„Ah, knew I would find you here.“, he said cheerful. 

Grumpily, I sucked in air and puffed out my cheeks.

„That is not an appropriate greeting, young man.“ 

I stared at him.

He stared back and then leaned slightly towards me. 

„Well, how about ‚Ah, nice to see you too. I appreciate you being concerned over me.“

After a couple of second he sighed… „Alright. How are you?“

„Bad.“

„Figured that much. Wanna tell me why?“

I grumbled again, not sure where to start…

„I did something stupid. And now I am facing the consequences of it and it truly sucks.“

My uninvited visitor sat down on the reclining bench next to me and put his feet up. 

„Go on.“

At first I didn‘t. I wasn‘t keen on telling him the same story I went over and over in my head, bending and twisting it, in the hope that I had overlooked something. But no. I had to face it: I had fucked up.

„Well, did you ever say something that wasn’t entirely a serious answer and then somebody took it as one and then got angry?“

„No.“

„Well, good for you because I have.“

„Why are you not going to the person and telling them?“

„Too late… and by now the situation is too serious to make ‚jokes‘ about it.“

„Was it a joke?“

„No! I was just insecure, alone and had no idea what I should say… and I panicked and I was stressed and time seemed to matter. So I had to answer urgently and didn’t feel like being able to sleep a night over that problem…. I hoped that if I would propose something we could work out something together, and instead… well, I might have lost a potential friend.“

„And that is what’s bothering you?“

„Yes and no…“

„Go on.“

„No…“

„No? Why not?“

„Because it is selfish…“

„It is selfish to have feelings?“

„No. But it is selfish to self-center yourself even though you are the oppressor and part of the problem and not the victim.“

„Ah… but you are still sulking.“

„Yes.“

„Then stop sulking.“

I grumbled again. I didn’t want to stop. I sighed—why was this so hard?

„Well, maybe if you tell someone you will stop sulking. If I’m not the one, then so be it, but then find someone else…“

I expected him to get up and leave annoyed by my behaviour, but instead he just tilted his head back thinking.

 Silence. 

The longer the silence lasted, the more uneasy I became. Was his plan to say nothing until I told him more? I automatically furrowed my brow. Did I want to give him what he wanted from me? On the one hand, I wasn’t thrilled about giving in, but on the other hand, I partly agreed with him. I had to tell someone, and who better than someone who was freezing their butt off with you by a river in the darkest night? „Fine you got me… one person or maybe several… I don’t know for sure. Anyway, they accused me of taking sexual harassment lightly.“

For a second, I could have sworn a small smirk flickered over his face. Then he turned to me,“ Do you?“

„Fucking hell, no… but apparently it seemed like it… and now I don’t know how to fix it.“

„Apologize?“

„Already did.“

„Well, you can’t do too much about it. Because now the other person has to decide if they want to forgive you or if they can or even want to engage.“

„I know. Doesn’t make anything of this easier… It is just… I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like to be the oppressor. I don’t like to be the perpetuator of continuing systemic violence. You know what my biggest fear was and still is before I transitioned? That one day I will be one of these old white powerful men that don’t care about anything else than themselves and getting even more money… and now I am one.“

„No, you aren’t. You made a mistake, you care, and you want to fix it.“

„Yes, but do I want to fix it because I want to stop being upset or do I really care?“

„Can’t decide that for you… but my impression is that you aren’t that selfish.“

„No, I do indeed care and I really see where I fucked up. It is just… suddenly I realize how my world turned. Like, as if I am on another side… but also not quite there…. what hurts the most is that someone assumes I take this lightly. I don’t… it is just unfair. It is not like I or actually more like us hadn’t seen it coming. I mean… it was just a matter of time and now everyone makes a shocked Pikachu face after it happened. It is so frustrating. And the people who should actually be affected and interested in what they did (or did not do) in the past are no longer involved and therefore no longer have to take responsibility. It’s frustrating. At the same time, there are also people who helped to hold up the non-existing standards by not helping, and they are still not helping and just shrugging. Absolute indifference pisses me off.“ To emphasise my words I kicked a tiny stone down the steps. It rolled down the first step, then the second step through the grass before disappearing into the darkness. „It is like talking to a child. ‚Attention, the stove is hot, don’t touch it.‘ Several times and the child still touches the hot spot and burns themselves. But none of those who were involved were children, which makes it even worse. Plus the worst is, the ones who were affected ranted about the incident on social media. No names were named and everything was coded, but still. Another friend read it and liked it. And then I talked to them about it, because at least I intended to give a full picture of the situation… but they wanted to remain neutral and I respect that. Still, they appreciated that it was openly communicated… I told her I didn’t or we didn’t due to the pressure. And that we had way too few facts. I can emotionally understand why, I would have probably done the same… still. There is a part of me which feels betrayed by everyone. Like first your concerns don’t get taken seriously, then people don’t do the work, you do the work, then fuck up because I am human and I make mistakes and then I need to fix it which I am trying but arg… I am not the cause. At least I don’t feel like being…. But I am also sure, the other person also thinks they didn’t do anything wrong…“

