I want it all.
After so many years of denying I want anything, that statement is a little frightening. Scratch that. That statement is a whole lotta frightening. I was raised to believe that I shouldn’t want anything. I am given what I’m given, and that is that. It’s partly Asian culture. It’s partly sexism found in both American culture and Asian culture. It’s partly my family dynamics.
Very OT: I had a talk with my bro about our childhood. He couldn’t remember much of what I mentioned (because he’s not in tune with his surroundings), but the one thing I did get out of him was this. I asked if he remember Dad being home very much. He said, “Oh no. Dad was always gone. Working. Supposedly.” We glanced at each other. I said, “You know about that, too?” He said, “Oh sure.” Another glance. I said, “Supposedly?” Pause. My brother, “He had…meetings.” Pause. Me, “With women.” Brother, “Yes.”
Funny how a family secret can be not so secret. My mother and I have talked about it. I had a cousin tell me that he knew about it from his parents. Now, my brother has acknowledged it as well. And yet, when I brought it up with my father, he…well, he didn’t deny it, but he put his own spin on it. “It’s not fair to me for you to say that. I had many female friends and male friends as well. It’s not fair to me.” My therapist pointed out that his response was instructive as to the general pattern of our family dynamics. It’s the same thing that happened when I confronted my father about the abuse those many years ago. He said, “I don’t remember it happening. Wouldn’t I remember it if it happened?” We are a family of deniers, we are.
Anyway, back to the original topic.
I have always been a bit too much. I laugh too loudly (my brother told me years ago that I had a weird laugh. I ended up laughing silently for about a decade after that because I was mortified by his comment); I eat with gusto; I fuck with even more gusto. I adore the feeling of a hard rain pelting my skin, and I love how a biting cold wind sears open my nostrils, tightens my nipples, and makes every pore sing. I am a sensualist to the core. The feel of velvet on my skin makes me want to purr. The taste of an exquisite chocolate dessert actually makes my pussy pulse and gives me an orgasm face. Kiki laughed at me when she saw the look on my face one time this happened. “That good, eh?” She asked me as I nearly moaned out loud.
It was that fucking good. Oh my god. Silky-smooth chocolate ganache sliding down my throat….It’s making me wet to think about it now.
I hate wearing shoes because I like to feel the ground on my toes. The grass, the dirt, the mud, the leaves, whatever. I hate wearing clothing in general because I like the elements against my skin. Granted, I cannot go outside nekkid very often, but still. I feel too restricted when I wear clothing. I want to be free, damn it.
I don’t remember much of my childhood. What I do comes to me in bits and pieces. And, given what I know about how my family operates, I treat my own memories with suspicion. However, I can’t remember ever asking my parents for–anything. Not for Christmas or my birthday or just in general. I’m sure I must have, but the memories are suppressed in my mind.
We were Taiwanese immigrants, here by the sufferance of our American overlords. My parents identified as Taiwanese (still do) even after they became citizens of the United States. They spoke English to my brother and me, but Taiwanese to each other. We ate Taiwanese food a lot (with the weekly after-church fast food stop thrown in). We attended a Taiwanese American church, and we went to all the Taiwanese celebrations. However, since my brother and I could not speak Taiwanese or Mandarin, we were shut out from the inner sanctum of the Taiwanese society.
Still. I knew enough to know that I didn’t make sense in the Taiwanese society. I was a devoted tomboy from the moment I was born. I hated wearing dresses and playing with dolls. I wanted to climb trees and play rough games with the boys. I was also a voracious reader, which comforted me through my lonely childhood and rough teen years. I have been told that I was an exuberant child when I was two. I can believe it because the exuberance is still somewhere in me, but it’s lain dormant for so many years.
My mother put me on my first diet when I was seven. She said I had such a pretty face, if only I would lose weight. This was the same time as the abuse started (or a year into it, if the latter flashbacks are correct), which is not all that uncommon. We didn’t have much sweets in the house, but my mom would monitor what I ate. When I look at pictures of me as a kid, yeah, I was chubby, but I wasn’t fat. I wasn’t Taiwanese girl skinny, which was the problem. Even during my fat teenage years, I wasn’t fat. More rounded than my Taiwanese counterparts, but not fat.
