felt. At which point another part of my brain would be there to club the floating one down and go "stop it, you're getting your hopes up again".

And then the second part would be proven a liar. It's not the kind of thing that happens a lot with me.

We met at Pearl's birthday party a few weeks back (a party i almost missed, and fuck would that have been a crime). We chatted a bit, and snuggled on the couch watching Pearl and Wildcard play with someone. I was feeling good at the time, and also horny (there was another person at the party I snuggled with, and she also happened to be naked and didn't mind beind groped. I need to show up to these parties more often), and desperately trying to not do the "lost puppy" routine that I sometimes fall into. It must have worked, because she sought me out once or twice during the party, and didn't mind me being close to her at all.

Afterwards, I asked Pearl about her and got a few answers that cooled my ardour a bit. Yes, she was single, yes she was kinky, no she wasn't into or experienced with my kinks at all but would probably be willing to learn, no is not looking as she's busy with school and has just come out of a hard relationship.

I'll admit I was a bit sad to hear that last bit, but I swallowed and thought to myself "She's willing to cuddle and be physically touched and touchy with you, that's more than you've got right now. So give it a shot".

I did, and messaged her of Fetlife. We started to chat, first just general life stuff, nerd things, setting up a friend-date to just hang out. Nothing too flirty or overt really. I was going into this pretty much only aiming to get a new friend.

Then something strange happened. One night, a couple of days before our friend-date, the conversation turned more frankly sexual than it had been previous, and the flirting began from both sides. I was still a little aprehensive, but willing to go along and see where it led. Flirting led to talking about our toys, which led to webcaming to compare them, which led us both to undress on cam, which led to... Her agreeing to tease me and play some.

I was beyond head over heels. This is something that happened in my quiet, before-sleep fantasies involving her (I've had a few before that evening. Like I said she was pretty sexy and fun and warm, all of which are things that make me react strongly physically) and never something I expected to happen at all, much less so soon in our relationship together and so quickly and easily.

The day of the date came, and she showed up at the movies wearing what was practically a see-through top with a small, push-up black bra beneath it. My eyes may have popped out of their sockets a bit, and I tried to keep as close as possible to her all the time together. If only to have a good angle to look at see-through-shirt-cleavage (she's quite a bit smaller than me, so me being in a ten foot radius of her gives me cleavage-vision).

That day was an amazing amount of fun. The movie wasn't terrible, the company was great, the food we grabbed after was tasty, and the flirting and groping we did in the car after was sexy. The date was less than a week ago, and already we've progressed and moved on with our fun. And it doesn't look likely to stop or die soon.

So I write this, partly in defiance of jinxing what I've found, and party out of my giddy glee at finding someone to share my warmth and sexiness with.

Plus now I'll totally have more stuff kink-related to share here :D

OVERLORD

On this day, four score minus ten years ago, one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers from thirteen countries crossed the english channel to invade Europe. Late the previous evening, and into the early hours of the morning, a further twelve hundred airbourne infantry landed behind the beaches of Normandy, and rang the opening shots of the Battle of Normandy.

By the end of the day, near fourty five hundred Allied soldiers lay day, with thousands more wounded. The German forces lost around one thousand. By the end of the Operation Overlord, the total losses would mount to three quarters of a million.

The scope of war sometimes boggles the mind. Since we've seen the movies, and played through recreations of the battles in gods know how many games, one would think that one would have a grasp of it. One would in fact be wrong.

Those things can help bring us context and scale to the events, possibly better than any people in the history of this little planet we cling to. That context still comes at the cost of being emotionally distanced from the events by the very means we use to experience them. This is of no fault of the medium, as we do still get an emotional investment into these events by their portrayal in movies, games and books (anyone who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about. I've said it, games are art as much as movies and books are), that would be impossible without them. It's just that the very nature of a second (and often more) hand medium of experiencing even the most vivedly captured historical events leads to it being a historical event. And, with that, boring and dusty.

One hundred and sixty thousand men charged from boats onto fortified beaches and into the screaming mouthes of the machine guns and mortars. The dedication and belief in their cause must have been the only thing that kept some of those soldiers running, until they felt the hot slam of an MG-42 bullet in their gut. Some I guess would have spit it back out in blood spattered bitterness at the world before dying. Others let it cradle them into the darkness.

With the hindsight of years, we can baldly say that it was a just cause. The Cassus Belli against the Germans could not have been more justified in the long and sad history of war. Those poor sad hundred and sixty thousand bastards didn't know that, however. They'd been told exactly the same thing every soldier before and since has been; the enemy is monstrous, we are virtuous, the virtuous destroys the monsters. The men shooting at the beaches from the fortifications probably got the same pep-talk, after all. The fact that one side was right, and the other were monstrous butchers, doesn't really mean much in general. For all history could have said, those soldiers on the beaches would have died for no reason other than a trade dispute gone very sour.

That is something that I feel is often glossed over during our rememberance of World War II. Their deaths lead to the stop of the deaths of more millions, and this should be justly sung to all, lest we forget.

Their deaths could just have easily been for naught, and this too should be justly sung to all. Lest we forget.

i swear to god i am not making this up.

I just finished A Bridge Too Far (which is a movie based on a book about Operation Market Garden and then the PVR went back to what the TV channel was. And I saw...

this commercial 

(well one of those two, the player didn't load right for me (it's not chrome compliant. You'd think they'd hire a competant webmaster to just use standard flash)

(ps:i am copy pasting this into my gtalk with Pearl (her reaction was quite simply "What. The. Fuck." (that is a direct quote and she is a liar if she denies it) and my reaction was "RIGHT?!" (except with a lot more?!'s)

)

     

     There are a lot of things wrong with this, and I don't know if I'll ever have the time and coherence to go through them all so I'll give the major highlights.

