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A Ferret Called Wilson

Chasing Happy, Chasing Dreams

Month

June 2014

Life Changing…Porn?

Hi Cyd,

I moderate a forum dedicated to men suffering from various sexual dysfunctions, anxieties etc. called Measurection (www.measurection.com) I’m a girl, but they let me hang around ^^

Today one of our members posted a link to your site and so I had to have a look.

I don’t know if this is something I’ll ever get a chance in the world to say again, but your porn is doing wonders for the world we live in today! The trans men you you depict are truly beautiful. You show them not as oddities, but as real men fucking.

I know the men who hang out at the forum, even those who are into more traditional sex/porn, are intrigued and inspired by your site. Whether or not they know it, you showing trans men fucking and loving it gives them hope that they can be fucked and loved, too. That’s not something most porn websites can wave a flag to.

So thanks for doing what you do!

–Pink

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A Call to Female Action

Actually, a request, rather.

A Modern Snowman
Gratuitous Image of Phallacy

I moderate a forum called Measurection. It’s an online safe place for men to discuss their concerns about sex, their bodies, their relationships. Many of these men suffer from body dismorphia, believing their penises are too small or too thin to ever be satisfying to a woman (or man). As a result, they often avoid starting new relationships, sabotage their existing ones, and worse, fear that they will spend their lives unloved and unwanted.

Compounding their problem is the fact that the information available about women and sex is primarily mainstream media and porn. What they learn is that women are shallow and fickle, caring only about how her partner ranks in the herd of other males and how much status he can give her. They learn that women only like big fat dicks and the beautiful one’s would never think twice about giving someone as pathetic as themselves a chance. It’s a sad picture of the world.

So I am requesting to my female readership that you come and visit this site and add your thoughts. These men need to hear from real women both to set their minds at ease and to set the record straight. Many of my readers, my self included, are active feminists. We spend much of our energy screaming out into the void and our words fall on dead ears. These men want to hear from us. They want to know the truth. Many say that the truth hurts. In this case, however, the truth is so much more beautiful than the stories they’ve been told and we serve all our interests to share it with them.If you are willing to help, please follow this link to create a profile, and this link to the forum dedicated to all things female. We all appreciate your contribution!

On Love and Risk and the Things that Matter More

I have a new roommate. He was evicted from his home two weeks ago for non-payment of rent. He owes over $3000 and when he was informed of the necessity to vacate, he didn’t clean the apartment, thus effectively forfeiting his deposit as well. Now he lives with me. He doesn’t pay me rent either. It’s ok, I don’t want him to.

My roommate didn’t simply default on his rental obligations. Not too many years ago his wife left him. She told him he didn’t love her and walked out. He almost didn’t survive the rejection. In the divorce, he gave her everything, including all of their mutual savings and furniture. He spent the next three years living in an apartment big enough for two, but with barely more than a table and a pair of mismatched chairs to furnish it. Every moment spent inside those walls reminded him of his wife and the memories were torture. He spent his rent on a golden salve commonly sold in bars and known to work wonders in the moment, but to wear off quickly. He took out loans and spent those in a similar way. Torturous as it was, though, he couldn’t leave. This is the state I found him in.

Happy Weasel Sleeps
With weasels, there’s always more room.

Eviction may have ended the accrual of his financial obligations, but it also wrenched open the growing crack in his wall of protection against reality. It broke my heart to see. I actually saw the moment he said goodbye to his past life and his past love.

Many would say to me I’m crazy. They would tell me that I open myself up to financial and physical loss by allowing this man that I hardly know into my home. At least charge him some kind of rent! He wouldn’t stay if I did that, though. It doesn’t matter how much I charged him, or how little, he would stay only as long as his pride could bear it, and then he would disappear into oblivion too ashamed of the mess he’s made to ever pick himself up again. I would become to him another landlord to tolerate and pay lip service to until he could find a safer place to hide. I know this even without him having to tell me, and so I ask nothing of him other than a little help with the chores.

What I get in exchange for a little, indeed hardly noticeable, financial investment on my part is indescribable. I was writhing in anguish from protracted loneliness. I could barely move in the mornings and I would come home exhausted from four hours of work. I would give myself pep talks, building mental hoops and carrots and sticks and cookies and slides and all sorts of complicated psychological apparati just to be able to empty my mailbox. I wanted to quit my job and run away into the wilderness because the overwhelming pressure of being successful all alone was killing me. Certainly I’ve looked in the past for someone to help me in this struggle of living in civilized society, but as a woman with a Bachelors and a PhD. both from Ivy League institutions, one who walked out on a marriage many would envy because it suffocated her sense of self determination, it’s been difficult for me to find any partner both willing and capable of carrying me when I fall apart.

