The Power of Authenticity

If you are good at what you do professionally, especially if you work in customer service, people open up to you.  Probably it is actually part of your job to let them do that even if it is also part of your job to hurry them along so you can go help someone else (a challenging task no matter who you are).

As far as I can tell, the search for connection and authenticity is always on the list for everybody (barring the occasional oddball).  Sometimes we get the chance to feel this with someone.  Sometimes it is mutual.  Sometimes we get to be the person who holds the space for someone else to experience it.  And when we hold that space professionally, it is easy for people to get confused.

Alfred has been bending my ear about sex, kink, polyamory, violet wands, unique vibrators and a variety of travel tales on and off for the past two hours. That is when he gets down to it; he has all of these interests and his wife, whom he loves, does not like any of them.  For those of you just tuning in, kinky man/vanilla* wife is a story I hear so often I could write an anthology that no one would read because all the stories would be the same.  It is a very difficult situation and one for which I have a ton of sympathy.  Despite my current phlegm-tastic state (I have a bad cold) I think he can sense the sympathy.  When he allows me space to talk, I try to get to the crux of his question -the answer to which turns out to be "sit down and flip through the book and see if you want it"- but it takes us close to an hour, through considerations of counseling and coercion, to get there. When he has made his purchase choices he hands me a slip of paper, politely saying that if I have an interest this is his fetlife profile.

Earlier this morning someone talked at me for a few hours, interrupting answers for which he asked, to later say in an email exchange that he liked me.  When I was a stripper, I was pushed into a date with someone who "fell in love with me" only having seen me dance.  Add your story here because I could go on and I bet you have your own example of this.

Maybe we can blame it on privilege, but I would rather say that connecting on an authentic level is so powerful that it is easy to forget that what we experience ourselves may not be true for the person opposite us.

Alfred was really nice.  It sounded like he knew a lot of things and was pretty smart too.  Getting caught up a little in "OmG! Someone likes me!" I considered for a few moments keeping the little slip of paper.  And then there was this thought "What can a man, who is in a difficult marriage and doesn't give me more than 1/16th the air time he takes for himself, to whom I am not attracted, possibly add to my life that I want?"

I came up with nothing.

*vanilla is a term that many people use to indicate sex that is not kinky.  Some people dislike the term because some others use it in a derogatory manner.  Please note: I think vanilla is one of the finest flavors.

The Jerk That Resides in Each of Us

"Oh, this is your first time here!  Do you mind if I tell you a little about us?"

This is our routine with all customers:
Customer new? -----No-----> "Welcome back!"
   |
Yes ----->"Can I tell you a little about us?"

Me: "Well, we've been here for 7 years.  We're very pleasure and education oriented, so everyone who works here is a sex educator--"

Customer: "Sex educator?  Can you teach me some rope ties to use on people?"

Me: "Oh, um... yes.  But if you're really interested in rope bondage techniques I'd recommend <walking to bookshelf> these boo--"

Customer: "Oh, if you're just going to sell me some books, forget it!  I probably have them already.  I thought you said you were a sex educator and could teach me."

Me: "Well, I can.  However, we don't have any rope here at the moment.

<pause>

Me: "So, we're also the only shop in NM that exclusively sells non-toxic sex toys--"

Customer: "Yeah?  Well that's what they say up the street too!"

<Referring to our nearest competitor, a chain megastore that our customers frequently complain about>

Me: "Really? Ah... so all the toys that are made with cancer causing ingredients, we don't carry here..."

Customer: "What do you have in glass?"

Me: "Our glass section is down here."

Customer: "OmiGOD!  Those are so expensive!  I have a friend, he works with glass, so he has all this left over glass all the time.  He could make me anything I want for, like, $5."

Me: "Sounds like a great friend.  Yes, glass is a nice material."

Customer: "All this stuff is so overpriced!  I mean, look at that!  You don't think it cost that much to make it, do you?"

Me: "Well, I guess that's where the retail factor comes in."

Customer: "Yes, Doll.  But really.  These prices are ridiculous.  Oh, what's--?"

Me: "Oh, that's a head tingler.  You push it up and down on your head--"

Customer: "I know what it is! Though, that's not what I'd use it for!  I'd use it on my breasts!" <customer pushes it on and off small protrusions from her shirt> "I was asking, how much is it?"

Me: "Oh, sorry.  It's just on the packaging here..."

Customer: "Cuz it isn't marked on this thing!"

Me: "Yes, I see, but here's the price, $12.95."

Customer: "Well, really, I already have something like it at home."

.....

