Highly Illogical

Look! I found you some lunacy! (Hat-tip to Ren.)

The posturing of sadists and masochists as “transgressive” can be confusing to those not familiar with feminist theory.

This statement might be confusing to those not familiar with bdsm because it makes widly generalized assumptions about “sadists and masochists”. I’ve given up hope of ever finding out who these transgressive kinksters are because they’re never ever quoted or linked to.

By definition, the ultimate goal of feminism is to end sadomasochism.

I thought the ultimate goal of feminism is to end discrimination against women? No? Damn you, teachers! And damn you too, CEDAW, for not even mentioning sadomasochism! What kind of fake feminism is that?!

Our system is sadomasochistic to the core, how is celebrating it any kind of true rebellion? [...].

I must have gotten it all wrong when I was young because I thought there was something wrong with me for having sm fantasies. I thought I had to hide them like something shameful, when in fact, everyone’s celebrating it! How did I not realize that? The proudly rebellious sadomasochists – they’re everywhere! Let me just put my real name and photo up here!

The political values of sadism are blatantly antifeminist, totalitarian and right-wing.

Oh that’s why the universe has been running so weird lately! As a sadist who takes gender courses, tells her friends off for not going to the polls and demonstrates against the right-wing parties in her country – I MUST be causing little implosions all along!
I haven’t sorted out, though, what exactly the political values of my preferred way of fucking are. And where is my local Sadist Party and what is their program? Whips and orgasms for everyone? Or – gosh! – could it be Safe Sane Consensual? Risk Aware Consensual Kink? Safewords, kind of like the feminist “no means no”?

Sadomasochism is business as usual; power relations as usual; race, gender and class as usual.

If it’s power relations, race, gender and class as usual, then that’s because it doesn’t exist in a separate universe. One might as well claim that taking a dog for a walk or cooking spaghetti is business as usual. Sexist people won’t have non-sexist intercourse, obviously. So this sentence would maybe make sense if it claimed that sm is sex as usual, but even Melissa Farley seems to have doubts about that.

Sadomasochism is one ritual version of dominance and submission. Sadomasochism is not a creative deviation from normal heterosexual behavior.

Is that some heterosexism I’m smelling? Or do gay and lesbian kinksters get a free pass? And listen, just because you’re not fucking in the missionary position with the guy on top and the gal lying back thinking of England – that does not mean you’re creative, ok? Masochistic men and sadist women? You’re normal! Just get it! Now grab a beer and start celebrating with all the other transgressive kinksters in the Sadist Party!

It is the defining quality of the power relationship between women and men.

And I thought that was the rigid gender binary or the separate spheres or economic inequalities… No stupid! It’s the blindfold and the spanking! Duh!

Sadism is the logical extension of behavior that arises out of male power. [...]

Logic, you say? Oh yes, we already established that I am the illogical unicorn, being female and all.

We live in a misogynist world, and women have so little political power, that it’s easier to fantasize about absolute personal power than to politically organize for change.

And you can’t have both, goddamit! Because all these dirty fantasies, they just make organizing impossible! I spend all day masturbating to me ruling the world, which apparently is business as usual – but also impossible! But I understand inconsistencies in writing – all this fantasizing makes not only organizing difficult…

Changes

Tataaaa this is my one year blogiversary. I can’t believe I’ve made it that long! So, I guess it’s time to take a look back. However, I don’t think that what I’ve been writing is the interesting part of this story, but rather how I’ve changed.

I started off wanting to write. It wasn’t that I felt like I had something to say – or anything new to add. I just wanted to write about something, mostly genderwise or kinky.

The reason I ever got into blogs was kink. I had been devouring any kind of information on bdsm for years, trying to sort out what and why and how it was and in what way all of that mess related to me. And clever blogs by kinky folks not only got me hooked on the blogosphere. They also provided me with a more realistic view on bdsm, one that emphasized pleasure, not shame.

Over the last year, I’ve found a language to talk about kink and I’ve met people who share these tastes. Most importantly, I’ve found a freedom to gain experience, intense and beautiful.