1) it doesn't fucking matter what other countries do, quebec is part of a country currently
2) said country already *has* an official language. 2, actually. French and English.
3) despite all of this (and the fact that French was made an official language because of Quebec *and other francophones who live outside of quebec*), Quebec does not have English as an official language outside of federal places. In fact, english is legally obligated to be *less visible and legible* than french on signs.
4) it is more xenophobic vomit from the branch of the Quebec people that think that being inclusive means "you can't make the white french people uncomfortable by being different, or talking english"
5) fuck this condescending bullshit


*takes a breath*




So A Bridge Too Far is still a most excellent film, you should check it out if you like war movies, or are interested at all in World War 2 (June 6th is soon people, lets not forget the longest day).

Tashi's NSFW (part one of is this joke even worth it?)

I am on my back on your bed, nervous as hell. The feeling of the cool metal wrapped lovingly around my cock didn't help the nerves, or the aching and persistent swelling of my trapped penis. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself, the lingering incense of your room whispering into my lungs.

Every motion of my body brought my massager into lingering contact with my prostate, and I try to lay as still as possible. But still, every flex of my hips, or abs, or especially kegels brought more stimulation, and a new drop to the faucet that was my cock.

The last time I'd been out of the cage was two weeks previous, when you'd decided that you wanted to see what palming felt like. The inflamed nerves all over my cock still remembered the relentless slick motion of your hand, the head especially tingling in fond fear of your torments. The torture seemed to last forever despite the rest breaks, but must have only been an hour or two, before you announced you were done and I was to be locked up again. We had cuddled together, and you petted my hair soothingly as I whimpered into your neck.

My cock tried to grow again, pressing vainly against the cold solidness of the cage. My attempts to change my train of thoughts had been useless, and I could only wait in dripping anticipation for you to appear.

And appear you did, finally. Your skirt was scandalously short, and your underwear seemed vanishingly small. As a classy person, you wore your panties beneath your garter belt. The stockings ended at mid-thigh, leaving a large tempting swathe of eager flesh to caress. The corset was brand new and the bones skimmed and fitted to your body just so, the lush fabric coloured with deep greens and muted golds.

You smile at me as you step closer to the bed, letting the scent of your perfume announce you. You're gently holding an item in each hand. The left, a paddle. The right, a small handheld wand. My body shivers as I take you in, and I slowly curl up, whimpering softly. A raise brow is all I need to straighten back out. My reward for this act of submission is for you to straddle my face, keeping your barely clad pussy mere inches away from my face.

“The better job you do of making me come, the more chances I have of being nice.” Your knees weigh down on my shoulders as you keep yourself barely away from me. The vibrator clicks on, and the paddle begins to stroke my swollen balls.

“Begin,” you say, mockingly and comfortably authoritative. I do, and raise my face into your thonged crotch. My eager lips and tongue suck and nibble at all the sweetest places you've shown me, and your ministrations begin. The head of the wand presses against the eager swollen flesh of my trapped cock, and the paddle begins its work.

The better I did, the harder you went with both. Relentless and a little cruel, you drive me ever to the edge, then back off. In those moments of break for my cock, you lower yourself down and put your full weight on my face. The better I do, the sooner the break stops.

Time seemed to stand still, and stretch on ever onward. It became merely your cunt, and the taste and smell of it on me, and your ass, and greedily worshipping both. I can hear you moan and writhe above me, your hips rocking in slow circles as you keep teasing my cock to a caged edge, and spanking my balls as freely as you like. Sometimes, you drop the paddle and just squeeze them in you hand, then slap them back and forth.

 

Every hit, every moment of contact with that wicked wand, every taste of your juices down my throat, causes me to moan, whimper and writhe under you. And every motion of my body tickles that poor, swollen prostate... Were I wearing underwear, they'd be soaked in precum.

Finally you press down on me and you don't stop your tortures. I know, my the sound and feel of you, that you're close. I devour you, ravenous to make you feel that flood on my face. And I can taste it approaching, my own orgasm fast on the trail. And just as I cannot hold it back, and the final bridge is past, you toss the vibrator aside and redouble your beatings of my balls. My hips thrust up vainly, desperate for just a little more contact, just enough...

But that contact never arrives, and the orgasm is ruined. My come merely oozes slowly out of my tumescent cock, pushed by my pelvic muscles and the massager. You give a sudden cry above me and you come messily, my mouth lapping as much as it can.

Finally, your orgasm subsides, and mine continues to gently and cruelly dribble out. I whimper beneath you, shivering with need. My cock is as swollen and aching as ever, except twice as sensitive as before, and twice as desperate to come. My balls ache, feeling bloated and full despite of being emptied over the course of an hour. You lay down next to me, cooing softly and kissing my face and lips. I return your kisses eagerly, purring.

Your fingers dip into the come that dripped onto my balls, and scoops some up. You bring it up to my mouth, trace it slowly over my lips, giving them an inviting gloss.

“That was fun,” you declare, satiated. Your eyes however are still hungry, and the evil smile I've learnt to fear crops up again. You slide your come-covered finger into my mouth, and I suck it off hungrily.

“How about we do it again in say... A month?” you say before you kiss me deeply.

muahahahahahaha

I've been seeding my blog everywhere and now I have hits!

HITS!

I am a SOMEONE ON THE INTERNET NOW

*cough*

carry on

A break from rage

I've been writing and reading and commenting and arguing about Elliot Rodgers all weekend (and today), I think it's time for a break. So here's a short sample from a fiction project I'm working on.


