Thoughts on “Play”

Here, then, we have the first main characteristic of play: that it is free, is in fact freedom. A second characteristic is closely connected with this, namely, that play is not “ordinary” or “real” life. It is rather a stepping out of “real” life into a temporary sphere of activity with a disposition all of its own . . . . Nevertheless . . . the consciousness of play being “only a pretend” does not by any means prevent it from proceeding with the utmost seriousness, with an absorption, a devotion that passes into rapture and, temporarily at least, completely abolishes that troublesome “only” feeling. Any game can at any time wholly run away with the players. The contrast between play and seriousness is always fluid. The inferiority of play is continually being offset by the corresponding superiority of its seriousness. Play turns to seriousness and seriousness to play. Play may rise to heights of beauty and sublimity that leave seriousness far beneath.

—Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture

October 29: Playing with Power: Anarchist Approaches to BDSM

Folks in the Bay Area: I’m facilitating a workshop next Thursday (10/29) on anarchism and BDSM. It’s in Berkeley, it’s free, and there will be cupcakes.

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This month, we’ll have a facilitated discussion of what it means to practice BDSM as an anarchist. On the one hand, we have anti-BDSM arguments proclaiming that any type of BDSM play gives legitimacy to domination and submission as models for human relationships, and on the other, we have BDSM players who assert that anything they do and say is absolved by the fact that it turns them on. Some celebrate BDSM as a way to play with power, turning it on its head and perverting it for our own pleasure; other kinky folk are staunchly opposed to the idea of BDSM as merely “play,” and see “dominance” or “submission” as deep, constant aspects of their personality. If we are anti-hierarchical, can we also engage in (or support) relationships that are rooted in hierarchical models? Where do we draw the lines, if there are any to be drawn? We’ll look at a bit of BDSM and leather history, touch on the second-wave feminist backlash against BDSM in the 1980s, and identify specifically anarchist arguments against BDSM as a practice and as a subculture—and we’ll round it out with a discussion of concepts like “consent” and “play,” to see how these elements might help us make sense of What It Is That We Do.

Thursday, October 29
8-10pm
at the Long Haul Infoshop
3124 Shattuck Avenue / Woolsey in Berkeley (2 blocks from Ashby BART)
The space is wheelchair accessible and there is an accessible, gender-neutral bathroom.

One Way to Deal With Jealousy

An experimental post. I’ll be trying my hand at writing a novel, come November, so I’ve decided to start working on a more creative, fiction-y voice. Fiction has always felt extremely awkward and unwieldy to me, so this should be an interesting challenge!

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My breath came in clumsy gasps as I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, a burning in the back of my throat from the cold air I’d been gulping down. I had pushed myself home on my bicycle as fast as I could, pedaling blindly through dark residential streets and swerving my way around cars on the major roads. My face was sticky and wet with tears.

Slamming the door behind me, I suddenly froze, listening for signs of movement elsewhere in the house. Good, I thought. Nobody home.

I dropped my bag on the kitchen table and headed straight to my room, where, despite my own assurances that I was alone, I closed and locked the door. Truly alone now, I expected that my throat would loosen and that great, heaving sobs would come spilling out, a release of emotion, of anger and grief and humiliation. I prepared myself, and waited, but nothing came — I felt numb with tension; I couldn’t relax enough to cry.

She had smiled at me. She had smiled, nervously, as she walked past me, and I had put up an awkward hand to wave “hello.” “Hello,” I wanted that little wave to say, “I really like you, and I can’t be in the same room with you without thinking of you fucking my boyfriend, which is what you were doing three nights ago sometime between eleven at night and two in the morning. I think you’re an awfully nice person, honestly, and I want to walk over and punch you in the face.” And she had passed by without saying a word, and I had quickly, discreetly, fled the party as soon as she’d left the room.

What had she been thinking? What had her smile meant? What had mine meant to her?

Images flooded my brain. Her mouth on his cock. His finger pushing slowly inside her as she moans. His eyes watching her face as she comes. Stop. Her head on his bare chest as they curl up together in her bed. Stop!

I suddenly became very aware of the silence in my room, in the empty house. Sirens blared as a cop car sped past my window, somehow enhancing the feeling of isolation and solitude. I sat down on the floor, legs crossed. The anger had been unexpected. The anger was what had disturbed me so much. And what intensified that anger even more was the fact that it was totally, completely unjustified. This was what I had consented to. This was what I wanted.

Her mouth…his hands..their bodies…

My own body twinged as I thought of him, and I wished he could be there with me. That the images in my head would become real, with her mouth replaced with mine, her body, her desire becoming my own.

No.

No, that isn’t what I want, I thought. Not really. If he were here right now with me, the sex would be tense, and I would kiss him and not be able to keep myself from thinking of her. And then I would break down, unable to continue, and we’d both be miserable. No, that isn’t it, at all.

I closed my eyes and focused on the silence and my breath, centering myself and regaining perspective, clarity, focus. That is what I want. Focus. Being here. Being okay with being alone.

And then I opened my toy drawer, pulling out boxes of needles, a sharps container, disinfectant, and paper towels, methodically spreading them all out before me. I stripped my shirt off, cleaned off a patch of skin, and then pulled out a handful of needles, choosing a variety of sizes and colored tips.

This is my time. My body, my pleasure. It doesn’t matter that he’s fucking someone else; it doesn’t even matter if he were fucking someone else right this minute. What matters is that I’m here, now…

I pushed in the first needle.