Customer: "Ha!  I have to get these!  They glow in the dark!"

The customer puts a package of glow in the dark cock rings on the counter.

Me: "Are you all set?  Is this all?"

Customer: "Yeah, although I could spend a lot of time in here!"

Me: "And have you used a cock ring before?"

<Customer gives me an incredulous look>

Customer: "Ah, yeah."

Me: "Oh, okay.  I was just making sure that you didn't need me to print you our guide to cock rings.  And you have a good lube at home you can use with this?  Okay, so your total is $9.98.  Great, can I see your ID with your credit card?"

<While handing me ID>
Customer: "Oh honestly, Doll, if I was going to commit fraud don't you think I'd do it for more than 10 bucks?"

<I see that the names and picture match, John F. Dozetos.*>
Me: "Well, I just had to make sure you're over 18!"

Customer: "Oh, now your playing at flattery!" <Customer appears flattered>

Me: "Okay, here's your package.  I put a cleaning guide in there in case you need to know how to take care of your new friends.  And here's your receipt, Sir."

Customer: "Actually, it's Ma'am."

Me: "Oh, I'm SO sorry.  Ma'am, of course."

Calling her "Sir" really just slipped out, I knew it was wrong when I heard myself say it.  I was probably affected by the misogyny dripping off of her.  Tit for tat is not part of retail, especially in a store that prides itself on being trans friendly; but since I made the mistake, I figure it was only fair since she had mistaken my name for "Doll".

*Name changed, of course.

In Which ChutzpahGrrl Fucks Up

A few times, I have had the opportunity to listen to other's stories of having committed some form of abuse, often sexual in nature.  Sometimes these people have been partners of mine and sometimes those same partners have been the best supports to me in my path since being raped.

Sometimes the stories are told in blame for the other person, sometimes they are told dispassionately, and sometimes they are told with guilt or shame or regret.  It all depends on where we are since the story occurred.  The act of sharing these things is vulnerable; and I honor those who choose to share, regardless of how I feel hearing the story.

It is important to remember that none of us are born with an innate understanding of how to function in society.  We are taught many things we later need to unlearn.  Sometimes the coping mechanisms we develop in childhood and adolescence are a detriment when we become adults.  We are not always given the tools to understand how to decide what path to take.  And sometimes, even when we know what the correct path for us is, we still fuck it up.  Thus, in honor of those who share with me, I am sharing with you my latest story of how I fucked up.

A few months ago I started volunteering as a facilitator for a youth group.  In my initiatory sessions I became enthralled with these young people.  They are brilliant, creative, understandable, funny, commendable and full of exciting potential.  They made it easy for me to feel useful in a way I have not felt in years, and I am grateful for it. 

There is a line between being approachable because you are seen as understanding someone's perspective and interacting like one of the crowd.  Now, I will never be one of the crowd in a crowd of youth, nor do I want to be, however, I noticed that sometimes I responded to them less as a facilitator and more as a community member.  Sometimes that was not a good choice, and I realized I had to be more careful.

A few weeks ago a youth came to the group who I had not met before.  We were having a group discussion in which that person said something to me about wildness related to me, to which I responded "Oh honey, you have no idea."

I didn't mean for it to sound the way it sounded, but as you can see, it sounds completely suggestive and this young person totally called me out on it.  As if that was not stupid enough of me, I was embarrassed and so verbally dismissed the discomfort of that person.

That is some shit right there that I have to work on!  It is not as if I do not know the right way to respond to someone who tells you you have done something that hurt them.  You hold your own feelings and focus on theirs, acknowledge their feelings, apologize and without being defensive (which I was) you may acknowledge not meaning to be an ass.

That is what I plan to do next time I see this person.*  It is important for youth to have appropriate behavior modeled, and if I could not do it at that moment, at least I can acknowledge for that person that I fucked up and I am willing to do the right thing now.

Still, I have a harsh judgment of myself that I have not ingrained the appropriate responses into myself.  When someone tells me a story in which they have regret or shame or guilt, I tend to counsel a lot of self-compassion.  And I recognize that I too should counsel this for myself.  One can not guarantee the compassion of others, and we need compassion for our mistakes when we already know we did wrong.

I believe a lot of the reason we beat ourselves up so much is because we have grown such a fear of other's disapproval.  We are capable of hurting ourselves so much more than others, and we get to be in control.  Somehow, psychologically this feels better to a lot of us.