„Sure, but let’s stay with you. Why do you feel betrayed?“, our eyes met. 

„What do you think?“, I aksed him in the hope he would take over some of my emotional striptease. 

To my disappointment, he just shrugged, „I have my suspicions, but at the end of the day, I’m not you. Only you know.“

I stared at him. Sometimes he really was a pan in the ass, a helpful one, I had to give him that, but still… damn him, „I feel like… as if womanhood had turned against me? Or at least all the other queers? It is not true… but it feels like it. It hurts when someone directly says to your face that you don’t take their sexual assault seriously… How can I take them not seriously? I didn’t live through 24 years of misogyny to just shrug if someone comes to me and gathers the strength to talk about the issue. My mom trained me in the evenings on how I could escape from a man when he grabs me from behind. She also trained me on how I can escape from under a man, how to fuck up cars if a man stalks me… I didn’t just get several times in my life a slap on my ass in public without ever figuring out who it was because the idiot disappeared into a crowd of people. One guy tried to pressure me into smoking weed with him, another guy just assumed we were together although he never asked me and just told everyone. In addition, I didn’t just read through the rape threats of a friend of mine with …18 and shrugged them off like nothing. I was pretty terrifyed back then.“

Silence again. Now it was really his turn to say something. I had absolutely no intention of revealing more of my feelings. 

And again, he took his time. In the meantime, the wind had picked up, making the already cold air even colder. My teeth began to chatter, and I pulled my hands deep into my sleeves. My counterpart didn’t seem bothered by the temperatures. Thoughtfully, he scratched his chin and then took a sip from a bottle. 

I frowned, „Uh, since when do you have that?“ And immediately came to mind. What was that about not talking again?

 „Guess you should pay more attention to what your brain is doing in all areas instead of focusing on just one big ball of hurt.“

„You mean, I should stop sulking?“

„Yes and no. You still feel all the feelings through, which is good. You shouldn’t shut them down. You also called me, which is also good so that you aren’t entirely alone… but maybe talk to someone real.“

„You are real.“

„Someone with a physical form.“, the last two words he emphasized particularly clearly.

I had planned to, but now that you insist, I don’t feel like it anymore.

„Just to piss me off? Are we feeling dramatic again?“

I crossed my arms, pouting. „You can’t make me.“

„No. But I would appreciate you not hurting yourself. It will bubble up anyway sooner or later, hm?“

„Hm.“

„Is there anything else? You still seem… grumpy.“

„Well, it didn’t help that the whole thing heated up further on social media.“

Now he sighed.

„Yeah… the girlfriend of the person concerned vented her feelings; we suspect that she is also affected, but since no one is talking to us… we don’t know. Apart from that, the conclusion was: none of those affected (whether in the second or first row) have any specific requests for improvement… their dream would be to have an organization without cis men. Which is understandable but also strange. On the one hand, the person who caused everything was not cis, and the cis male organization had nothing to do with the whole thing that happened at the regulars‘ table.“

„And this upsets you?“

„Well, not so much the critique, because there are enough cis men who are part of the problem and just don’t do anything. I am upset that they implied that they don’t want to have cis men there. Which means, I will be immediately clocked as trans in the future… it reminds me hard of those women, lesbian, inter, non-binary, trans and agender circles. So yeah… I mean, I wouldn’t mind staying away from the gathering anyway, but hearing this from a fellow trans person sucks again. Like every media has such a hyperfocus on trans women—either they see them as sexual predators or as the most vulnerable group. And although the latter is true, it feels weird to get thrown under the bus. I feel like if I would write about my own personal experience on a bigger plattform, then social media would start yelling at me to shut the fuck up because trans women have it worse. I know that… and I wish they wouldn’t. No one deserves to suffer… okay, some perople really do, but that’s besides the point.“, my voice trailed off.

He nodded. 