-------------

Shan knelt by the pit, looking at the bones that covered the bottom of it and repressing the urge to swear. He could not be sure how many bodies were left here, scavengers and the weather having taken their toll, but there were at least seven heads staring back at him, some decayed down to grey bone, others with strips of flesh and hair still clinging tenaciously.

“So much for finding survivors,” the Ranger muttered to himself, standing up and brushing the dirt from his knee. He glanced up at the sky, watching the red tinge bleed away into a deep blue. The first stars began to glimmer, and Shan knew they would be the only light to guide him for the rest of the night. He briefly considered making camp, and continuing at dawn, but there were still two children to account for. None of the remains were fresh enough.

A part of his mind wondered if he had not made a mistake by taking on this unofficial mission. There was no requirement, in the code or the Oath they swore, that obliged them to take on tasks outside of those given within the chain of command, though several of the older Rangers seem to believe that there should be.

“The Seal you carry with you comes with a heavy responsibility,” their elder instructor would repeat. “You are tasked with the defence of the Empire, from threats varied and hidden. If you graduate, and take the Oath, your responsibility is not to follow the orders from your superiors, but to maintain order and peace throughout our lands, no matter the cost.”

Those words, and many more like it, had made a profound impression on Shan during his training, and he swore, the day he received his commission, to live up to the heavy expectations of his instructors, and of the Empire itself. It had led to some less than desirable moments in the past, as he zealously attempted to solve any wrong that was brought to his attention, many of which still make the rounds in the Posthouses he frequents. The veteran members adore telling the newer recruits of the time Shan found himself infiltrating a brothel, disguised as a woman, to recover blackmail documents, and how he quickly discovered it was merely an attempt by a merchants wife to humiliate her husband by catching him in the same room as a cross dresser.

The howls of laughter are generally exuberant.

It was through events like these that Shan eventually learned to restrain his impulses and plan his outings. The stories remained widespread and repeated, as any story inside of a closed group tends to, but they were soon accompanied by real successes. Though Shan would no longer simply go off the moment he heard of a problem he would always listen, and store the information in the back of his mind, ready to be compared to other information he gathered. Matched with his innate curiosity, and zealous drive to excel, it led him to a long string of successful missions, most of them from outside official channels.

So it was that, as he was passing through Gallemsberg on his way west toward Allair, he heard the locals talking of missing children. His curiosity perked by the alehouse gossip, Shan began to dig deeper. Wary glances were dissipated by a flash of the Imperial Seal and eager, frightened tongues wagged with desperate pleas.

The town had been plagued, for several years, with vanishing children. The townsfolk were adamant of the distinction; many children died each year, from illness or accidents and, rarely, murder, but the disappearances that happened on the nights where both moons were hidden from view were different. Some had vanished from their beds, their covers discovered perfectly made in the morning, others from trips to the market, or the well. The town had been under curfew on the night of any new moon, with militia patrolling the streets, and still the children went missing.

Both moons would be new that night, and two children had already gone missing from their home by midday. With the tear strained faces of the parents still haunting his memory, Shan took to the forest surrounding Gallemsberg in what he expected to be a fruitless hunt. The mass grave had been a surprise, one that served to confirm the Ranger's fears; whatever was happening to the children of Gallemsberg was done at the behest of an intelligent agent.

“There's nothing more to do but press on,” he finally said, throwing a handful of dirt into the open grave.

There were six of them around the fire, their backs away from it. Each of them was dressed in a long red robe, with the hood covering their faces, save for one. His back was directly to Shan, robbing him of the chance to see his face, though he could make out a heavily scarred bald scalp. He had spotted at least one sentry, on the far side of the clearing from where he was hidden, and knew there would be at least two more somewhere in the woods. He remained quiet, kneeling, taking the scene in detail for the report.

Next to the slowly banking flames was a spit, upon which were tied a boy and a girl. Both were naked, their lips sewn shut and eyes empty black pits above streaming tracks of red running down their cheeks.

He knelt, observed, and listened. The language they spoke was foreign to Shan, seeming to consist of guttural warbling and sharp staccato explosions. The man without the hood seemed to be leading the chant, with the five others responding in what felt like rote chant.

Shan's disquiet grew with every moment. His mind was screaming for him to flee, to report to the nearest Posthouse, and bring a troop of deputies crashing through the forest to hunt these six men down. He remained, however, waiting, his teeth grinding at the sight and sound of the tableaux. He remained, ignoring the desperate cries for his own safety, because he needed to see the face of the scarred man. To be able to confront him, in public, for Infernalism.

His thoughts were interrupted by a noise to his right, in the darkened woods. He checked a swear, and slid his hand slowly to his sword, mentally berating himself for letting his guard down and ruining his night vision by staring at the only light source for miles. Scanning the shadows around him, Shan slowly began to creep backwards from the clearing, hoping to evade notice and make his way out of the forest and back to Gallemsberg. With some luck, the locals would be convinced by his description, and the Imperial Seal, and join him in raiding the camp. With even further luck, they might return and find someone remaining.

The sound, the dry snap of a dead branch, repeated itself and was joined by the rustle of leaves to his back. Deciding that secrecy was no longer warranted, Shan spun on his left heel, his long blade sliding out of the oiled leather scabbard at his side. The sentry creeping up on his back was taken by surprise, and the Ranger took advantage of those few moments of shock to stab him through the lung, pressing his hand against his mouth to stiffle the gurgling scream. Had the sentry been alone, it would have been enough.

Reacting purely on instinct, Shan dove to his right, away from a downward strike of an axe aimed at his head. The sudden dive made him lose the grip on his blade, and the first sentry crumpled to the ground two yards away, three feet of steel sticking out of his chest. Swearing, audibly, Shan tore his short blade from its scabbard and prepared to deal with the axeman and run into the wild.