Money has never made me happy. After experiencing a childhood where I fed myself on barely ten dollars a week at school and never having an allowance, I somehow found that I attract money. Not knowing how to spend it myself, it’s hardly even a sacrifice to give it away to someone else. So in exchange for something I have in so much excess that it simply piles up outside the edge of my conscious awareness, I receive enthusiastic and selfless help with all the things in my life that were weighing me down. It isn’t just housework, it’s comfort. It’s knowledge that I’m ok because there’s someone else who thinks that I’m ok. It’s instruction in the things I don’t know how to do (where do you buy a trashcan in Japan?), intense interest in things I do know how to do, and fierce defensiveness against anything he sees as a threat to me. In exchange for a little bit of money, something so useless you can’t even eat it if you’re starving, I have a life partner whose every intention is to make my life as happy as possible.

At first I was afraid. I didn’t know how things would work out. I still don’t know. He drinks a lot still and has shown an eager willingness to give the world the finger when he thinks it’s shitting on him. However, it’s been two weeks now and my life feels fuller in these two weeks than it has in months, maybe even years. We have trouble communicating precisely because my Japanese is still only mediocre, but our feelings are quite clear. I can see his gratitude and I can see his protectiveness. It’s so sincere and genuine that I find myself growing defensive of him, too. The world shit on him for real. He got dealt a nasty hand and in making the best of it he hasn’t grown cynical or cold, but instead he’s learned how to smile through all sorts misery. He has a way of not worrying about the future that inspires me. He gives me the courage to face the uncertainties in my world because I know that if I make a mistake and things go to hell that there is someone I can go to for guidance who knows exactly how to navigate the lowest dregs that society can dish out, and who can do it with no credentials, no recognition and no insurance of success.

How powerful it is to let go! My roommate is proof that the world does not operate on the basis of selfishness, competition and control.

When I heard of his eviction I was presented with a choice and no time to deliberate. I could operate within the rules of reasonability and self preservation. Inside this narrative my roommate’s fate was in my hands and I was in a position of power over him. Helping him meant hurting myself and should I be unfortunate enough to land myself in his position then I would have to hope that there was some human out there who would find use enough in me to make his or her risk worth the return on investment. Alternatively I could operate inside a wholly different Story of Humanity. Inside this other story people are fundamentally good. When in need, they help each other even if there is no benefit in it themselves because that’s what people do. This Other story is so much more beautiful, hopeful, and even comforting because suddenly none of us is alone any more. Our success obliges us to help those who lack it, and our failures need not be borne alone. My choice was not whether or not to admit a broken man into my home but rather whether or not I wanted to live in a world without hope or love or forgiveness for a bad draw. Viewed from this perspective the choice was easy.

 

It Doesn’t Have to Be

My father worked in construction for over twenty years, only getting his first full time job after I had already left for college. Before that it was always one job to the next, always hoping that the big businesses would respect the unions instead of hiring illegal Cuban workers under wretched working conditions. He never got sick leave or vacation. He had to use a porta potty every day. There was no cooler on site and he had to carry all his tools in and out every day for fear they would be stolen. Often the workers were not given parking spaces near their job sites, which made things even more difficult.

Today, I live in Japan and I am dating a construction worker — apparently I am my mother’s daughter. A happy man, he never complains about his working conditions and he’s healthy and strong. I doubt he has even considered seeking an alternative form of employment. All around me there is constant construction. It seems as if the Japanese only sell land and expect new owners to bring their own house with them so that my neighborhood in eight months of living here has yet to see a day where there wasn’t construction on my block. I think every building but my own has been operated on by now. The people that I see working seem focused and calm. They take their afternoon breaks in the shade of the neighborhood and the local convenience store provides decent, healthy meals, clean toilets and cold drinks. It does not seem a bad life at all, though perhaps physically tiring.

So it occurred to me that my father’s miserable career did not have to be that way. It could be that construction workers are treated with respect as proper members of society. It could be that we don’t try to provide them the barest basics at the least cost to ourselves, but rather that we provide them what is decent and necessary for a decent man to live a decent life in decent, comfortable conditions.

This realization rides on the back of a tidal wave of knowledge crashed down on me by my exposure to the book Sex At Dawn. A complete volume purportedly on human sexuality, it is actually a treatise on the capacity and even intrinsic craving of humans to provide and experience compassion. Every day we see the capitalist dogma of selfishness and competition and we think to ourselves that this is the only we that we can be. We see all around us the failure of human altruism and we say that nothing can be done because this is the way we are, but this is not the way we are.