And now? Now there’s the odd bit. I’m not all that bothered about bdsm anymore. Sure, it’s still my kind of sexuality and I don’t think that’ll ever change. It still fuels my dreams and is source of every single one of my orgasms. But it’s all put into a different perspective, just one of many kinds of sex. A good beating is as nice as a French kiss, and a sexy story doesn’t need d/s anymore to keep my interest. If a guy gave me a lapdance it’d make me just as happy as tying him up. I somewhat feel like I’m through with bdsm and its many sexist and racist forms. I’ve seen it all and I’ve had enough of it. I’m kinky, but it no longer constrains me.

Mostly, though, I now wonder about gender and its many different forms, trying to see more variety when I walk through the streets, allowing for a greater freedom in my own expressions. I’m trying to sort out my own bias and my own stereotypes. I’m trying to balance out my own masculinity and my feminity, trying to take both as a source of pride, as one more aspect of myself, trying to give each its time and place. I still identify as woman, but woman’s no longer a natural term. It no longer determines who I am.

If gender though no longer carries that much significance, what’s left of my heterosexuality? For a while I was attempting to only gaze at men, no longer at women. I wanted to sexualize men in the same way women have been sexualized for me all along. And I’ve received the strangest responses for doing so. As if desiring men was some sort of very odd fetish. And rather disgusting/highly ridiculous.

But I am turned on by female bodies, too. And I’m sure I fall in love not because of the sex of my lover but because of their personality. I didn’t want to fall into the “all women are bisexual anyway”-cliche. But a 0 heterosexuality just doesn’t make any sense to me whatsoever.

The most important change in my life is linked to all of this. I finally have a answer to the most horrible of all questions: “And what do you want to work when you’re finished with uni?” I’m determined to do master Sexuality Studies and I’m going to make a living talking about sex. Hell yeah!

