This Is Why We Fight

Snubaing underwater was the closest I have ever been to flying.  And I have always dreamed of flying.
I had snubaed only once, in the Caribbean, and it remains one of the highlights of my life; soaring underwater, tethered to a raft with an oxygen tank, sort of a SCUBA for dummies.  But I circled a shipwreck, intoxicated with the power of moving in three dimensions, pretending I was Superman as I shot upwards, downwards, freed from gravity.  It remains one of the highlights not just of the trip, but of my life.  Sometimes I dream about it.
Alas, there aren’t that many scuba opportunities in Cleveland.  And Gini, who panicks at the scuba mask, can’t do it, so I’d have to go alone.  So I left that dream behind.
They didn’t have snuba in Hawaii, on my trip; it was the first thing I checked.  So I settled for snorkeling as a sort of snuba-methadone.  And you know, it’s really a #firstworldproblem to go out to the blue waters of Hawaii and look at a reef and bitch, “Well, I can’t go down,” so I settled in for a fine afternoon.
Yet on the boat out, the owners revealed a special treat: they had just gotten a snuba package.  You could snuba, if you wanted, for an additional fee of –
I was down at the sign-up desk before they finished the announcement, filling out the form.  I was elated.  Here was a dream I’d let go dormant, yes, but it wasn’t dead – it was roaring awake now, thrumming a happy beat in my head, SNUBA SNUBA SNUBA.  I’d float weightless again, lost in superhero dreams, in one of the most beautiful reefs of the world, and oh my God my hands trembled.  This was happening.  To burn off energy I texted all my friends I could remember, posted a Twitter status, re-read the snuba instructions, vibrating with anticipation.
Snuba?  Best thing in the world.
And so when the snuba instructor came up to me and said, “You ready, buddy?” and clapped me on the shoulder, I gave him a  hearty “And how!” and he laughed at my excitement until he looked down at the consent form.
Suddenly, his whole attitude changed.  He was a hearty, healthy, Hawaiian surfer, with a six-pack and a tan, and he took an unconscious step away from me.
“You… had a heart attack?” he asked, cringing.  “When?”
“Eight months ago,” I said.  I’d put it on the form.  And when he touched me on the shoulder, this time it was gingerly, as though I might break.  As though my frailty was catching.
“Look,” he said, slowly, overly kindly, the firm concern you’d show to someone who wasn’t quite in control of their mental senses.  “You can’t go down, after a heart attack.  It’s not safe.  I could call back to the home office, and they’d tell you this isn’t safe, either.  I’m sorry.”
And… I broke.
What I should have said was, “Look, it was a small infarction, so much so that it was fourteen hours in the hospital before they were certain it was an attack.  And yes, they cracked open my chest, and recovery was painful, but now I eat better than I did before, and I do more exercise, and I’m actually in better shape now than I would have been eight months back.  I am perfectly fit for that water, probably in a way that some of the other undiagnosed people around me in this class are not, so let me in.”
But there is something about the way he treated me.  I was not a healthy person to him.  I was frail, perhaps too stupid to know what I was truly up to, and when he looked at me he was sad and a little repulsed that I might think I was worthy of this.  He was not mean in any way, but clearly I wasn’t in his league.  Or the league of the other people without thick keloid scars on their chests.  I was… inferior.  Unfit.  To be protected from myself.
It was little embarrassing I was there, to be frank.  In his eyes.
And so I slunk away, a hole kicked in my chest.  I barely avoided crying, but that’s pretty much only because it would have confirmed his suspicions.  I slunk upstairs, and posted to Twitter that there would be no Snuba, and bathed in the feeling of second-class citizen.
Look.  It’s not that I don’t fight for my own rights.  Fully two-thirds of my ex-girlfriends will tell you we broke up because I would not stop asking for what I wanted.  I’m not weak-willed.  But when you’re flying so high, so joyous, and some asshole tugs you back down to earth by telling you that you’re not really worthy of that joy, it breaks something inside of you.
And for the rest of the day, I felt my scar ache.
For the rest of the day, I covered up my chest so no one would notice.  Convinced everyone was noticing.
For the rest of the day, I felt shamed.
And I thought: this is why I fight for equality.
Because look, as a healthy middle-classed white cissexual guy, I’m the standard against which all others are discriminated against.  I happen to have a condition which, on this one occasion, completely ruined my fun.
But there are happy black people yanked down to earth after someone shouted the N-word.
There are happy gay couples yanked back down to earth after someone called them faggots.
There are happy people in wheelchairs yanked back down to earth after someone treats them like they’re china dolls.
There are happy women engineers yanked back down to earth after someone mansplains their car to them.
That moment was awful for me, that time of othering, that malicious-free sense of how could you think you could really do this? – but though I’m tearing up writing this, it’s a solitary moment, and it’ll pass.  Yet I take this moment as a time to remember that there are a lot of discriminated people out there who deal with this not once every couple of years, but once a month, once a week, once a day – that kick to the chest that says, you don’t really deserve to be here.
Fuck the people who put them there.
Fuck them hard.
And that’s why I post on discriminations of all kinds, because it doesn’t matter how strong and confident you are, one sucker punch will take the wind from you.  It erodes you.  It’s harder to remember that you’re a human being worthy of love when that shit barrages you.  And anyone throwing that punch is, whether they mean to or not, a jerk who’s doing damage.
I don’t think discrimination is as clear as black water fountains vs. white water fountains.  I think a lot of discrimination is subtly encoded, that switch from the hearty thump to the ginger squeeze on the shoulder, that switch flipped from Of course you can to you need some help.  And we’re human.  We take our cues from other people.  It’s fucking hard, fighting against a world where you think you’re great and everyone else thinks you’re not quite up to snuff.  If you’ve got a society sending out all of these secret and subtle signals, signals that someone who’s not you can completely fucking overlook because they’re not broadcast at him, then you’re struggling up a mountain with a heavy load.
It’s not a laudable trait, really.  I know how much that day hurt me, still does.  And I think that nobody deserves to go through that, and sadly it doesn’t take too much effort to look around and see that some people do go through that on a regular basis.
That shouldn’t happen.  People shouldn’t hurt.  And they shouldn’t take the hurt they do have and ignore it; I think that it’s a moral necessity, when injured, to ask, Who else is hurt by this, and are they hurt more often than I am?
That’s why we should all do what we can to stop it. And that is all.