The problem with that much hurt, is that we undercut our ability to become better at what resulted in the mistake.  It is still appropriate to have humility, an understanding of our mistake and how it adversely affected others and ourselves; but feeling bad is only useful in telling us where we need to grow. Energy spent on continuing to make ourselves feel bad, takes energy away from improving ourselves and can set up a self fulfilling prophecy where we make the mistake again because we are so focused on it and on ourselves as bad.  Not to mention the tendency some of us have to then seek assistance from others (sometimes the ones we have wronged) to help us feel better.

So I tell myself as I tell all of us, "make this as right as possible, and you will be more careful in the future."


*There are times when it is inappropriate to go back even to apologize.  It has to do with the amount of abuse one sustained on another.  I do not think this is one of those times.

Holiday Lament of a Customer Service Agent

'Twas an hour before closing, and all through the shop
were vibrators and dildos piled up to the top.
Products were displayed to encourage sex drive,
with hope that some customers soon would arrive.

I, with my box cutter and things to receive,
had plenty to do, things to achieve.

Ding-Dong went the bell, our door opening sound
to warn that an imminent customer was 'round.
"Welcome!" said I, in my most friendly way,
itching to make the biggest sale of the day.

He looked 'round a while, then resettled his cap,
and bustled his way o'er to me at cash/wrap.
"Hello there" he boomed, while eying a price,
"I say, could I ask you a bit of advice?"

"Of course!" I responded, quite eager to please,
though not knowing the question, I'd no guarantees.

"It's my wife!" he exploded, "She's gon' through the change.
She used to be normal but now she is strange.
I married a hot little ticket like you,
but religious and repressed, she had not a clue.

I took her on as my protegée,
with groups and meetings, I got my way.
We had wonderful sex, but not anymore.
It's as though she now thinks of sex as a chore.
You know, you get married and have a whole lot of fun,
having sex left and right, but only when young!
Now I realize that marriage is a lie and a trap.
Having sex later on is huge load of crap!

He went on explaining how awful it was
to have sex so seldom, as "the menopause" does.

"What's that thing that they need?  Sounds like engine?"
I supplied "Estrogen*", not knowing where to begin.
"Yeah, that!" he erupted.  "Do they make it in powder?
I could spike what she eats!" he said even louder.
"She wouldn't know why, but she'd want sex all the time!
Not every few months.  That'd sure be sublime."

He went on a while about his frustration,
his lot in life and great woe of his station.
I counseled myself, as he gibbered and prattled,
as dissonance inside me started a battle.
Drugging someone for sex has such distaste,
but he couldn't leave the store feeling debased.

Consulting my merits, I named them at length:
"On clarity and kindness, now saavy and strength!"
This was a prayer that I sent overhead,
to myself, or a God, either way, I then said:

"That you get by prescription, so your time'd be misspent.
Because of cancer,** you'd want her consent.
For her, you might look into good lubrication.
And envision yourself using fun masturbation.

We have some toys that might be appealing to you
since it's normal to need some excitement in lieu
of intercourse that may not be in your wife's range,
which is normal while all of her sex hormones change."

Excited at the prospect of a toy of his own,
he thanked me for the great understanding I'd shown.
He left on a high note (he bought not a thing),
highlighting his exit, my un-proffered hand he did wring.

"What a great store this is!  I'll be back with my wife!
I'm sure, if you talk, you can help with her strife."
This he yelled through the door, with the lights burning bright,
"I'm so glad I came in!  And to you a good-night!"


*Estrogen is not the only hormone that is in play with menopause.  He didn't know this.
** Hormone replacement therapy can raise the likelihood that someone may get cancer.

Retail Therapy: We Need Some

It was a strange week in the land of retail.  Perhaps it was the cold (yes, it can be cold here in the Southwest) or are we coming up on a full moon?

As a retailer, it is expected that customers be not only forgiven but also remain largely oblivious to their gaffes.  Sometimes though, my cup runeth over and you get to hear the story.

I have three short stories from last week in three acts: confusion, surprise and horror.

Confusion:
A gaggle of somewhat sober, recent graduates take over the store.  Each has to use our "no customers" bathroom in turn.  I smile and run around answering questions for each as they split into groups of two or three to investigate.  At checkout one tells me that one of her best friends is the first in her group to be getting married.

"I'm so excited to find this store!  I'm going to do her party.  She's really conservative.  I'm going to do penises everywhere!  Penis straws, penis water bottles, penis napkins... She's going to HATE it!"

Commentary: Wtf?  What kind of friend does something they specifically know the other person will hate?  On an important occasion?  This hurts my brain.

Surprise:
::ring:: ::ring::
"Hello Business Name, this is Kathryn."