He did not count on the scarred man getting involved.

Shan felt a sudden pressure on his throat, and he turned and slashed with his sword to dispatch what he thought was a third assailant. His blade whistled harmlessly through the air, and he heard the second sentry, the one with the axe, chuckle at the sight of it. Clawing at his throat, vainly trying to breathe, Shan stumbled away from the campsite and crashed through the woods. Dark spots were beginning to appear in front of his eyes, and his chest felt like it was freezing, and on fire, at once. The pressure relented for a moment, allowing Shan to draw in a gasping breath, then resumed as strong as before. Tears streaming down his face, the Ranger collapsed to his knees, short blade falling from nerveless fingers.

“Well, it would appear we have a spy in our midst.”

The voice seemed to float in the night air, coming from in front of the prostrate Ranger. Looking up, blinking away tears and spots, Shan tried to focus on the face.

It was scarred, horribly scarred, a network of lines drawn over every inch of exposed skin on the mans face. They seemed, to his oxygen-starved brain, to dance together into an interwoven script, a language he could not read or comprehent.

Another breath made it to his lungs, only seeming to increase the pair bursting in his chest. Shan did not feel the hands searching his body, opening his pockets and pouches, and extracting the precious Imperial Seal that every Ranger carries.

“Ah...” the man said, shaking his head softly. “It would appear that the Posthouse will miss an expected guess.”

The man who was searching him chortled again, and pushed Shan down onto his face.

“I am happy you could join us before the... meat of the ritual. We have so many hours of darkness left, and it always brings me such joy to entertain an unexpected guest.”

The world swam before his eyes, and Shan saw only darkness.

A followup to entitlement

I wrote the last post in a bit of a white heat, mostly driven by some rage, disgust and sadness at the state of the world. Last post was specifically about the Elliot Roger situation, but now I want to expand it a little bit.

When I said that this was the first time there was a direct link between MRA/PUA/RedPill and a woman killer, I didn't mean that it was the first time that someone with those philosophies ever harmed a woman. I meant that it was the first time that there was such an overwhelming link between the two, and a direct and obvious statement from the suspect as to his reasoning. His reasoning, if you spent even a tiny amount of time reading articles, was basically rage and revenge that he was a single virgin at 22, and that hot blonde women would ever dare to date mexicans (not only was he a raging misogynist, he was also a racist. Fun times).

Every day, women are hurt, raped, or murdered because of this kind of thought process. Every day. Just last week, one was stabbed because she said "no" to an offer to go to prom. A few years ago, a Muslim father murdered several female members of his family to keep their (read; the honour of his penis having and other penis havers in the family) intact. Any quick and dirty googling on news sites will find a bunch of stories like this. The average is 3 women per day killed by their partners in the US.

What this tells me is that there is a serious problem conserning women in the general culture of the west. Anyone who is a woman, or has spent time listening to them, can attest to this. Elliot Roger was not an outlier, or even rare, in any way except the scale of what he did. Someone I know described his actions as "terrorism aimed at women", and it is as good a description as any. But, he still isn't extraordinary in that.

The entire modern western society could be accused of commiting terrorism against women, after all. I truly did wish I was exagerating. But when an entire half of the population is afraid of crossing paths late at night with the other half, for fear of what might happen, there is a terrorism problem. When the females of the species have to find ways of waffling and letting down nicely, instead of outright saying no, because of the fear of what might happen to them, there is a terrorism problem. When there are multiple industries that make billions of dollars a year entirely on the fear that women may not look like the perfect contructs that these very same industries tell women they are obligated to look like, there is a terrorism problem.

Boys are practically brought up with the idea that they are owed something from girls. It is ingrained in our society and culture in movies, books, television, games and advertising. How many times has the woman been the prize for the man? Her own needs and wants are secondary, or just turn out to be "I guess I did love him I just needed to realise that I am worthless without his masculinity". And, while you may say "well that's just fiction it doesn't *mean* anything", you'd be dead fucking wrong. Because the industries that create this material don't just act like this towards the fictional women they sell, but towards the very *real* women that work in them.

Then you have the fanbases of these industries. When they aren't attempting (especially in the video-games and sci-fi/fantasy genres) to police the presence of women, they're acting like the perfect sexists towards the ones who are working on their favourite things. The amount of death and rape threats that abound when a woman even *hints* that some of these problems exist is mindblowing, only to be surpassed by the amount of rape and death threats when a woman *dares* to make a change to their holy grails (like, for example, changing the stats on a sniper rifle in an online shooter).

And so, these MRA/PUA/RP people and their obscene philosophy are not the cause. They are merely a simptom of a much larger, much more pervasive problem in our culture. That of women being secondary and objectified. But this is not the story the media will tell. They're just going to go off once more about a lone madman who did something crazy, there's nothing we can do about that oh well.

This man may have been mentally troubled, but that's not what caused him to murder a bunch of innocents. That's not what caused him to return to the sites of what he felt like was his brutal humiliation at being forced to watch happy couples so he could gun them down. He felt he was entitled to receiving sex from a hot woman. This didn't happen, so he decided to get revenge on them for not giving him what he was owed. And this attitude is pervasive and far reaching in all parts of our culture. But lets not talk about that. Instead, lets talk about how Selena Gomez is going to be a single mom, shocking, that whore.

And don't even get me started on the gun culture aspect. How many people would have died if Roger had not been able to get firearms as easily and readily as he did. Legally purchased firearms in his name, with dozens of fully loaded spare magazines to continue his murder spree. But that's not important either. Because freedom.