„Being invisible is sometimes really frustrating and makes me feel lonely. Yesterday S. asked me if I would help her set up her booth at the Christmas bazaar. I had of course agreed, until I found out that it takes place in the women’s center and I then asked her if I was even allowed in there and she had to look it up. Turns out: I’m not allowed in. Of course I totally understand and respect that, but at the same time it does hurt somehow? Because, sure, there are women’s shelters for a reason… but where should I go if I am ever threatened? This world suddenly feels very scary.“ 

„You know? Just because you feel it, feelings aren’t true. There are people who care about you. And you aren’t as invisible as you might think.“, he tried a reassuring smile, but even he couldn’t quite manage it.

My thoughts started spiraling again, „What about the prisons? I never planned to go to prison ever, but I am not sure about how cis men would treat a trans man if they found out.“ 

„I don’t know either, but this is also not your problem at the moment and not your problem to solve. Let’s stay in the here and now, do you have a plan? You always have a plan…“ 

„Waiting? Waiting for possible answers? Otherwhise, trying to create a safety system for all people that might attend our group in the future… maybe, I added ina secretive tone, we even might be able to remove the cause but not the symptom.“ 

Now he looked at me completely confused and raised an eyebrow, „Care to explain?“

„Sure, but first let us get going because I am done with freezing my ass off.“ 

How can I be silent when I live in a country…
… that is obssed with destroying cultures since no time has passed since 1904–1908; 1915 or 1941­­­­–1945?
… that releves in continuing turning the Mediterranean Sea into a mass grave?
… that has a chancellor, who never worked a single day of his life, but wants to reimplement the 50 hours work week?
… that loves its dead jews, but not the ones who are alive?
… that hates its youth so much that warfare is once again normalized as a valid option?
… in which living is the most expensive hobby?
… in which children under 18 are the biggest minority nobody listens to?
… in which it is just a matter of time before medical assisted suicide is allowed by law to kill people who are to exepensive for the state?

But you can’t change anything anyway, can you? Why get upset? Concentrate on the things you can change…

What things can I change?
What soya yoghurt do I buy while billionaires blast thousands of tonnes of CO2 into the air with their private jets and yachts?
Yes, the youth are screaming. Marginalised people are screaming. We are screaming.
We also scream for those whose voices are not heard or who are denied the right to a voice beforehand.

They will continue to say:
Your rage about the people who hurt and wronged you is valid, but don’t act on it…
Your anxiety about your potential lost future is valid, but don’t act on it…
Your grief about loosing your friend is valid, but don’t act on it…

But what if I don’t want to make the world a better place anymore?
What if the chance for building a better world is long lost?
What if I want to thrive in the act of breaking a bunch of noses?
What if I need to see the 1% burn like they make the planet burn every day?

Well-meaning intellectuals support the youth, who have other plans than war…
I pause and think for seconds and then minutes? Do I have other plans besides war? Do I even have a future in this country? Because the politics of this country make it clear that it doesn’t want a future for its young people. It doesn’t even want to organise the retirement of people who have worked their whole lives for this country.

Why convert the phrase of passive resistance I would rather not to an active one?

Yes, I have two wolves in me. Both are afraid. And while one of them whispers in costant repition: I shall not hate the others one is gnraling and showing its teeth. because this is the the only thing it can do.
Why not set the world literally on fire because this world is one fire anyway? Better an end with horror than horror without end.

But desprite the gnarling, the rage, the grief, the exhaution of simple existing in this world the wolve(s) won’t bite.
Why?
I don’t know? There are enough reasons for it.
But they stay put.

And. I. Hate. Every. Second. Of. It.

My previous rhythm of every fortnight seems unthinkable and even though I still have so much to think about, I have so much less energy to write them down. I don’t know her exact words, but a wise woman once said: „If you want to write, don’t let them stop you“, but at the same time „don’t force yourself and take your time“ and I couldn’t find better words for my situation at the moment.

The Trans or the whole genderbending, biohacking, revealing-my-true-power-level or dick-erection process:

In the meantime I’ve had a pack of gooey Testogel and two injections. If someone were to ask me which I preferred, I would say that both have their advantages and disadvantages. While the gel feels like bathing in lubricant every morning, the syringes simply have a stronger effect.
Hair grows, the libido shoots up like a rocket, the throat itches, everything itches and the skin develops into a single crumb cake. Nonetheless, I think I have never been happier in my whole life. Despite all the stress or inconvenience that life brings, the sun is always shining in my brain. The colors seem brighter, I have more energy and in general I ask myself „How could I ever be depressed?“

It really is amazing what hormones can do. I get an injection once every six weeks and my brain is in seventh heaven and after that my body changes without me having to do anything about it. It’s a kind of biochemical self-runner and somehow it’s incredibly fascinating.
At the same time, I am amazed at all the trans people who record every aspect of their transition. Writing diaries, taking photos and voice recordings, painting, drawing, yoga or dancing… Where do they find all this time or energy? I’m glad to finally have enough energy to get through the day and not realise halfway through that I can only work with a spoon for the remaining four hours. On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t wish I had to process so much.