We are compassionate, social, affectionate creatures who have been forced into a world that preys upon our fears of betrayal. Rather than nurture our need for companionship, we are taught to fortify ourselves against loneliness and isolation. We look around and we see citadels of greed all designed to protect the human inside from isolation that doesn’t have to be. If our world was one in which we were taught that our fellow humans would care for us, we would not need to fortify, protect, horde, negotiate, lend, inherit… if we could only drop the assumption that this is the way the world has to work, we would be able to finally see the injustice that we reign down upon ourselves. Injustice like treating critical members of our society like trash simply because “competition” says that if they were worth more that they would have had enough money to provide better for themselves.

This idea that man can be measured in dollars is sickening. We are forced to conclude that women are not as valuable as men because we make less money. Blacks are less valuable than whites because they make less money. South American countries are less sovereign than North because they have less money. Human value just is. You cannot measure it, and you don’t have to. It is possible to live in a better world than the one we live in. All it takes is a realization that it doesn’t have to be this way.

How many, really?

I just finished reading Sex At Dawn. It rekindled in me an intense desire for a family. I don’t really have one right now. Not one that would watch my back, accept me for who I am without judging me, and generally cooperate with each other to just be happier. I have a family that is sick and emotionally crippled from decades of isolation.

And it makes me wonder, how many people in your life actively care on a daily basis about your well-being? I think ten people would be a gloriously large number, but is it possible? Ten?

Fuck the World to a Better Place

This morning, in the wee hours, I had an epiphany. I’m an academic, so having epiphanies is my job.

So this epiphany was about women and their centuries-old systematic dehumanization and erasure from public memory.

And I thought: the Standard Narrative says that the balance of power rests on women rejecting men’s sexual advances.

But what if we stopped saying no? What if we turned the whole system on its head by saying “yes, Yes, YES!”

We have birth control.

We have jobs.

We have condoms, doctors and antibiotics.

We have a movement to reclaim the word “slut”.

What’s stopping us?

So men go about proving their masculinity by conquesting us. Ok, so what if we took away the challenge? Not much of a conquest if we just say yes all the time.

So men get jealous of other men because they think their prized females are at risk, and they turn that jealousy into aggression against us. So what if we just had sex with everybody? Can’t be jealous of something you don’t have if… well, if you have it, right?

What about marriage and familial stability? An extra-marital affair doesn’t mean anything if you were banging the neighbor before you got married, too. No worry about illegitimate children because we have birth control.

And honestly, are any of you actually less affectionate towards people you fuck than people you don’t?

Dear My Origins

Dear My Former Church,

We haven’t spoken in a long time. In fact, we haven’t spoken since that critical day in August, 2010, when I realized that you had been lying to me all this time. It’s been hard for me to live without you, but as the song goes, “I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew strong. And I learned how to get along!” I don’t need you anymore and I’ve come to realize that, accept it, and own it. There is a scar from our past which will always be with me, but now that the wound is closed and I have come to be able to breathe again I thought I should write to you to give us both a little closure.

I was young when we met, bright eyed, beautiful and vulnerable. You came to me with the promise of joy and protection from the cruel world. You told me that I was weak and you were strong and that you would love me and only want what was best for me. Naturally I was swept away by your promises. What innocent virgin would not be? I bound myself to you and made your presence known in every action, every thought, and every interaction I had in every single day of my life. You told me that I was broken, that I was dirty, that I was the cause of man’s downfall. You told me that my suffering was just and inescapable punishment for my inherent sin and I believed you while at the same time asking you, nay even begging you, to explain to me how your love was apparent through all that judgment.

You were jealous then, and you still are. I didn’t understand until I was married how far reaching the tentacles of your jealousy were. You told me that to marry young and virgin was the height of my virtue and that only a complete denial of my physical self could be closer to your ideal. So I did that. I married young and virgin and innocent. When on my wedding night my husband proclaimed to me that “[He] was going to have sex with [his] wife!” a strange thing happened. For all my young years I had been fighting against an ever increasing tidal wave of sexual energy. It threatened to throw me body and soul out of the light of your glory and into the frothing sea of carnal passion below. You promised me that on my wedding night instead of plunging to my spiritual death, that this tidal wave of energy would instead raise me up, send me soaring in virtuous marital bliss, but when my gown came off and I open my thighs for my new husband…

there was no wave. Indeed it was as if the entire ocean had dried up before me.