Dear Daughter: I Hope You Have Some Fucking Awesome Sex.

There’s a piece of twaddle going around FetLife called 10 Rules For Dating My Daughter, which is packed with “funny” threats like this:
“Rule Four: I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilising some kind of ‘barrier method’ can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.”
All of which boil down to the tedious, “Boys are threatening louts, sex is awful when other people do it, and my daughter is a plastic doll whose destiny I control.”
Look, I love sex. It’s fun. And because I love my daughter, I want her to have all of the same delights in life that I do, and hopefully more. I don’t want to hear about the fine details because, heck, I don’t want those visuals any more than my daughter wants mine. But in the abstract, darling, go out and play.
Because consensual sex isn’t something that men take from you; it’s something you give. It doesn’t lessen you to give someone else pleasure. It doesn’t degrade you to have some of your own. And anyone who implies otherwise is a man who probably thinks very poorly of women underneath the surface.
Yes, all these boys and girls and genderqueers may break your heart, and that in turn will break mine. I’ve held you, sobbing, after your boyfriend cheated on you, and it tore me in two. But you know what would tear me in two even more? To see you in a glass cage, experiencing nothing but cold emptiness at your fingers, as Dear Old Dad ensured that you got to experience nothing until he decided what you should like.
You’re not me. Nor are you an extension of my will. And so you need to make your own damn mistakes, to learn how to pick yourself up when you fall, to learn where the bandages are and to bind up your own cuts. I’ll help. I’ll be your consigliere when I can, the advisor, the person you come to when all seems lost. But I think there’s value in getting lost. I think there’s a strength that only comes from fumbling your own way out of the darkness.
You’re your own person, and some of the things you’re going to love will strike me as insane, ugly, or unenjoyable. This is how large and wonderful the world is! Imagine if everyone loved the same thing; we’d all be battling for the same ten people. The miracle is how easily someone’s cast-offs become someone else’s beloved treasure. And I would be a sad, sad little man if I manipulated you into becoming a cookie-cutter clone of my desires. Love the music I hate, watch the movies I loathe, become a strong woman who knows where her bliss is and knows just what to do to get it.
Now, you’re going to get bruised by life, and sometimes bruised consensually. But I won’t tell you sex is bad, or that you’re bad for wanting it, or that other people are bad from wanting it from you if you’re willing to give it. I refuse to perpetuate, even through the plausible deniability of humor, the idea that the people my daughter is attracted to are my enemy.
I’m not the guard who locks you in the tower. Ideally, I am my daughter’s safe space, a garden to return to when the world has proved a little too cruel, a place where she can recuperate and reflect upon past mistakes and know that here, there is someone who loves her wholeheartedly and will hug her until the tears dry.
That’s what I want for you, sweetie. A bold life filled with big mistakes and bigger triumphs.
Now get out there and find all the things you fucking love, and vice versa.

Things I Like About My New Dog

• She doesn’t chew stuff in the house.  As a first-time visitor to the home, she could be expected to gnaw on a few shoes or cords; doesn’t.
• She knows “no” very well, and has already learned not to get up on the furniture.  Today, I threw her monkey over the couch, and she leapt up on the couch to get to it, got an “Oh crap!” look on her face, and jumped down.
• She is not fazed by loud noises, like thunderstorms or the icemaker or the blender.
• She is, however, baffled by the MPS (our home theater system) and was actively pushing at the speakers when there was a crying baby she was trying to help.  Adorbs.
• She is housetrained, and hasn’t had a single accident yet.
• She’s social.  She wants to be where we are, so follows us about, but also respects boundaries; she’ll poke her head into the bathroom, but won’t come in.
• She loves her squeaky monkey, and has just learned the trick of flinging it into the air so she can catch it herself.
• She’s surprisingly chill with other dogs, even if she inspires what I’m told is “Black Dog Syndrome”: other dogs react like she’s fucking Damien, which apparently is because they can’t read her body language.  It’s a little weird seeing them loser their shit while Shasta just sort of cocks her head to go, “What’s your issue, dude?”
• She barks a little when someone is at the door, but a very short series – two or three, kind of like a doggy doorbell.  Then she calms down, once she knows who it is.
• She likes her scritches.  I’m still charmed when I’m mapping out solutions for a tough problem at SCG, and suddenly there’s this face popping up to want a pet.  I can’t resist.