Being trans was somehow always part of my life, even if I didn’t have words for it yet. However, it was always just one part of many and I was never forced to organise my entire life around being trans. As a child, I was allowed to live quite „gender free“, for which I am still very grateful to my parents until today. I was also one of those people whose dysphoria mostly manifested itself in social rather than physical contexts and my depression always fell into the „high functioning“ category. At the same time, especially in the later years, I had the feeling that if I made being trans my main purpose in life, I would not survive a reality in which I could not transition… Thoughts and feelings are quite complex, aren’t they?

For Christmas, my parents gave me various fashion magazines for men, accompanied by the words: „We think we’re the wrong role models, but maybe you’ll find a few ideas in here about what kind of man you want to be.“ Weeks later, I flicked through the pages and got lost in thought again. Sure, the photos all looked stunning, but at the same time their message was so „meaningless“? I could clearly see that the aesthetics or the artistic expression were trying to tell me something, but nothing more than „Buy this product“ or „Desire me“ came across to me. What’s more, neither message did not appeal to me. I would never be able to afford the clothes from the luxury brands, nor did I find the majority of the models really appealing. After hours of musing, I decided that I would just stop thinking about what or who I wanted to become. I would simply become the man that I would become and that this was good and that this would always be enough.

The Kink:

Looking back over the last year and a half, I would say that getting into kink is a quest, an adventure and a journey all at the same time. The quests are short-term goals like finding a munch, going to this specific party or saving money on this specific flogger.
The adventure is getting involved in BDSM or kink in the first place. Maybe you have a specific goal that you want to achieve in a certain amount of time, maybe it’s just a string of different quests, or maybe you’re still discovering your goal.
The journey is the big picture: Finding friends, being out and about, doing quests, overcoming adventures, solving (polyamorous-) riddles, falling in and out of love… the list is endless and as I write this, I realise… I set myself up for quite a life, haven’t I?

Be that as it may, while I cannot influence what the future holds, I can at least learn lessons from the past. They are neither new nor creative, but innovation was never really the point of this blog, let alone this post. But that brings us to the first point: The Internet likes content, preferably free of charge.

Producing content is hard, producing good content in a short space of time is even harder and producing good content in a short space of time that is also innovative is difficult or even impossible in my private life. Which is a shame… At the same time, there are plenty of other blogs that are a better source of technical and interpersonal advice for kinky relationships than I am.

The second point: the good old „fear of missing out“ is a bitch. You don’t go to every regulars‘ table? You don’t share the same kinks as everyone else? You want to go to kink parties but they are not barrier-free, too late, too loud or too crowded? Polyamory is neither your orientation nor your preferred lifestyle? In general, finding a (play)partner is a challenge? The relationships that develop never last long? Whatever the individual problems may be… Nobody is alone in this and no matter what the exact point of view may be: You are kinky enough. Even if the Imposter Syndrome kicks in, nobody is going to come and take your hobby or your identity away from you. If they try, please leave them, they aren’t worth it. Seriously.

The third and last point: The best way to make connections and find partners or doms or subs or fellow kinksters is to stop searching. Sounds suboptimal, but it has always worked well for me in the past: Visit munches, talk to people, be out and about and something or someone will come around. If not, one will still meet awesome people. One thing I can actually say is that I decided for myself last year that my life should be more about platonic and deep friendships and less about romance. If it happens, great, and if it doesn’t: I will still have my friends who will support me and whose relationships I will be able to maintain far longer than lust or romance.

The Feelings:

Feelings. Yes, they also happened… or better they are always and always will be happening. What should I say more? For some people falling in love and falling out of love again is just how things are. Nothing really special, despite falling out of love quite sucks. Especially if it is one’s first break-up, after six weeks of grieving, I reached a plateau of resentment, frustration and a lot of other leftover feelings. They were too big to swallow and so I just left them out in the open, in the great plains of my brain ready to see them rot. Unfortunately, they were pretty clingy and not ready to rot, so I had to confront them sooner than I would have liked to.