"Yes, do you sell thongs for men?"

"You know, we don't.  We're a small store and it's difficult for us to carry clothing.  But there are some places I can sugges--"

"Oh that's too bad.  It's for a party tonight so I'm kinda' in a hurry."

"Well, sometimes Kohl's and JC Penney have sexy men's underwear and"

"It's a naked party.  So, I mean the underwear would just be for the time before all that comes off."

"Oh, that's good.  You might also try a store called Free Radicals."

"It should be fun, but you know, I want something to show off everything before the nakedness really happens."

"Of course.  I'm not sure how much luck you'll have in finding a thong, but sometimes jock straps are made very sexy and that's essentially the same thing."

"That's true.  This is going to be a great party.  We started off with just 4 people but now we have, like, 20."

"Yes, it's difficult to make that kind of party happen, especially here."

"Yeah, hey you wanna' come?"

"Oh, thank you but I can't."

"No, really, you sound cool.  I'd like to invite you."

"Well, I don't accept invitations from people I don't know."

"I could come down to the store and you could decide then."

"Actually I can't accept anything personally while I'm in a professional role here at work."

"Oh, but, so, if we met outside of your work..."

"I'm flattered, but your party is tonight and I work late tonight."

"Oh, okay.  Well, maybe next time."

"Maybe next time."

Commentary: No, maybe not next time.  I'd be very happy to attend a sex party, but I'm concerned if someone's criteria on the people they invite is that they 'sound cool'.

Horror:
I'm having a conversation with a customer about lubricant.  We're discussing the merits and drawbacks of water vs. silicone lube.  The customer needs something to take on a trip with her.
"What's this one?"

"That's a silicone lube that comes specifically in a travel case.  Silicone leaks a bit and gets on everything so that company was thinking ahead."

::Customer grabbing her right armpit:: "Leaks?"

::Me putting two and two together:: "Oh, I just meant the lubricant.  Implants are well contained and tested so they don't leak."*

"Oh, okay.  I sure hope it don't leak.  I've had this for 13 years.  It don't feel like the other."

"Yes, I've heard that you must massage them frequently if you want them to stay soft."

"Well, that makes sense because it does seem to soften up if I'm touching it.  Here, feel."

"No, thank you."

"No really, it's okay, just touch them each, you'll see they're different."

"Thank you, I'd rather not.  Actually I had a girl friend once who had a silicone implant."

Commentary: I love this.  I think I might actually be this woman if I lost some of the social conditioning I've developed.  I went through a process between the first time she asked and the second.  It took about a milisecond but in it I considered how I am curious about how implants feel (that gf had no tissue on one side of her chest so the implant was a bit different than it might have been for someone else).  I also considered how and why someone would ask a store clerk to touch their breasts and how I really did not want to touch this woman at all.  Also, it seemed she was going to argue more before I said I'd already felt a silicone implant.


*I just watched the Mythbusters' episode on silicone implants at altitude.  I feels smart.

And The Cat Too?

Part of recovering from trauma is dealing with recurrences of trauma symptoms.  While nothing could really compare to the PTSD symptoms of the original trauma/s, whenever that little switch gets triggered, back they come, shadows of the original but the original was so immense that these are nothing at which to sneeze.

I say a 'little switch' because it feels oddly instantaneous, like a light switch.  I am using it to refer to the neural pathways that your brain learns from trauma.  You know how there are these amazing stories of someone paralyzed and their brain maps out a new way to get signals to a part of the brain so they can move again?  It is like that only in the "oh darn :(" way.

I have been assured that brains work this way with trauma, depression, etc.  That is why correcting these things quickly, with medication if necessary, is so important.  The less time the brain spends working those unpleasant neural pathways, the less likely it is the brain will stay or go back there.  Habits, you know?

The first thing I am likely to notice when I am starting to go back to that rape brain again, is my startle response goes up.  This means I scream a lot.  At anything.  Because I am startled and my brain automatically thinks I am gonna' die.  This is embarrassing.  People look at you funny and feel bad when they say "hi" and you jump out of your skin with a bloodcurdling shriek.  They might get angry at you for screaming and scaring them or hurting their ears.  And the last thing anyone wants to hear is an explanation of how you are "triggered" and you are sorry but it is a chemical response.

The second thing that comes on, is the crazy dreaming.  I dream about new trauma situations, I dream about the original trauma, I dream about snakes.