This is where I’m at now. Changing. But with perspective.

~~~

And as a little blogiversary present to myself, here’s the mighty Down.

I’m a little lazy…

… and when you’re lazy, looking through nice pictures and re-blogging is so much better than writing. Hence, your lazy host is now tumblering. If you believe I can show you something you haven’t seen somewhere else already, then voila: ireensarrows.tumblr.com. There’s hot people, dressed and undressed, and a bit of fangirling and some genderbending. NSFW but that’s understood, right?

PS: Nony looking for “wolverine porn”? I know how you feel! There’s not enough of it!!!

Saint Sebastian

Oh yes! A friend was as nice as to take a picture of Saint Sebastian in Paris for me. She knows how happy hot semi-nude men tied up in public make me. And look at how happy he seems, too! What a cute smile!

Isn’t he beautiful? Isn’t he delicious? Doesn’t he look delighted?

It seems strangely contradictory that these images of proud male submission originate from within a religious discourse so rigid when it gets to gender roles. Heteronormativity not only means that there are two sexes – and only two – and only reproductive intercourse is allowed. It also implies which sex plays which role, which part is to be fulfilled by a man and which by a woman. Passivity equals feminity – one of the reasons why the above statue shows not only boyish but feminine features. As if submission of men – masculine submission – was unthinkable, a contradiction in terms, impossible.

But funnily there is something about depictions of Saint Sebastian like the above that is often missing from contemporary imaginations of male submission. It is that pride and joy he shows. He is not ashamed. Submission is not a source of shame, unlike so often believed and depicted in erotica. Sebastian here not only sought out his situation himself, but created it; he acted according to his desire (even if it isn’t explicetely sexual but rather meant to be tortured and die at the hands of a heathen to find fulfillment and salvation – which, obviously, is not recommandable). Sebastian is not a passive victim, neither of himself nor of others. Just look at him, how he’s openly beaming with joy.

Of course, talking about kink and killing seems very much out of place, but then Sebastian can so easily be read in different lights, can be misread or read as queer. After all, this is a story, a myth, and I believe that myths hardly ever tell the story they pretend to do. And so many of the aspects of the Sebastian-tale allow for different interpretations – be it his nudity, his beauty, the arrows as signs of Eros or the phallus even, and a long history of gay artists interpretating the motif. And death, of course, being le petit mort.

So, it looks like I have after all managed to write a short version of my long promised Saint Sebastian post. What would I do without my friends sending me these nice pic posts late at night? Oh yes, I know… stare at Sebastians instead of writing… in my bunk… did I mention I love hot naked guys tied up in public who’re proud of their sexuality?

Power Rangers

This is an interesting picture in its depiction of gender and how feminity is signified: pink, skirt, legs together. When really, there’d be nothing wrong with her wearing the same outfit as everyone else (in my opinion, Mr. Yellow could do with a little skirt). Also, I assume that a lot of thinking and planning has gone into this picture, as with all character development and promotional material. So there must be very specific reasons why (most of) the Power Rangers stand the way they do. I’d love to hear why these reasons do not apply to the woman, when everyone else is made the same.

I wonder whether the pink skirted power ranger was added specifically to attract girls as viewers or reflect diversity in some very fucked up way. The assumption, though, that anything feminine comes in pink and cute rather worries me… okay, it disgusts me. Yes, this might come as a big suprise, but no, I do not prefer pink over any other colour. Nor do I wear skirts all the time.

On the other hand, though, nothing forces me to understand this picture the way it was intended. Nothing in the image tells us how the characters in these outfits identify genderwise. Any of them could be woman or man or trans, could be butch or femme or camp or bear or drag or…

Masculinity

Maybe this is the sort of examining that doesn’t lead anywhere. The sort that’ll just come to the point of shit-is-fucked-up – but we knew that anyway.

So, what I’ve been wondering is: What’s my fascination with masculinity? Not with men in general; with the ideals of masculinity, images of heroes and loners, icons and superstars. Every so often I fall for one of them and become a fangirl in love to the point where it is actually a little embarassing.  Almost like some sort of obsession. I spend hours searching for more images of whoever it is at that moment, I’d think about him all the time, make up little stories before I fall asleep, even try and dress like him. And I usually have to hold back hard not to make him the only topic of all of my conversations. Because that topic always includes stupid smiles, beamining with joy like only a fangirl in love can beam, sort of out of control.

These obsessions are not entirely sexual. Partly yes, but not entirely. As far as I can think back, my sexual fantasies have been equally mixed with men and women, but all of them were just bodies without names for the length of a wank. Maybe a fantasy would start with someone I have a crush on, but this has never gotten me over the edge. I’d only come back to them afterwards. The ones with names, though, have always been men with the exception of one or two women – and these were porn actresses, unlike the sports icons, movie stars, famous singers the men are.