Maybe that was my luck, because as soon as I closed one door, another opened and I stepped inside. People always warn about transitional relationships or re-bounds, but so far neither of these have happened. As much as I appreciate multiple partners, I’m always overwhelmed by how much work it takes to get to a point where I think: It works out! Especially as this is only a snapshot in time. Just because things are going well today, they can be completely different tomorrow.

The Arts:

There’s a category here on my blog called „The Arts“ and I know it’s still empty. When I created the blog, I had the hope of having more time for myself and „art“… but the hope remains just a hope to this day. I can’t have everything. Nevertheless, I can still write a short paragraph about art. There’s a quote from an author that I appreciated in my youth: „Art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.“

This quote accompanied me through my Bachelor’s degree and, above all, saved me. Every time I stood in front of yet another monumental oil painting and could think nothing other than „nice?“, I clung to this quote… it permitted me to simply conclude that if I felt absolutely nothing, it wasn’t (good?) art. Or maybe it wasn’t art at all and just happened to get lost in a museum. Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna and it was the third day of a long series of dehydrated hours in overheated rooms in front of world-famous paintings that meant absolutely nothing to me. Until one day I turned to my right and stood in front of Pompeo Batoni’s „The Return of the Prodigal Son“. Not a minute later I was crying like a baby, this painting didn’t just speak to my trans self it screamed at me. Till today I never really could pinpoint why, I wasn’t raised Christian and The Parable of the Prodigal Son was one of the few Parables that I knew. Still,  something about being forgiven for some horrible deeds just struck me.

In the end, I am still kind of upset that it was a rococo/neoclassicist painter who made me cry and not the infamous Rothko. I would have been a much better fit since I mostly engaged in expressionism and all the other Western art movements in the early 1900s. But since I knew that Rothko was deliberately interested in expressing basic human emotions and enjoyed when people started crying in front of his paintings. It always felt like I would give him credit for something that he expected me to do, which isn’t the point of art?

 Although I left some details out, all in all, the dialogue was pretty honest. Back in my hometown, my dating life was sporadic. The only good thing about being depressed in my youth was, that I hardly had any interest in other people or a libido that needed attending. Most of the time I felt like a ghost that didn’t belong. Even if someone was more interesting than usual, I didn’t have the words to describe my feelings and therefore stopped bothering.

As I write this, I realise it sounds much worse than it felt at the time. Because the possibilities that would await me if I tried it seemed worse than my status quo. Too much excitement, too much gossip, too little communication, too little choice of possible partners that seemed desirable.

Sometimes boys would find interest in me, we would meet up and usually, it ended up like this.

Them: „Hey, are we together now?“
Me: “No? Why would you think that?!”
Them: “Well, you are pretty, and we have met three times…”

To be honest, even then and still today, I still believe that “pretty” and “meeting three times” are insufficient answers for entering a relationship.

Eight years later I downloaded two dating apps with the premise that dating a few people would be a good way to practise my communication skills. Moreover, if everything failed that experiment would make at least a nice statistic… At some point I let the statistics go and just stuck with the best or worst impressions… maybe there is some advice too, if you should find a moral lesson in there… Great! I haven’t found it yet.

One of the weirdest experiences I had, was when I commented a person’s favorite books. All of them were pretty new, written by authors from various diasporas and probably not what the German mainstream would ever touch. I had read them all, and the person of interest was excited about that and wanted to meet me instantly. I hesitated, aware that my leftist views would differ a lot from their leftist views. In addition, they went for a museum as our first meet-up place.
Museums are always the end-bosses for dates. Meet-up in an art or history museum and you will figure out instantly what views the other person has. This can end wonderfully or in a huge disappointment, believe me, there is rarely something in between.
Later we stood in front of an art piece, which was made by a person with a name that indicated an affiliation to a particular population group and religion. What followed was a wild mixture of left-wing populism, misinformation, and weird entitlements. In that moment I brushed it all off with somewhat diplomatic answers and at the same time decided that I would never date someone again who engaged in serious political activism without having studied the topic in depth. History is complex, and so are politics… please be aware of a lot of nuances. After the meeting and no further feedback from my dating partner, I decided on another principle: Never date someone again who call themselves “far left”.