NOTE: I am fully aware that men are also hurt and affected by the gender-binary sexist culture we live in. But that's not what this post is about. Don't come in here and whine about teh menz. My patience for that is growing thin from all of the similar comments I've seen about this tragedy. Get over yourself, men, and get some idea of what it is you're actually talking about first.

the entitlement to women and the sex they give

There's been another mass shooting in the United States today. That, in of itself, isn't so shocking anymore. Which, really, is kind of a disturbing and disgusting state of affairs to be in. "Oh, another seven human beings had their lives snuffed out by an angry person using legally purchased firearms that were obtained easier than if he was trying to get sex toys".

But this one is special, because it directly links the purported shooter with a certain heinous philosophy which is gaining a fair bit of ground online in recent years. They have many congregations on the internet, including several subreddits on Reddit. They've been termed Love Shy, MRA's, Red Pillers, and various other terms. Their uniform generally comes with a fedora (and no accompanying suit. my biggest pet peeve about these fuckers is that they've ruined classy fashion for everyone, for ever) and an armour of woman-loathing self aggrandizement.

Seven people are dead today because one man did not receive the sexual gratification he felt was his due. Seven people have died because there is an entire movement dedicated to dehumanizing woman as merely pleasure-bags for men, and demonising them if they attempt to be more than that. Seven people are dead because a man decided that the reason he wasn't in a relationship was because all women are whores who won't sleep with him.

This is not a conversation we can shy away from. There is a dedicated core of people who will view the acts of this man not as something heinous, but merely the tragic downfall of a poor Nice Guy driven to the brink by the evil whores and their douchebags. I seriously don't even want to try and go see their congregation sites to confirm or deny, since the MRA/RedPill stuff makes me physically ill. But there have already been Mansplanations about how "NOT ALL MEN" on articles about this, so it bodes ill.

there needs to be a conversation about the still prevalent and overarching sexism in todays society. About the rape culture that exists. And about this toxic philosophy that refuses to treat women as human beings with agency, but as accessories for Nice Guys to parade around in as trophies to their niceness, and as proof that they have had sex.

This may be the first mass-killing with a link to this thought process, but I doubt it will be the last.

Storytime with Tashi (uno)

The Child Next Door

A few years ago, I had finally managed to move away from home. This was something of a victory for me, since I was in my mid-20s and still living in my moms' apartment and, later when she got a house, her basement. There are a lot of reasons for this, but primarily among them was the long term undiagnosed depression that seemed to plague my every attempt at going forward with my life. After I finally got the help (and medication) I needed, the major step of moving out and being my own person, with my own place, was a giant boost to my self-esteem and mental health.

The place itself wasn't much to write about. It was a small house in Verdun (a burrough of Montreal) that was transformed into a pair of apartment, side by side. The large front and back porches were still connected, but it was split down the middle into a mirrored layout inside. Each place had a den, a bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom. It was not huge, but it was comfortable, the heating was included in the pretty fair rent (which if you've ever lived through a rough Montreal winter you'd be every so thankful for), the landlord wasn't an asshole and actually seemed to give a shit about his tenants (when I had informed him about a problem with the back door windows, for example, he got on it within a couple of days and redid the caulking on all of the windows in the place, just to be doubly sure). All told, I liked it.

My neighbour was a young woman that mostly kept to herself. We crossed paths every couple of days or so on the front porch, and I generally nodded or said hi. She didn't speak much, but when she did I did detect a faint eastern-European sounding accent. She was polite and courteous, if a bit closed off, and being something of a loner myself I respected her privacy and didn't pry or ask questions. I rarely heard music or television from her place, considering the walls were pretty thin (sound insulation in this city seems to be primarily of the "stick a couple of pieces of drywall and call it a day" variety) and I decided to not be a dick back and listened to my music, movies and TV using headphones.

I'd been there about seven months, and it the weather was finally starting to turn into pleasant spring. The days were getting longer, the snow was melting, dog shit was thawing on the sidewalks and the birds were singing. I'd moved from night shift to day shift at work, so my sleep cycle was still adjusting and I'd find myself waking up at odd hours until my circadian rhythm settled down to something resembling human normal when I first heard the crying.

It was the easily recognisable hitching cries of a newborn. It started suddenly around 2 AM with a sharp wail that slowly rose in pitch and volume, cut off by the ragged drawing of a breath and the rough cough of a young throat and set of lungs unused to violent outbursts. I groaned to myself, knowing from experience that this could last for a while and trying to block it out of my mind. I couldn't quite do it, since the child seemed to be in the room right across the wall from mine. I resigned myself to a sleepless night, wondering when my neighbour got herself a child (I think I would have noticed pregnancy in that slight frame), and finally decided it was probably family and friends visiting her and staying the night. Finally, a little before five, the cries faded out and I managed to catch a couple more hours of sleep before I had to get up for work.

I was, needless to say, pretty groggy that morning. I grabbed a couple extra red bulls from my fridge to power me through the day and left for work. My neighbour was leaving her place at the same time, and I smiled at her and made a remark about the crying. I don't remember quite what I said, but it was something about family coming over with a baby. I'd had experience with that kind of thing, as my brother and his wife had four kids and they were often at my moms house for the holidays. When I worked nights, it was hell as I was surrounded by screaming and crying kids during the day when I desperately needed to sleep. I think I was trying to make a sympathetic joke to her, but her reaction managed to pierce through the fog over my brain and shock me half awake.

She looked at me alarmed, her eyes growing shockingly wide, and she grabbed the little crucifix she wore. She shook her head violently and rushed off without locking her door, leaving me standing on the porch with a pretty befuddled look on my face. Confused, I just shrugged and locked my door and trundled off to work, hoping I would be able to last the day without killing myself with heart-palpitations from the caffeine.