There are some issues, natch – mainly Shasta’s separation anxiety, as whenever anyone leaves the house she loses it, and whines and barks like we’ve all been chewed to bits in a human-mangling factory – but that’ll pass, as we’ve been instructed by previous dog owners to not make any deal of it, just come and go like everything’s all but normal, and eventually she’ll adjust.
Of course, literally as I typed that last sentence, she came into the living room with a mouthful of tasty paper towels she’d shredded, but… we got it out of her mouth quickly, and she gave it up without incident.  So on the whole, I pronounce Shasta to be a Good Dog.

Want To Hear Me (And Gini) Talk About Polyamory? I'm At Geeky Kink Event New England!

Next weekend, I’ll be attending the Geeky Kink Event in Rhode Island – if you’ll recall, they’re the clash of nerd and kink culture that has the TARDIS bondage box, the ball pit, and the Sensory Deprivation Companion Cube, among many other crazy sexy mashups.  I’m so psyched, as friends have told me this is one of the most awesome cons ever.
I’m pleased to say I’ll be leading several workshops, including:
Burninating the Peasants: Fireplay 101
A hands-on demonstration, showing how to set fire to the ones you love. Much discussion of safety. Much more pretty, pretty flames. Will include demonstrations of fire wands, flash cotton, firecupping, and, if things go drastically wrong, fire extinguishers. (Hint: Things will not go drastically wrong.)
Fucking Lots of People Without Fucking Over Your Partner: How To Open Up a Relationship
Interested in polyamory? How about swinging? How about doing all of that without hurt feelings, messy breakups, or crazy exes bashing down your door? Noted kink writer Ferrett Steinmetz and his adorable wife Gini Judd discuss the many ways in which you can start exploring other relationships without blowing your world into flinders.
Jealousy Is Not a Crime: Troubleshooting Broken Polyamory
If you’re dating multiple people, bumps will occur, sure as death and taxes. The question is, how do you figure out what’s wrong… and how do you repair the faults so that you emerge stronger and saner? Kinktastic writer Ferrett Steinmetz and his wife Gini Judd will lead a discussion about how to fight fairly, how to be respectful to all the people in your poly web, and tout the merits of a solid set of dealbreakers.
Wet With Words: How To Make Your Writing Arousing
Whether it’s composing the hottest of sexts or just porning up your fanfic, there is an art to getting an audience aroused with mere words. Let professional author Ferrett Steinmetz – dubbed a “ninja sexter” by his lovers – discuss the techniques involved in taking your erotic writing to the next level.
Author Reading: Nebula-Nominated Author Ferrett Steinmetz Read Brain Porn
Ferrett Steinmetz reads his story “Rooms Formed of Neurons and Sex,” the erotic tale of a telephone sex operator and her love affair with a brain in a jar. A deadly serious, yet entrancing, tale. Please, no touching yourself during the performance.
If you wanna go (or even have me set you aflame with a reasonable level of safety), hotel rooms and tickets are available until the 9th.  If you’re in the area, I’d totally go; this looks like both the hoot and the holler.

Welcome To The Family, Shasta Clarion McJuddmetz!

Yesterday, we wound up with this in our living room:

And forty-five minutes later, we owned her.  This is our dog, Shasta Clarion McJuddmetz:

She’s about a year old, and no, we don’t know what breed she is. Guesses range from pinscher to chihuahua to spitz (for the tail). When asked, current plan is to tell people she’s an Idris Elba – black and compelling.
Truth is, we’d been planning on getting a dog for the past eight months or so, ever since my Mom’s dog Koshi came to live with us during my triple-bypass recovery.  But we didn’t want to buy from a puppy mill, and purebreeds were expensive, and we waffled a dog would really fit into our always-busy lifestyle.
Then one of Gini’s clients, who was moving and had rescued the dog himself from a pair of fuckwit owners who were going to put her to sleep, couldn’t afford to keep this dog either.  And so Gini took her for a walk, and by the time she was done we had a dog.  Of course, I hadn’t met the dog yet, or agreed to dog ownership, but that was easily solved by dumping the dog in our room (“We’re dogsitting for a couple of days, she’s available, see if you like her”) and naturally forty-five minutes we totally owned her.
She’s extremely bright, though; she’s already learned not to get up on the furniture, is about a third of the way to “heel,” and is beginning to respond to her new name.  (Gini has always wanted a dog called “Shasta,” and she arrived on my fifth Clarionniversary, and so though it feels a little weird to rename an existing dog, she cannot tell us what name she thinks of herself as.)  I took her for a walk yesterday and she already knows where we live.
So yeah.  Y’all are in for puppy photos.  I hope you like dogs, bro, because dogs?  Be comin’.