Another evening I was sitting across the table of a musician who canceled his bachelor’s degree in order to go on a tour with his country band. Since he was in musing mode he started philosophizing about OASIS while I sipped on my coffee. My subtle attempts to change the topic were ignored… (a note to myself: Never be subtle with guys). If it hadn’t been for his mother’s spice rack, I probably would have left earlier. But there I was, sitting in her kitchen, thinking that she had good taste while her son was talking about Take That.
Suddenly he asked if I wanted to smoke weed with him, and I declined politely. He insisted and I declined again this time with a firm undertone. Again, I stated that I was and ever will be straight edge. This clearly upset him and before he could make any more inclinations I stood up, wished him a good night, and left.
This time I decided that I would never date half-time wanna-be artists and people who studied Economics. 

We hadn’t seen each other for a while and were now walking across a dyke to talk, about whatever: The manipulation of food studies, backing, videogames… soon they drifted off to their usual topics German law and bad dating experiences.
According to them both were influenced by toxic masculinity and although I agreed on some level I felt increasingly uneasy. Ranting about the world? Okay, not very productive but emotionally very valid… Ranting in the presence of a trans man about the entire manhood? Somewhat unfair.
I felt like what one of my favourite sex-worker would describe as “Q is bitching to Data, how fucking awful it is to be human and the only thing that Data want to be: is being a human.” I was Data, they were Q and suddenly I no longer felt only uneasy, but also very exhausted. After that, we both agreed, that it was possibly better for the both of us to stop seeing each other.

Seeing her with her perfectly painted nails that matched her eyeshadow, and her blazer left me feeling notoriously underdressed as we entered the newly opened coffee shop waiting for our start of film. Maybe I should have asked her beforehand what kind of meet up it would be one voice whispered in my head, another snapped back maybe she should have told you. A third one tried to be diplomatic well it was a simple mistake in communication get over it… Both of you!
While I suspiciously eyed the cold-pressed juice made from dandelion, card or celery I asked her about the film and the film festival that she had attended before. After that, she started telling me about Léa Hélène Seydoux, the preproduction Carol and something about the cast of the L Word, which I already forgot after a few seconds. While she seemed excited, I began to wonder… Am I a bad queer for not having watched any of those films? Half an hour and a lot of celebrity gossip later I decided that I was very fine with being a bad queer and even better, being an even worse queer woman. This was the day I stopped believing that I was just pretending to be trans.

Another day I went with another person for a long walk through our local park. Sooner or later, we ended up talking about feminism, coming of age and being in your early twenties without having any clue what to make of that.

“How did you end up on a somewhat queerer dating platform?”, I asked.
“Well, one day my best friend asked me, why I was her best friend and knew so little about feminism. At that moment I hadn’t a real answer. She began telling me and I have been learning for three years. One way was figuring out that I was queer too and another way was meeting up with other queers.”
“How did you know you wanted to transition?”, they asked back.
“If you could press a button and wake up in your gender and body of choice without the transitioning process. Would you press that button? My answer was yes… and my gender of choice isn’t female or the body of a cis woman.”
Their eyes went wide, “Wow I never thought about it like that.”
This was the moment in which I realized, that I was definitely ready for transition but not ready to be a eldritch entity that helps others discover themselves…

All of these little tidbits my current situation-ship also got to hear. As I finished, they looked up from my chest and said plainly, “You were right, they don’t sound easy. They sound sad.”
I grinned and leaned in for another kiss, “Don’t worry, I also had some really nice experiences, but they don’t make good stories.”

Especially threesomes that don’t go sideways first and then down in the aftermath, seem to be a jackpot. A lot of factors should be considered: Attractions want to be met, ethics and trust have to be established, boundaries have to be set, communication should never stop, and last but not least all present people have to be aware that their existing relationships with each other might change based on that erotic interaction.

I would assume the safest way to explore a giant cuddle pile that escalates slowly would be at a sex-party? At the very least, people who attend such an event are probably more likely to be in the mood to join such an endeavour than people in a disco. Another matter is the extent to which they have the right communication skills or no expectations, but that is always a matter. Where I would personally be cautious would be the infamous „heterosexual couple looking for a third“ trope. But that’s all I can say about unicorn hunting, as I am neither in a heterosexual relationship nor have, I ever had any experience with it.

All I can say is “Do as I write and not as I did” because honestly, I never thought about this topic before writing this blog post. My first threesome simply happened because everyone involved realized that making out and being open for maybe more was an option and we all willingly explored it. However, I should acknowledge that we were at that point a happy polycule (not a triad though) for several months by now and at least quite fond of each other. In addition, a very quick yes/maybe/no negotiation was also included. Still, it was a very well-invested afternoon.

What did we need?