Of course neither you nor my brand new husband seemed in the slightest bit bothered and the both of you just kept plowing on without me. And so it was that I spent the better part of the next decade in a desperate losing battle to reunite my rebelling spirit with the joy and safety that you had promised me. You know how well that went. You promised me that if I could only make it as far as I did that ever abundant life and joy would be made available to me, but instead you abandoned me to the care of a man. A single, solitary, miserly, inadequate man. Even though I returned to you time and again for an explanation, your promises and your love were as dry as the tidal wave of my former passion. You told me then in my desperation and my loneliness that I should be happy because you had given me everything I could want. You told me that my lack of happiness was my own fault for rejecting your gifts to me.

And so it was one humid summer night that I went back to the cliff where I had last seen the raging sea that threatened to swallow me whole so many years ago. I remember standing on the edge of that cliff and looking down into the sea and wondering if it would indeed kill me. But then I looked for you there on that cliff and though you warned me not to jump, I saw the truth of what your promises held for me: pain, loneliness, self-loathing. Your promises to me were no more alive than an empty desert who so long has not felt rain that it has given up even the memory of moisture. My choice was apparent. I could stay with you and have a slow wasting death of which every day would be safe and secure in the knowledge that there was no more life to be had. Or else I could throw myself off that cliff into the writhing, frothing sea below. Perhaps it would kill me. Perhaps I would drown, or perhaps I would not. Perhaps the waves would cradle me and toss me, bringing thrill and kindness to my parched existence.

You know what happened that night. There is no way you didn’t hear me screaming and calling out my passion. I nearly choked on the surge of life that flooded my body. And I know what you said then, too. You said to all who would listen to you that it was the voice of suffering that rose up from the water. You called them to look at my face and see pain and madness, a fallen woman indeed. But let’s be honest with each other. I feel that after all these years we owe each other at least that much. You did to me what any spurned lover would do. You muddied my name and discredited me so as to mitigate the pain of your own rejection.

Were you a human, I would forgive you for your faults, but you are not a human you are a church. You are massive conglomeration, a katamari of all that is good and all that is mislead in humanity and you wield your power over us young and helpless. Isolated and naive you make of us easy prey. I wish I could say now, My Church, that I forgive you your trespasses, but you do not forgive those who trespass against you, do you?

I guess in the end, though, I am not without fault. I wanted to believe you. You did tell me one thing which was true and that was that in my heart, at the deepest center of my being, I would know truth from lie. And I knew you were lying to me. Your story never made very good sense, but I used all my energy to force that burning star of Truth at the back of my consciousness into the clean and tidy cage you offered me. You told me I should love my neighbor as myself and I knew this to be truth. But you also told me that I should love my husband more than myself and this never sat well with me. How could I love my neighbor, my brothers and sisters in God, as myself and then love one person of my choosing more so than all of them? I tried to convince myself that it was simply a matter of expediency that one necessarily had to spend more of their time with their husband than with the rest of humanity so it made sense to love him more.

You also told me that my body was a temple to the One True God and that I should never celebrate in it. Wait, what? Are temples not for worship? How can I worship with my body if I never use it? You told me that my body, being a female body, was necessarily unclean, but why would a holy and divine being bestow upon me a temple to its glory that was unclean and unworthy of celebration?

I knew these things did not make sense just as I knew that your promise of unconditional and unbounded love did not actually extend to me because of my womanhood. And yet you were so charismatic, so convincing and you made the outside world seem so scary that I would have chosen you then a thousand times over.

Well, I wanted to tell you that I have grown now. I jumped into that frothing sea and I drank it until the waves subsided and they carried me spent on their backs until I reached the shore. I have found my peace now with my body and my womanhood, but not with you. So I thought it was fair warning to let you know that I’m coming back to finish you off. No longer will I allow you to prey upon the young and the innocent. No longer will I stand by and try to justify your lies to my sisters who, unlike myself, are still too afraid to take the leap. You who would sow fear and distrust amongst those that I love are forever my enemy and I will fuck you out of existence.

You have been warned.

A Mother and a Father

“Every child deserves a mother and a father.”

Some use this phrase to mean that gays and lesbians who adopt are depriving their children of their fundamental rights, even hurting their chances to grow up healthy and well adjusted.

But when I hear this phrase I think about the decades, perhaps even centuries, of our culture wherein a woman is abandoned by the father of her children to strive alone to raise a family in a society that never intended to allow her to make a living.

I agree that every child deserves a mother and a father. Every child deserves to be loved. I believe that to protect the children of our society, we are beholden to enforce fatherhood responsibilities on the men who would abandon them. We are beholden to enable mothers to provide for their families even without the help of a husband. We are beholden to be the mothers and the fathers to the children whose life circumstances could not provide them.

Every child deserves a mother and a father, but why should they have only one of each?

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