"Snakes?" you say.  Yes.  It is a funny thing.  I have been phobic of snakes most of my life.  Some years ago I went through a bout of therapy to solve the snake issue that was keeping me from walking on grass, much less the woods or anyplace that was not covered in cement or asphalt.  It worked, and every year I hold a snake the keep up with the improvements.  So there must be a similar pathway in my brain between trauma and phobia because when one is triggered, so is the other.

After bad dreams, there is general fatigue, nausea, headaches; all this stuff that could be from something else, but is not.  Sometimes depression fits in here, but not this time.  I do not think.  Sometimes it is hard to tell.

And then there is the cat dying.

"What???" you ask.  Yeah, totally weird.  So, the first time I can definitively say I was raped, a few weeks later my beautiful and charismatic tuxedo cat was diagnosed with cancer and died.

Yesterday, my other cat, a super sweet and soft orange and white tabby died suddenly of heart failure.

I am beginning to see a pattern here, and I do not like it.

There is good news.  The good news is that all of these recurring symptoms are not a full list nor as pronounced as that original trauma produced (except the cat).  That was some crazy shit then.  And I have grown to have better coping mechanisms for these things.  Also, I have no more cats.

Gallows-cat humor aside, I wish I could be more humorous and more poetic about this topic.  That is what makes these topics palatable to read about.  But I try to find the humor in this process and fail.  I think about all the people I have met since my rape and how many people came out of the woodwork as survivors and all the stories and all the pain and a new view of the world emerged from which this blog springs.  I am not a duck; I can no longer let creepy things roll off my back.  I have to write about them.  I only hope that I can make it worth reading.

Past Over Hard

I am weary.  The sort of weary one might be after taking the SATs, GREs, MCAT then LSAT all in the same 24 hours.  The kind of weary that Frodo and Sam look as they leave Mordor.  This is the end of my two week trip to try, in vain, to finish clearing out my late mother's house.

I have eaten lobster that I can not get at home.  I have had a break spent at my favorite retreat with cherished people.  There's been dinner with Robin*, and a visit from my partner in VT.

I have listened for days on end to my loved god-mother's health issues.  I have talked to my sister about a faster process, but we're still doing the same slow method.  I have sciatic pain, shoulder pain and neck pain.  I have run out of money, gotten more, run out again, and have eaten the same Chinese leftovers for four days straight.  I have slept on the couch of my god parents, in one hotel, then another, then another.  I have had a combined total of 40 minutes of alone time in the past weeks.  I have found not only a folded piece of paper with $179 in it, but also my mother's bag of adult items plus naked pictures of her with the family dog. 

I am ready to go home.

* * * * * * *

I arrive later than desired at my hotel by the airport.  It's 7:30 and although I consider going to bed right away, it's still light out and I decide it might be nice to do something.  Robin has been texting to see if we can get together again before I leave, so I tell her to come by.

"Take me somewhere with alcohol or ice cream" I instruct her when she arrives; "I don't care which."

After ice cream, we sit in the parking lot of my hotel.  I've asked to be dropped off.  She is persistent.  We go inside together.

Two different agendas, and had I realized, had I given it more import ... well... maybe I would, maybe she would not, maybe maybe.

She worries if I want her there	I worry that I've made the wrong decision
I try to do what I want	She tries to do what she wants
I don't want that	She wants to know if it's her body
I say no, please don't	She is ashamed of how she looks
I offer alternatives	She tries again, in a different way
I realize...	She wants...
I tell her I won't let her use me like that	She is horrified
I am afraid and sad and want to protect her	She leaves

People see issues of assault, rape and violence in black and white.  We break it down that way to make judgment easier.  It is not wrong, there are things that are black and white.  But in the world of actions, it can be fuzzy, confused, distressing and wrought with messages softer than necessary because we care for her, and harder than necessary because we are selfish.  There are lines of difference between saying, showing, coercing, pushing.  There can be shades of confusion in how we say no, I don't want that, I'm scared.

It doesn't take much to retrigger old wounds.  Trauma, whether recognized or not, comes back to claim us.  I am seeing this scene over and over.  Intellectual chewing gum. I try to figure out where I went wrong, what I should have done, why did it happen?  It's not helpful.

I wish, it hadn't been like that
	I wish we hadn't assumed the wrong things
I wish I had been more clear
	I wish she had heard
I wish she had been able to explain
	I wish I had understood
It's not your fault
	It's not mine either

I lay and a tear, hot with chemicals, rolls and drops into my left ear.  We have to move.  We just have to keep moving.  I am weary.



* Name changed as usual.  Robin and I met in March 2013, had a fun time at an event where neither of us knew many people and shared some kissing at the end of the evening.