Us (one human and two eldritch beings), a huge bed, some blankets, good vibes and eventually some music

What was the premise?

Having fun and trying not to be awkward. Why? Because two of the brains present were of the opinion: don’t be awkward! What would that look like or what would count as awkward? Of course the brains had no opinion on that and of course we were awkward, but that was okay because everyone was and we were very funny and very cute about it.

What did we do before?

Getting into the mood, which is often a science in itself. Talking, cuddling and slowly getting horny did the job for us, but maybe you want or need to step up the game. I believe everyone has their own method.

We did it! 

Or: What we ended up really doing was: ignoring the doorbell of the very annoying postman, who was very eager to deliver the package and trying not to fall off the bed. It’s always amazing how size doesn’t matter in the end (pun intended) one of us was always struggling not to fall. Besides that, lots of scritches, loads of bodily fluids, tons of hickeys, the newest gossip, and stealing body heat from the people lying next to or on you and to give you a few more impressions:

“Wait, is this an arm?”
“Okay, whose foot is this?”
“Arg, the blanket is gone!”
“Can we change places?”
“That’s unfair, you have longer arms than me!”
“Uh, nice ass!”
“Hey, what?! Oh… uh… fuck yeah…”

Thoughts?

It is not natural to stumble from a sex-negative world into a world that is just the opposite. Sometimes it’s a little scary, but so far 99% of the time it’s been worth it. Especially when one’s body doesn’t really work for them, but still got its use for others. This is especially true when the moments when you are very clearly aware that you will probably never achieve the body ideal that you feel you have a right to, become all too nasty again.

Final roundup

Maybe threesomes or finding people, who appreciate one regardless of gender, body or body parts is a form of self-love. For the moment, for me personally, it is just cozy, cute, sometimes very gay and not pretentious instead very precious. I can see, why overtly romantic written novels sometimes contain phrases like “When I am with you, time stands still”. Although I still have trouble feeling it, because sure time is relative, but also: Do you know how physics works?

This night was one of those nights and after unsuccessfully trying to skip stones across the water I realised that somehow the last few months have been really a lot… but at the same time there is always something. No matter if it’s work, family, friends, the community, the club or simply feelings… People kept me on my toes. Especially people I like or even „love.“ Love in inverted commas because I’m still convinced that love is a concept whose existence I enjoy very much, but in parallel, I don’t yet trust it completely. Sounds cryptic, it is. Perhaps my attitude will become more understandable after the next paragraph.

I grew up in a family that loved me very much. It’s just that my parents weren’t particularly kind to themselves or to each other. It was no different with my closer and more distant circle of friends. There was always a basic amount of bitterness hanging in the air. An old family proverb said: Ethics and romance are two things you have to be able to afford.

I am well aware of the irony of someone with this background choosing polyamory. But perhaps my decision at the time was simply the logical product of my childhood to adolescence. Whatever the case, I tried to use the time on the river to sort out my near future, weigh things up, (not) make decisions, practice self-reflection and ponder endlessly.

I quickly discovered that my usual rationality no longer worked. Neither my feelings nor my perceived reality could be put into a logical chain or sorted into an imaginary cabinet system. Instead, jealousy turned up the stressful thoughts, sadness just flirted with joy, anger mimicked the bouncer and had it not been for defiance, I would have had a bad day.

After a while, I had laid the emotional storm to rest and the headwork of unpleasant emotions had dissolved. The question for me now was, would it help other people if I wrote about it? But how and about what exactly?

That I am very aware of the contradiction between „fear of commitment“ and „fear of being left out“? And still, feel it? That I feel bad that I get jealous, but my anchor partner doesn’t? Whether I am there enough? Whether I am not there enough? That I know that in theory, I could talk to everyone about everything, but of course, I still don’t because I’m too proud. That stability is merely a concept, does not exist in reality and we should therefore say goodbye to the idea of absolute (partner) security?

Regarding self-help and relationship advice, much more experienced people have already written far more helpful tips than I could ever come up with. I could write about all the happy moments, the moments when you feel like time stands still and you could fight the world alone as a threesome. But in the end, it all seems somehow too short-sighted for the diversity that polyamory or even non-monogamy can be. Which is why it didn’t become one of the options…. well almost. On my way home I created a list with my personal favourite 50 shades of being polyamorous:

queer; surprising; kinky; full of potential; platonic; romantic; sexual; disabled; hidden; bonding; precious; honest; fulfilled; wholesome; entrancing; TEXT ME THE FUCK BACK!; deep; lots of talking; tons of compromising; uplifting; sharing problems; messing up your sleep schedule; we need another chair; confusing; healing; I don’t want to leave yet; so many holiday celebrations; fiery; sticky glitter; WE RULE!; squishy; hopeful; magical; cute; distractable; cozy; fragile; grounding; charming; boundless; bright; mischievous; Where is MY cup?!; artistic; swarm intelligence; superb; old-school; exciting and three raccoons in a trench coat.