Still, it set a precedence. I had to watch what I ate because I wanted too much. I love food. I love the tastes and textures and how they interplay on my tongue. I love the feel of yogurt sliding down my throat, and I like the pleasant burn that a good hot sauce will add to a dish. Note, though, this drink burned my throat and made it nearly impossible to swallow for a day. I am used to hot foods, so imagine if someone who isn’t drank it. Granted, maybe I wasn’t supposed to chug it, but no one told me that. It’s really tasty, but I will never buy it again.
Ed. Note: The previous was written on 10/13/10. The following is written on 10/14/10.
Good girls don’t. That has been a theme running in my head lately. As longtime readers know, I have struggled with what it means to be a woman. It’s not easy to be pretty much diametrically opposite of what society (and my father) declares a proper woman to be. For the most part, I don’t give a shit. Yeah, I sit with my legs uncrossed and I love to watch sports and I hate to shop. What the fuck of it?
Physically, I’m very feminine with my curves and my waist-length hair. My voice is masculine–I’ve been called ‘Sir’ on the phone more times than I care to count. I don’t want to marry or have kids. Like I said, most of the time, I am perfectly fine with this.
However. I have started to have a little bit of “good girls don’t” creeping into my head. Good girls don’t eat whatever they want, whenever they want, however much they want. There is a popular dieting theory that posits you should have all your favorite foods in the house in abundance. The theory holds that the first few weeks, you will go overboard on cramming as much food into you as possible. However, once you realize that you have it on hand and that you can eat it at any time, the desire to binge subsides.
It makes sense. When I am dieting, all I can think about is food. When I was deep into my ED, I would surf the computer for pictures of food. Food pr0n, as it were. I would look for truffles one day and trifles the next. I mostly looked at deserts since those are my weaknesses. I would faithfully count every calorie I ate and log it into my journal. I would plan my exercise (a moderate two-and-a-half hours the second time around), and I would make sure my activities did not interfere with that pattern.
I have similar pangs of guilt about sex. I love sex. I love it so much, I would have it every day all the time if my body would allow it. I love the feel of fucking and of being fucked (gotta admit, especially the latter). Sexing gives me an insane amount of pleasure, and I still feel a little guilty about that because good girls shouldn’t enjoy sex so damn much. Oh my god. I’m getting wet just thinking about having sex for hours on end. I love the feeling of bodies pressed against each other. I love how primal I feel as I’m fucking. And, I love how I completely stop thinking when I cum. I love going down on someone and having that person go down on me. I love making out before sex. I love making out after sex. I love making out during sex. Have I mentioned how much I love sex?
I know. That makes me a freak (literally) and a slut (and damn proud of it). I have realized that there are still lots of guys who are not OK with someone as frankly sexual as I am, so I have made the decision to…not tame my personality, but to be more selective as to with whom I share it.
I think I talked about a discussion at TNC’s place about the sacredness of sex. Most of the commentators there were saying that sex is a precious beautiful thing and that catting around should be kept to the younger years. Now, I realize that the magazine for which he writes (The Atlantic) skews conservative (he’s one of the few liberal bloggers there), but it disconcerted me. Don’t get me wrong. Sex can be a beautiful, sacred thing between two people who deeply love each other. When that happens, I am filled with so much emotion, I want to cry. It really is amazing when you touch another person’s soul like that.
However, sex can also be a pleasurable, really hawt way to release stress and just a lot of damn fun. It doesn’t have to be sacred every time. Having a one night stand with a consenting adult (or three) doesn’t cheapen the meaning of sex because there are many meanings to it. Even with the same person, sex can be fun and playful one time and deep and intimate the next (even in the same session).