I somehow survived without fucking up too much at work, and decided to call it a day early and slip into bed. I even managed to sleep for a while, until 2 AM rolled around and I was jerked out of sleep by the same howling cries of a newborn from next door. I swore (possibly loudly enough for whoever was in the room next to mine to head) and tried to curl my pillow over my ears to block out the worst of it. It didn't work quite well, and I made a mental note to pick up some earplugs from the pharmacy the next day after work.

Like the night before, the crying finally petered around between four and five, and I dozed restlessly until it was time for my pre-work prep. I stumbled out the door and half-wondered if I would encounter her on the porch again. I didn't, and tried to concentrate on making it through another day on bad sleep. Anyone who's ever had any trouble sleeping would understand how hard this can be; your brain is in slow motion, it feels like your moving through thick syrup, and your emotions get frayed and snap very easily. I even remembered to pick up the earplugs that evening, and settled into bed early again.

They did help some when the crying started that night. It felt distant enough for me to integrate it into my dreams instead of just bolting awake as previous, but it didn't help in the long run. I was running through a hedge maze filled with children stuck in the brambles, all of them looking at me curiously as I was desperately trying to find the one crying. I don't quite remember the logic of the dream, but it was important that I did find the child, before all the other ones started to cry too, and if they cried it would draw the minotaur to me.

Dreams, man.

I floated out of sleep at some point, confused about where I was for a few moments until reality reasserted itself. I groaned and stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water, wondering if I should pair the earplugs with my Mp3 player to drown out the sound entirely and actually get some sleep. While I was fiddling with my playlist, looking for something to listen too, I heard something else weaving itself into the sobbing of the baby.

It sounded like a grown person crying.

That morning I finally decided to do something about it, if only to quiet my curiosity. I called in sick to work, and was debating whether or not to knock on my neighbours door to confront her directly about what I was hearing. The debate mostly revolved around if it would be creepy to block her in her house and demand answers when I heard her leaving her apartment. In a rush, I put on my coat and boots and ran off to try and follow her. I still wasn't sure if I would buttonhole her somewhere on the street, so I settled to keeping sight of her as she walked to one of the major streets in the burrough, and then into a church. I paused for a couple of minutes, still debating with myself, then I finally just mentally said "fuck it" and followed her in.

The church was dimly lit, and almost entirely empty. The only person I saw was my neighbour, near one of the front pews, kneeling down facing the giant garish crucifix and praying. I stayed near the entrance, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic and was about to just leave when I saw the priest exit the confessional booth and walk towards her. She didn't notice him until he was right next to her and touched her shoulder lightly. She recoiled violently and got to her feet, shaking her head. The priest said something and took another step towards her and she answered by spitting at him, turning around, and running from the church. I stared in confusion and shock as she ran past on the other side of the pews from me, and I could tell she was crying again. The priest watched her leave, his face grey.

Feeling even more like a voyeur, I turned and left myself. My neighbour wasn't in sight and I just headed home feeling... Strange. I even knocked on her door and rang the bell, half-hoping she wouldn't be there. She wasn't. I knew there was something going on, but I couldn't decide what it was. My stomach was tight and my throat was dry, no matter how much water I downed, and I turned on the TV to dry and keep my mind from dwelling on things.

It didn't help.

My thoughts keep turning over and over, wondering where the child came from, and who's child it was. I didn't think it was my neighbours, which had to mean it belonged to someone else. But I was also fairly sure that there was no one else living in her apartment, since I didn't hear anyone but her during the day, or night, except for the child. So, if it wasn't hers, and no one else was there, then she was babysitting... But if she was babysitting, why haven't I heard anything while I was there during the day? And why would she leave without the child, leaving what sounded like a newborn all alone without supervision? And, if she was just babysitting, why did she look so horrified when I asked about it that first day? What was up with that confrontation in the church? As far as I saw and knew, my neighbour was a Catholic, and they don't generally spit on priests without a reason... right?

Round and round it went, going from nothing to nowhere in a hurry.

I must have dozed off on the chair at some point, because I woke up with a start and realised it was past midnight, and the baby was crying again, accompanied by the adults sobbing again. I swallowed, my throat feeling dry and swollen again, and I could feel the creeping bile and shriveling testicles of fear start to grip me. I got out of my chair, trying to make up my mind about knocking at her door, when the pitch of the grown-up sobbing changed to out and out screaming.

I couldn't quite make out the words, since they weren't in english or french. The tone, however, was unmistakable. It was full of fear, and pain... and grief. The child stopped crying, but the adult continued to scream, her voice turning ragged and torn. There was something in it, something that terrified me more than the sobbing...

I rushed to my front door and threw on my boots, then raced to my neighbours door. I pounded on it, yelling, and repeatedly rang her bell. There was no answer except her continued yelling, which was starting to fade. My terror suddenly increased, and I had a lead ball in the pit of my stomach. I pounded on the door harder, still yelling at her to let me in, asking what was going on. I even started to hit it with my shoulder, but the solid oak barely budged. The noise inside has subsided to weak mewlings and soft crying from my neighbour.

I banged on the door some more, only succeeding in hurting myself, when I remembered that my back door was a lot thinner and weaker than the front. Realising that hers would be the same, I rushed through my apartment, threw my back door open, and kicked at my neighbours back door. I could hear the frame begin to split, so I kicked it a few more times until it finally ripped free and swung open. I ran in, dread mounting.

I found her in the bedroom, collapsed on the floor. Her forearms were split open from wrist to elbow and there was blood everywhere. Shocked, I got down next to her and supported her, checking for a pulse. It was weak, but present. Shivering, I slapped her cheeks lightly, trying to bring her back to consciousness and looking around for something to wrap her arms with.