]]> https://barksandscales.com/2023/07/02/on-being-polyamourous/feed/ 0 https://barksandscales.com/2023/05/21/why-animal-stories/ https://barksandscales.com/2023/05/21/why-animal-stories/#respond Sun, 21 May 2023 06:00:26 +0000 https://barksandscales.com/?p=97 During my preparations for moving, “Arbeit und Struktur” by Wolfgang Herrendorf accompanied me. Not necessarily the happiest of reads, but at least one in which I found myself emotionally. At one point the author tells how he re-reads his old youth books, on the one hand to see how far they have held up and on the other to see what kind of person he was back then. It’s still a bit early for the youth books for me, I still remember many of them, but as I was just sitting in front of my old children’s books, I did the same.

However, the retrospective on one’s own person was ruled out quite quickly by one’s taste in books. When in doubt, my horizon only went as far as my already filled bookshelf or the book I was looking at. How the books came to be on my shelf I only questioned much later. Which in turn led me to other questions in the present.

What stories did my parents think so highly of that they gave them to their child to read? What values did they want to impart to me at that time? Did I remember the books well or badly? Was I able to remember them?

Let’s start from the back. I could still remember most of the books, mainly because only the most beautiful ones were left. Another detail that almost jumped out at me was that animals played the main role in most of the stories: rabbits, dogs, cats, bears (especially bears), beavers, turtles, pigs, cows, birds and sometimes insects. What was the reason for that? Probably not only because of my mother’s love of animals, because when I thought of my youth books, I could think of significantly fewer stories in which animals were given a role with agency. Whereas with adult books it became more again…

Without further ado, I forgot the first half of my questions and wrote to all the literary scholars in my extended circle of friends. What was it with all the animal stories for children… why were there so many fewer for young people, and why were there so many more for adults? Two answers were particular helpful.

Adults write children’s books primarily so that they learn something. The learning process is easier if the child can identify with the characters in the story. What already rules out adults as main characters is that they are still too emotionally distant. This leaves only other children or even animals, especially the latter are easily stereotyped and are very well suited as a projection screen for certain behaviours or character traits. Similar to the fable, which also used animals to present various moral convictions.

However, these stories were not only intended for children at that time. In today’s bookshops, one finds fewer stories like „The Tortoise and the Hare“, but the allegories remain. Either to freshen up what is actually quite a thread plot or to be able to deal with heavy topics more easily, such as “Animal Farm” by Georg Orwell or “Maus” by Art Spiegelmann.

So much for why I owned so many non-scientific animal books. Let’s get back to my initial questions. What values did my parents want to teach me back then? Before I asked my mother, I looked to see if I could divide the respective actions into groups. This is what came out:

Being separated from family/home and finding your way back home again
First times
Resolving social conflicts
Illness
Christmas

Were these supposed to be the big issues that had preoccupied me as a child? My mother’s statements confirmed my suspicions. It had been important to her not to sort by gender, that there was a lot of craft in the stories, and that the characters all had high social skills. Later, when I became a more self-directed reader, she made sure that she followed my wishes. If there were topics that didn’t interest me, they weren’t found on my bookshelf. To what extent did the values of the children’s books now have a „lasting influence“ on me?

While I would give more weight to everyday parenting and the behaviour of friends or classmates, at least I could make and find compromises if I wanted to. Wanting, or rather not wanting, was usually the bigger problem. I always thought handicrafts, or rather making or repairing things myself, was very cool, it’s just that no one taught me. I can even support „genderless“ reading when I look at books. Funnily enough, books were the only thing in my life that wasn’t gendered, even later in puberty. For one thing, I then chose the books myself (even then there was never any eye-rolling) and for another, there were no stupid comments even when I put Polish sci-fi, Russian dystopias or non-fiction on the wish lists. That’s the only way it should be, in my opinion.

All in all, I can say that I won’t be giving away many of the books in the boxes just yet. Maybe later, maybe some of them will go to my first flat, or maybe completely different possibilities will open up. I am at least very happy to still have them and not to have to fill my shelf with pointless guidebooks.