Why are these crushes all on men or male figures? This cannot be about plain heterosexuality if my actual sexual fantasies include a lot of women. This sort of identification, this wanting to be them and have them and be theirs, this unbearable longing, this idealisation, has only occured with men. And that bothers me.

It’s not that I want to be a man. I’ve never felt like I’ve been born in the wrong body – as a matter of fact, I very much like my body and I’m very comfortable in it. I don’t feel the need to change anything about it – and though I’ve played with the idea of what it’d be like to have a man’s body, it’s not that I desperately want one.  Even if I had the chance, I wouldn’t change my sex. Overall, I guess I’m probably more comfortable in my body than most women I know. So, no, this is not about sex.

I hate to think this is about desire.  Not as in sexual desire, but as in who or what is desirable. Who are you gonna copy and imitate, who’s an idol, what is worth aiming for? I’ve known hardly any women I wanted to be like. As if whatever women do – I’d watch them with an especially critical eye. “Did she only get there because of her looks? Did she sleep her way up? She’s a woman, she can’t be as good. Even if she is good, even if she is better than anyone else, people will be sceptical. She will not be accepted. The media will rip her to shreds.  This will be so embarassing.” Where the hell have I picked that up? From my openly misogynist father? From my conservative grandmother? Does this culture really breathe and sweat misogyny with every text it writes, with every picture it takes, with every story it tells?

The default sex for success and cleverness and efficiency and strength is male. And even if some acts of masculinity are full of failures – and what else is a taciturn killer without friends but an alcohol addiction? – they still become iconic and cool and remain at the center of all stories. Whereas successful acts of feminity seem impossible. Never desirable. Never cool. Never worth wanting to be her and have her and be hers.

And yes, I hate all that. I wish I had never felt like that. But this is what I learnt and at the age of twelve I stated in my diary that I despised women. Feminity, I meant, not actual women. It’s been a long time since then, but my idealisation of masculinity hasn’t changed.

Nonetheless, I’m convinced it’s possible to unlearn gender bias. To unlearn gender binaries – to reveal the artificial ideology of what seems like nature. I’m convinced I’ll one day have a gigantic fangirl crush on a woman because she’ll be the greatest person in the whole wide world, the most awesome and inspirational and desirable. ’cause what’s that got to do with gender?

What if?

I was wondering the other day how I would react if I happened to wake up one morning and my body had turned male. Would I mind? I don’t think so.

What would I look like then? How would my body change? I’d not be that muscular, I don’t think, but I wouldn’t be skinny either. I’d have broad arms and a broad chest and big hands and arms and thighs.

Most importantly, my attitude towards hair would change. I’d have body hair without having to worry about it. The other day I found a lonely hair on my chest and I was horrified by it, just like by the lonely hair on my chin or the ones on my thighs. As if a woman’s body was not meant to grow hair. But fuck yeah it does and I spend way too much time plucking and shaving and worrying. And after a day or two it itches and I scratch till I bleed. And yet, I still keep doing it, because it scares me to have visible body hair. I know I shouldn’t care – my body isn’t anybody’s business but mine. I don’t think that anybody will ever come up to me to complain about the stubbles on my legs. Or rather, people on the streets or in the pool won’t do that, but I’ve heard the lesson a thousand times:

Do a double take in the mirror after getting dressed to check those hard to reach areas like the back of your knees and thighs making sure no stubborn hairs get in the way of your confidence.

But if I was a man, that wouldn’t matter anymore. My confidence would no longer depend upon stubborn hair on the back of my knees. Or on classmates proclaiming my lady beard, on friends calling me lazy because of my stubbles, or boys wondering: “Oh wow, it grows all the way down to there?”

No, none of that would matter anymore. I’d have a hairy chest and hairy legs and hairy fingers even and I would love it. Never ever would I worry about the state of my stubbles again. I’d make sure not to have a monobrow and that’s about it. It feels like relief. Instead, the first thing I’d do that morning is probably check out the growth of my beard – god, I’d love to have a beard. And I know it’d be a great one, since great beards run in the family (unfortunately, also with the girls). A few years ago I’d have grown side burns and a goatee, but by now I’d have stubbles all over my face, all the way down my throat. A week old, at least. So.very.hot.

I would not miss my breasts. In fact, I’d love them to be gone and to have a flat (hairy) chest instead. Most of the time, my breasts are uncomfortable. Before I get my period they hurt. Bras that fit and hold are a nightmare to find. When I walk there’s constant movement and the way I want to carry my bag, sideways over my chest, makes them look even bigger. I hate having to worry about my cleavage or not being able to buy shirts because they’re all made for A cups. So yes, if people never ever stared at my breasts ever again, that’d be freaking awesome. If there was nothing to stare at, even better.