She looked up at me, her face pale and her eyes half-closed over the dark pockets. She smiled wanely and whispered something. I could barely make it out, so I leaned in closer.

"He won't bother you again," she whispered again, then went still. I could feel her body just... drop, and become dead weight in my arms. I choked, and checked for her pulse again.

It was gone.

I didn't realise I had started to cry, and I slowly layed her out on the floor. My pants and shirt were soaked with blood, and the puddle under her was growing slowly. I wish it had run faster, because then I wouldn't have noticed what was near the door. It looked almost like a pair of tiny footprints, tracked in blood, turning to head out of the room.

I managed to call the police and paramedics, and they got on the scene about ten minutes later. I was waiting for them on the front porch, head in my hands. They took my account, and I told them about hearing her sob at night for the past few days, and how I heard what seemed to be a loud breakdown that evening. I never mentioned the baby crying, or the footprints. They'd been covered by the flood of blood by the time they got there anyway.

I moved out of my place a few weeks later. Not because of anything more happening, my neighbour was right about that. I just didn't feel like I could stay there... There were days when I walked up the front steps and got flashbacks of that night. Of sitting on that porch, covered in tacky drying blood, the coppery smell of it coating my nose and throat, my ears ringing with the echos of my neighbours final screams... and her low, apologetic whisper. I told my landlord, and he let be break my lease without penalties. Like I said, he was a pretty good guy.

I still get full body shivers when I hear a baby crying in public, but that's about the extend of my trauma. I still remember, and though I'm not religious I do have family and friends who are. So whenever I accompany them to a church for something, I always light two candles.

Because I still remember.

addendum to previous post

I brainfarted and entirely forgot about something.

There is a dream sequence in the novel, where Lyssa is remembering a party her uncle had when she was leaving home. It turns into a nightmare that ties into the events happening in the plot, but is otherwise not that important except to explore a bit more of Lyssa's mental state at the time.

Her uncle has two people working for him, one a man the other a woman. I described them wearing their fineries for this party, and the guy was wearing a fancy baldrick and a sword while the woman had her finest jewels out of the occasion. It seemed fitting, after all. Women were jewels all the time!

But then, thinking about it, I realised that it wasn't what I was going for. The man had a sword, which implied he was a warrior and a strong person, able to defend himself and fight, and the woman was on display with shinies, which implied she couldn't. As I was writing it, I didn't think twice. It was just... a thing. Only in retrospect did I see what I was unconciously doing in the subtext (and actual text).

An hour or so later, after re-reading and digesting, I went back and re-wrote it, adding jewels to the mans baldrick and sword, and changing the womans jewels for a fine set of daggers. A small change, some may say, but I think it was important. Even just a few years ago, I wouldn't even have considered that what I did was problematic. This, if nothing else, shows me how I've changed in my views of how women are represented and how the world treats them, and I took a concious choice to change that and give her the same kind of place and unspoken agency of strength and ability as I did the male character. It is, verily, little things like this which are important, I feel.

If I wanted to be a smart-ass, I'dve have shifted the sword to the woman and the jewels to the man but that's not really what I wanted to do. I wanted to show that, even in minor roles of little to no importance, a womans abilities are the same as a mans. It may be clumsy and silly, but I thought it important enough to include.

Women in fantasy

I am, on occasion, plunking away at a fantasy novel. The main character (who was originally one of three, but I've since edited my notes) is a woman. I didn't really go "I WILL MAKE A FEMALE CHARACTER THE FOCUS BECAUSE FEMINISM", but just organically decided "I'd like to try writing a female character in a fantasy setting". A lot of it is because I've explored a lot of fantasy, in roleplay and novel form, but never really saw many women at all.

A part of me did go "shit am I going to be put on the rack for trying to push this as if it was an agenda" (which, considering that male fantasy fans seem to get spontaneous orgasms whenever they engage in sexist behaviour against female authors and characters, is not really what you'd call a slim chance), then decided "fuck it, it doesn't matter. This character is forming in my mind, her adventures are growing, and I want to write this. Not because she's a woman, but because she is the main character in the story I want to write. And if anyone decides to bitch me out about it, I will devour their faces".

As a (self identified and generally cis) male, I don't have that big of an idea of what a woman goes through in life, or how their thoughts go. Thankfully, as a generally smart person who is a strong feminist, I tend to imagine that women are basically the same as men in most ways (some physiological differences aside). And, since it's a fantasy world I've made up, I can neatly avoid a lot of the social constructs that generally plague women in our world (and in many fantasy universes that are based off of reality, like G.R.R. Martins A Song of Ice and Fire, which keeps a lot of the European christian based sexism while in a polytheistic world).

There is still a lot of things I have to struggle with when trying to write her (Lyssa is her name, so I'll just use that whenever I need to refer to her). I distinctly remember one specific point, near the beginning of the story, where Lyssa was faced with escapping from a group of thugs sent after her for nefarious purposes. My original concept was to have the underlying threat of rape happening at one point, where she was cornered and near caught. At the time, it felt appropriate, cause after all these are thugs right? and that's what they do with women they're cornering, right?

Then I paused and considered the thought process that brought me to this idea. In a society where there isn't a clear Patriarchal world order following a regressive and mysogynistic form of religion and order, *would* rape be used like this? I honestly don't know. Our culture has been run from that point of view for so long, and any other social structure has been destroyed, dismantled, erased and stricken from history so that there isn't much at all to go on.

In a world with actual, functioning and intersceding Gods, of which half are female or ambiguous gender, would our understanding of sexual violence exist? In a world that was, originally, based off of a D&D campaign I wanted to run where either (and all, though I've rarely seen, run or played in a game with somebody playing a *trans or other gender) can be exactly as capable and society aknowledges it, would the male domination of power still be the same, and engender the same sort of perils for women?

