Letting Go (Part 2)

letting go
of hurt
of people who hold you back
of people who hurt you
of people who abandoned you
of a painful past haunting you
of a betrayal of trust
of a lie told to destroy you
of a fear of utter destruction
seems daunting or impossible
outside the normalcy
of daily reminders
of human treachery
nevertheless we must let go
lest we drown
in sorrow and regret.

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Letting Go

took me seven years
letting go of three I loved
another three years healing
my forties were fortunate
many moments of sorrow and silence
many nights drowned in fado
fado the river of music from tears
grief and wails pushing my raft downstream
without numbing myself or hiding
and by hiding i mean the usual suspects
we are told are helpful
but not even close
go find some fuckables to dick and dump
go find a husband or wife and breed
i chose to marry my very toxic love
my work
silent third suspect it is
until i finally learned
work is not warm enough to love you back
work is work
work is not love
work is what you do for others
but not your lover or spouse
and so i am free and unbonded
gave myself time to grow
seeking and finding meaning in me
letting go let me listen and wait
for the right one to share fate.

Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

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I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

trust

my father once told me
not to trust you
i trusted you enough
to tell you what he said
and your face changed
as if an arrow pierced you
i trust you enough to realize
i needed time to understand
why it hurt you
how it hurt you
when you believed
i did not trust you
when you thought
how i thought
you could not be trusted
but i do trust you
just as the empath in me
trusted the truth
of the unintended wound
of my words on your spirit
just as the karmic pull
of Saturn Retrograde demands
that i make amends
and apologise
for hurting you
just as the way i
now feel
impels me to say
trust me.

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time for a new bed

haunted space
empty
this is a bed
that needed to go
ten years ago
beds keep memories
beds soak up sorrow
bad breakups
every single fight
every drop of semen
every drop of blood
every drop of urine
every tear
not wiped away or scrubbed
every dream
every nightmare
every moment of
anger
joy
horror
fear
depression
you thought lost
or forgotten
echoes of orgasms
you thought
best not spoken of
every lover
every spouse
real or imagined
soaked in fabric
you did not realize
consumed your
parts of beingness
left in the ether
of the past
and like shoes
over worn and torn
it must be replaced.

lamentation of the neglected pussy #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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I have not fucked since 2012

I’m tired of this shit

I love my vibrator

but goddamn it’s not the same thing as fingers tongue or dick

last woman I was with fucked me against a wall and

made me come like a lion in heat

last man who actually knew how to fuck me fucked me all day

broke my bed

I am a multi-orgasmic woman starved of the basics

I ignored it at the risk of my own well being because

I thought I was better off focusing on work and healing my broken heart

work will always be work

my heart is healed

my poetry is stuck in my head because

I neglected myself 

I forgot how to connect and be that wild sexual woman

I like sex and companionship without being desperate or needing a wedding ring

I think marriage in its current state is canonization of desperation and fear of loneliness

I refused to get caught up but I paid a price that

I still do not regret

but now it’s time to return to my body and erotic impulses

I need to fuck for health reasons

my pussy won’t take a dildo anymore

I need to fuck for spiritual reasons

my magic needs to land someplace concrete

I need to fuck for rhetorical reasons

my writing is lacking concrete edges and passion

we act like sex is something extra, like it’s just for making babies

I didn’t make a baby or get a spouse

we demonize a very human need for touching kissing orgasms

can’t pray away human desire for erotic love and

why would you want to do that?

food or drug or drink won’t fill that ache either

Toni Morrison wrote about this in Sula

she gave me language and imagery to understand what

I experience now as a 51-year-old woman

I have feelings

I am a human being with needs

I enjoy consensual sex

deal with it

my voice is back.

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Not so random thoughts about safewords and kink by Cherie Ann Turpin

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Reading Salon.com’s article When safewords are ignored six years ago, I posted this response after thinking about the many near-misses I’ve experienced as a submissive, as well as taking note of the hostility expressed by some of the men reading that article who clearly don’t get or care to get that there is a such thing as sexual assault in the kink community. Makes me very glad I am not a trusting person when it comes to people:

“No surprises from me on what this woman described in the article, and in fact, it is an uncomfortable reminder to those who don’t want to deal with reality that people in this scene are no different from anyone else out there. We have the same problems and issues as those “vanilla” people. That means you have the potential of running into a man who may be a sex offender, or at least someone with “latent rapist tendencies,” as Ntozake Shange once elegantly put it in “for colored girls.” Part of the resistance to waking up to reality is that sometimes it’s a bit of a wet blanket to realise that not everyone is family, or that even family members can rape. It’s also a bane to one’s self-comfort to realise that looks, status, race, sophistication, politics, age, or sexual orientation are not predictors or indicators of a man’s capability to sexually assault a woman or man (yes, men do rape other men). Do all men rape? No. Are men into BDSM more or less prone to rape? No. Are men in the scene safer than vanilla men? NO.

I recall a time not so long when the general attitude about college campuses was that rape was a rare occurrence or something not to be discussed. Part of what kept people resistant about dealing with it was the discomfort with confronting the reality that nice middle and upper class men were capable of doing something perceived as a crime of the lower class and/or men of color. As we now know [2012, and 2018], our college campuses are just as vulnerable to sex crimes as any other neighborhood, nice or not so nice.

What makes this scene so special or any different?

Nothing. I don’t see any magic castles here, so as far as I know we are all human beings.

We need to do what vanilla people do–get active and loud about advocating for survivors and helping to stop rape in our community.

We have work to do to educate people about consent, abuse, and safety. We need safe spaces both in the scene and in the vanilla communities for women and men who have been assaulted and/or abused. Police and other legal authorities need to be properly educated about BDSM so that they can be a true support system instead of a bane or even horror to those who need help. We need to be not afraid to speak up and speak out about these issues out of fear of being “not cool” or “paranoid.””

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