Despite my childhood and the horrible situation in Thailand, I have always loved sex. Ever since my first experience, I have marveled at how good it felt to have something inside of me. Specifically, a cock (real or fake) in my pussy. I was made to have sex. This, I know. It’s taken me almost twenty years to be comfortable with this fact. As I said, even during my slut years, I was aware that I was doing something ‘bad’. I was acting out, and while I enjoyed much of it, it really was a statement more than a way of being. I hit my peak about a year and a half ago. Now, I’m ravenous for sex.
I talked about this with my therapist. I have spent most of my life whittling my life down to a manageable size. I felt that life was too dangerous to really live it, so I existed. I endured. I denied myself most of the pleasures I desperately wanted because, well, just because. In the past two years, I’ve realized that while I have desperately tried to control my desires, they have always been there, simmering under the surface. Now that I have started allowing them to bubble to the top, they are almost overwhelming. I am a hedonist in every sense of the word. Yet, I am threatened by the same hedonism. I adore food, and yet, for so long, I couldn’t just eat. I had to be doing something else as I ate because food was threatening. In the past, I did S&M because the pain and humiliation was manageable. I could deal with pain, and I thought I deserved nothing less than the humiliation I received. It was a turn on, but it never touched the core of me. Therefore, it was safe. I had a safe word, but I never used it because I prided myself on just how much pain I could take. Unbridled lust and unending pleasure was threatening, so I did my best to tamp it down.
One more example. Tonight, I had my first private Bagua lesson from Choolie. It’s another kind of martial arts, and it’s very complementary to Taiji. Choolie started showing me a few drills a few months ago, and I immediately loved it. Baguazhang is down and dirty fighting. It’s nasty, and it’s cruel, and I love it. Choolie has taught me how to punch properly, and tonight, she taught me how to block a punch, and then what to do after blocking the punch. I asked her if this is how she would teach a beginning student. She said, yes. See, in Taiji, I didn’t learn the applications until after I graduated from the Solo Form. Oh, sure, Choolie showed us some of the applications along the way, but until we got to pushing hands, there was no sparring and no real study of the applications. This is actually good because I went into her studio just wanting to learn to defend myself. I have a hard surface that deflects ninety-percent of unwanted attention, but I needed to know what to do with the other ten percent. I never shied away from the martial arts aspect of Taiji as that was what I wanted, but it was merely in the name of self-defense in the beginning.
Once I graduated the Solo Form and started sparring, I realized that it was kill or be killed. I would avoid a fight if I could, but if I couldn’t, I was going to do my level best to make sure the other person didn’t get up and walk away from the fight. In other words, if I have to use what Choolie taught me, it’s motherfucking on. That was difficult to accept. Then, she started showing me Bagua. As I said, it’s nasty. It’s meant to be nasty. It’s meant to take someone out efficiently and with as little effort as possible (which appeals greatly to my lazy side). Choolie has said that she knows someone will love it if that person giggles as she practices. Choolie and I were doing a lot of giggling tonight. I felt a kinship with Bagua immediately, but I told Choolie that two-and-a-half years ago (when I started Taiji), there was no way I would be comfortable with it. Good girls didn’t have a good time punching and sparring. Good girls didn’t giggle while learning Chin Na techniques or ten different ways to break an elbow. Good girls didn’t giggle when their instructor accidentally hit them or they accidentally hit the instructor in turn.
Two-and-a-half years ago, Good Girl Syndrome would have hindered me in my pursuit of Bagua. Now, it’s a mere twinge. I love punching and blocking punches. I love the physical aspect of Bagua. I can feel the warrior woman side of me emerging, and she is ready to rumble.
This is all very new and slightly overwhelming to me. It’s not easy adjusting to a new persona.
P.S. Desire is one of three U2 songs I actually like. Official video here. Kylie Minogue is a very guilty plesasure of mine, and All the Lovers is a great song. You have to see the official video (kinda of. It’s banned in our country, but this is a version of it. Still cannot embed it) to get why I included it in this entry. I just think Desert Rose by Sting is very sensual. Official video here.