The short answer is "probably not". The long answer is... Complicated. At the end of the day, I just took that entire idea out of the story because I didn't think it was relevant, it would add in a horrible little bit of possibly triggering text for people just wanting to read a silly little escapist fantasy story, and honestly the scope of the story (and my skills as a storyteller) just aren't up to addressing those kinds of questions. And, instead of trying to address it and doing it poorly and just making a mess, and fucking up the *actual* themes I want to address, I'm just going to not go into it. It's easier for me, easier for anyone who would want to read it, and just honestly better off in general.

There was another aspect that I changed heavily, as well. Originally, Lyssa had a love interest. He was a poor, simple son of an apothecary. Simple, kind, caring, etc etc etc and just about every generic "nice guy" attribute my fifteen year old (at the time I was drafting) self could put into a character. She was to fall in love with him, and have him dramatically taken away and break her heart and fuel her anger and magic to almost kill her while she took revenge for his death.

I have since grown up and calmly decided that this idea was stupid. It was fueled by basically every regressive and fairly sexist stereotype I had growing up, and was a bit of a gender-swap wish fulfillment fantasy. I got rid of the idea so entirely that Lyssa, in fact, has no love interest at *all* in the book!

As of right now, the only actual people *with* a love interest are those with whom that love interest is a part of the setting and plot of the work. Outside of them, everyone else is too fucking busy being big damn fantasy adventurers to bother with finding twue wuv. And, I honestly think it'll work out better this way.





I'm still a bit worried at times, though. Then I pause and consider the state of women in the world, and in fiction, and I tell myself "fuck it". It may be seen as me pushing an agenda, it may be seen as me being some sort of gelded-feminist-lapdog, but I'm going to do it anyway. Because, in the end, the fact that this kind of thing is so rare, and gives me such pause, is fucking attrocious. And if my one silly little book can help to make the world of fantasy fiction (or fiction in general) characters slightly less male-dominated, then it's a win.

ugh illness

I was supposed to go to work last night, but I got a sudden attack of Gastro so that didn't happen.

The ironic thing is that I wanted to call in sick anyway to spend the night drinking and watching silly movies. But, thanks to gastro, I called in sick for real and just read Cracked articles all day.

I've been fairly busy with work and trying to not collapse into a puddle of horrible emotional depression, but I've had a couple things keep me up and not dying.

Sleepy Hollow is a surprisingly amazing little show on FOX that I hope keeps going for a while. The writing is amazingly smart and fun, and while maintaining a solid grasp of the internal logic of the world it still manages to have a sense of humour about it all. Tom Mison and Nicole Beharie are both wonderful in the lead roles (and Nicole is now my TV crush because goddamn <3 she be hot and smart and just unf tashi want). In fact, the amount of black actors in major roles in this show is great in general, and I'd love to see more of this kind of casting.

Agents of SHIELD is less fun and amazing, but still worth the hour or so a week I spent on it. I keep hoping they'll expand the shared Marvel Cinematic Universe world a bit more, but they haven't really done much to play with it yet. Hopefully, with the big names behind it, it will have more time than a Whedon show usually has these days and can spread its wings and find the proper balance of everything, and match the potential of the conceit.

Top Chef is still an amazing guilty pleasure of mine and I will never regret squeeing about it and getting emotionally involved in all of the drama and backstabbing and cooking and also Padma is my other TV crush.

man its starting to look like I have non-white-woman-fever.

The Olympics are on again, but I'm not really watching. With the whole clusterfuck of Russia and their bigot laws happening, I don't really feel comfortable joining into the whole paen of celebration and shit. The only real exception I'll make is for the Womens Hockey, once the round robin is over. Not Mens, since if I wanted to watch NHL players doing NHL hockey I'd watch the fucking NHL.

Frozen is Spectacular and everyone should see it. If Disney can continue like this (after Tangled, Wreck-it Ralph and Frozen), they're going to take the crown of Animation Superiority from Pixar.

I haven't finished a single game I was talking about playing last time. That's how it goes with me these days, I lose focus super quick on stuff. Bleh.

The meds are working, but still not 100% on the emotional front. Still missing a few things, and can't find them.

holy shit an update

I've been lazy and tired recently. At least I don't have many fans to dissapoint?


Today, I just had a conversation about "political correctness" with someone and it veered into them basically claiming that the social justice concept of calling out bad behaviour is bad, and we should not do it. They claimed that this kind of thing will just "sweep the problem under the rug and make it harder to fix", while basically ignoring the idea that biggoted speech and behaviour helps to maintain the status-quo of social injustice and disadvantage. They even further went on to say that the Social Justice concept of calling out this speech and behaviour is censorship, and censorship is *always* wrong no matter what so we shouldn't do it. There are a lot of problems with this.

For one thing, censorship.

What is censorship? At the most basic, censorship is when an organisation or group in a position of power mandates the elimination of a particular idea or speech from media and society that it finds distasteful for some reason.

What censorship is *not* is the population in general going "this is distasteful" and speaking out against it, refusing to purchase things containing this idea, or otherwise activisting (it is TOO a word) for the elimination of this behaviour or speech in general.

When a group of bloggers or summat go "stop making rape appologising comments you assholes" they're not censoring speech. They literally *cannot* censor speech as they are not in the position of power to do so, and are GENERALLY speaking for a group that is in a disadvantaged position.

The other problems are a bit more complicated, but they basically boil down to giving the people with biggoted behaviour and speech more care than the people affected by their behaviour and speech. It is, quite literally, saying "how can you be so mean to those poor racists. They don't deserve it :("

I don't think I actually need to explain why that's problematic.

do i?