Would I miss them when it gets to sex? No. Not at fucking all. I hate the way some guys grab them as if they were a separte part of me. Or the way they’re generally so fucking focused on tits. Nipples, yes, that feels good, but god, that’s not all there is about my body. So no, my breasts really aren’t important to me at all.

Funnily, though, I’m not that bothered about having male genitalia. I like my pussy. It feels nice and it smells nice and my clitoris is quite awesome (even if nobody but me knows how it works). I don’t mind menstruating, either. So having a penis and testicles instead of my vulva leaves me somewhat unimpressed compared to all other aspects of having a male body. Sure, penetrating would be nice. A lot more exciting than being penetrated, I guess. But other than that…

So if I woke up one morning in a male body I’d happily get up and grow my hair and put on a plain shirt and loose jeans and boots and go about my daily business feeling probably more comfortable than now. But then I started wondering about my daily business. Say, having a shower – would I still use soap that smells of honey or roses? What about all my purple and red necklaces, my flowery rings or my pink shirts and stripy socks? All the eye liner and nail polish and mascara, my hair dryer and straightener and even my Pocahontas towel – might as well throw it all away. They’d no longer be of any use to me. My morning routine would no longer be the same at all.

I can’t see myself lifting weights, but neither can I imagine going to my belly dancing course as a man. And would my aunt still ask me to come babysitting – or would she ever have if I was a man? I can’t even quite picture myself attending the gender classes at uni (I’d often be the only one or part of just a handful of guys). Would I still write papers about the World Conference on Women? What’s a man got to do with that? Would I still care all that much about inequalities once they didn’t effect me as much anymore? (I guess I would since I’ve grown up making the experience of sitting on a shitty part of the power differentials, but I can very well imagine why people lacking that experience wouldn’t understand all the noise about gender issues.)

And wouldn’t I change my flat as well? There’s pictures of flowers and witches on the walls, and butterflies and little fairytales. It confuses me to think I only got these because of my gender and not because I like to look at them and because of how they make me feel or dream. Hell, would I even have the same day dreams as a man? So I guess I’d take all that down and finally let my boyfriend put the Easy Rider poster back up. And then there’s Saint Sebastian and a picture of kissing men on my desk. Wouldn’t I look at them differently, too? After all, would I become straight once more or keep my preference for guys?  (Would my boyfriend stay with me?)

No, waking up in a man’s body wouldn’t just change the body. I’m sure absolutely everything would change even though I’d remain the same person. Funny thing is, I wouldn’t want to become someone else. But to have a male body – I’d love that. Though there’s a little bit of doubt in the back of my head: What if I only want it so very much because I can’t have it.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

This is all I have to say about this… You have to click, because I could not bear the horror of having this on a site I’m responsible for.

Now, please, can I have thousands of chocolate cookies? I need them. I’m devastated.

Genderlabel

I have finally managed to tick a few boxes at Yay Genderform! It was my elebenty hundreth try because there are sooo many boxes, half of which mean absolutely nothing to me. So what I have ticked isn’t all that spectacular, but then, I’m only a puppy when it gets to gender stuff.

Hello My name is

Ireen

I am

cisgender, friendly, gender confused, human, interested, kinky, man-loving, multifacetted, obsessed, queerly straight, questioning, sadomasochist, sex positive, switch, woman

Who are you?

I mustn’t think about it too much because I’d go straight back and tick boxes all night long.

Wolverina

It might be time to rename the blog. “Ireen’s obsession with Wolverine and Gambit.” And last night I seem to have tried to fuck my boyfriend like Schreibertooth. With teeth and claws. But do not worry – it’ll pass. I am like that. And no boyfriends have been harmed.

That said – it hasn’t passed yet. So let’s take another minute to ponder high levels of testosteron.

A while ago I read a thriller by Lee Child with this Jack Reacher character, who apparently is “Clint Eastwood, Mel Gibson and Bruce Willis all rolled into one”, as the book wants to make me believe.  I had no other expectations than to be entertained and so I was. Until I turned the book round and read what it says on the back.

Jack Reacher.

Men want to be him.

Women want to be with him.

And I just wanted to rip the fucking book apart. What, in the name of sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, is this crap? Why would they think that just because I have a vagina I don’t want to imagine myself in the place of the “fearless and capable loner”, “the enigmatic stranger who rides into town to sort everything out with a fist and a gun”, ” a wonderfully epic hero, tough, taciturn, yet vulnerable”, “ballsy, dynamic and not for the faint-hearted” yadda yadda?!

Who do I want to identify with then, feeble angsty creature that I am? The poor women who need to be saved from the ebil Russians/South-Americans/Italians? Why yes, let’s make the villains not quite so white;  let’s add a little racism to the sexism and surely it’ll sell like hot Leberkassemmerl. (If you don’t know what that is – DON’T EAT IT if you happen to come to Austria. Because nobody does. It translates as “liver cheese”, which not only sounds particularly mouth-watering, but is also a full on lie, because neither of which is part of the ingredients. I think.)

Jack Reacher is not just “utterly irresisitible” because he’s “a superman of our time”, who “gallops along with the pace of a bullet from the muzzle of a Colt Magnum”. No, no. He’s the kind of cop “no woman could help falling for”. “Reacher knows how to strip a gun and how to strip a lady”. Sweet – I love being put in the role of the hot accessory. What a handbag is to a woman, that’s what a woman is to a man, especially to our “battle-hardened, footloose, sexy and compassionate action man”. (Unless you’re The Ramos.)

So apparently my greatest desire is to sit back with my new and shiny handbag and bake some cake and watch the children play while Jack sorts out the world with his wit and his fists. Is that true, Lee Child? Oh no! Actually, the women who fall for Jack do work! A little, at least. Aspiring journalist at the local TV station waiting for a story. Looks hot. Young lawyer, waiting for her first case. Looks hotter. Of course both fall for Jack. And somehow manage to get themselves in trouble and Jack needs to save them. Yaaaawwwwnnnn….

Let’s discuss this on a nicer subject. Wolvie. And sex, since this is kind of a sex blog. See, I got kind of obsessed with this trailer. I had to watch it very very closely so I could do a good description of Wolverine in my dirty little stories. I had to watch it over and over again because that’s how hard my life is. Since we’re on it, let’s give it another go.

Now, not that I actually want to be Weapon X. The point is: Nobody does.

It’s kind of… painful. In the bad kind of way. Nor would I want to be anyone on the Lost island or Han Solo or Jack Reacher, for that matter. But I still watch the films/series/read the book and identify with the characters and imagine to be in their place, to live a different live, to have their strength and power and be a hero and what not. I want to think about how cool I’d look in my leather jacket and my boots and the cigar in the corner of my mouth, riding along on a motorbike and blowing up a helicopter. That’s what stories are for, right? You get to imagine to be someone you’re not. Someone you cannot be in this life because you’re not actually indestructible and you’d rather have a job and a home and a boy/girlfriend instead of being on the run all the time and because you’re actually scared of trouble and well, things are always a little more complicated than in the shiny movie world. But that doesn’t stop us dreaming about these things and enjoying these stories.

And hell yes, I want to identify with that roaring animal. I do not – NOT! – want to identify with Kayla Silverfox who tries to safe her sister by teaching children and having to fuck a man who puts her in mortal danger every night. Even if that man is Hugh Jackman with a healing mutation, which, given the nature of my sexuality, would come in handy. I don’t want to identify with Kayla Silverfox because she gets killed twice in the movie. I don’t want to identify with the voice of reason – “you are not an animal, Logan!” – as if all women were only there to civilize the men. This is a dream world and I want to be uncivilized! So weighing the options, an indestructible superhero vs a mutant who doesn’t actually use her powers until before she dies and doesn’t seem to have a plan of her own throughout the whole film… you know… I’d just rather opt for the man with the mission.

But that doesn’t mean I opt for him because he’s man. Give me a Wolverina and I’ll be her. And with Wolverina I mean: Just change the pronouns. Do not, in god’s name, change the character! And don’t put her in a skin tight latex suit because I’m allergic to these things and as Ranat has pointed out, you cannot fucking run, fight and do crazy flips in these things. I doubt you can actually breathe in them. Whereas jeans and boots and a shirt seem to be just fine for that. Not so hard, is it? Or, you know, make Kayla Silverfox survive fucking the man with the healing factor. And write her in a way so she does more than just what other people tell her to do. Because I just lack that submissive streak. The woman-gene that makes me want to be saved. Or serve. And I’m so sorry if the world of the big white man starts crumbling because he loses all his motivation, but yeah, here’s a great big FUCK YOU to whoever is responsible for those storylines.

But all that is not what I actually meant to write about. I wanted to write about kinky sex and Wolverine and submission until Jack Reacher got in the way. So let me give you the short version: I had kinky sex and I switched and while I got beaten up, I had a mask over my face. So I started entertaining myself with making that face Wolvie makes when he comes out of that tank, equipped with a new and shiny adamantium skeleton, with veins and sinews bulging out and gritting teeth. I like to think it’s my orgasm face. Obviously, it’s not. It’s more my all sweet pain and rage and totally not submissive face. My I’m-not-behaving-very-feminine-face and I’m loving it, too. Because as much as I love pain, I don’t give a shit about serving and kneeling and whatever and I’d rather growl than whimper. Which is not to say that being submissive is bad. I’m just very very tired of the assumption that all women are submissive. Because I’m not. I fight back. And it feels fucking good and it is incredibly hot, playing the animal. So there, that’s what I actually wanted to tell you. I fuck like I’m Wolverine.

Now where’s my cigar and my whisky?