Yes, I CAN shut up. I simply choose not to.

I was reminded of an old lover today. A memory as convoluted, bittersweet and difficult as any in my life to date.

Then the larger question of BDSM reportage came to mind.

Usually, one does ask the person about whom you are writing if they are OK with you writing about them. Usually, they are OK.

I have had several situations where people were NOT OK with my writing about our encounters.

Part of me is miffed by this, and not only because I am a blabbermouth. Because, strangely enough, I am very capable of shutting the fuck up.

But as a writer, when I feel inspired to write, I loathe the idea of being squelched.

I have had several variations on external censorship. I have dealt with them in various ways. I am mercurial and strangely unpredictable, even to my own mind, on this issue

I had one person nonplussed about my writing about and making an example of our scene in my curriculum when I taught classes about Taboo / Extreme Edge Play. This may well have been because this was a textbook example of how to not manage a scene that has derailed.

To be fair, missteps occurred on everyone’s part, and I do not understate my role in the situation. But they weren’t too thrilled, especially as a public Leather Community figure, to have that less-than-optimal situation live on.

After some discussion, I made it clear my intent was not to damage, but to help other folks learn from those that have gone before and paved the Way Of “Whoops!” Plus, the versions that were in circulation only made the situation even grimmer than the reality, so getting it from the horse’s mouth is only going to serve to put the period on the end of those speculations.

I had a profound moment of Zen when, years after the fact, a former lover asked me to remove references to him from my online writings because he was upset that such explicit materials referenced him online.

Though I had received permission, in the past, to tell that story in the course of my solo show, a change in his level of notoriety prompted him to become indignant that such intimate details of his sexual appetites were searchable online. This is fucking galling. Kind of like Jesus saying to John the Baptist “Dude, yeah, I am totally cool with you, but could you refrain from talking about when you dunked me that one time? Thanks!”

He was my gateway drug to kink, the story is fantastical and beautiful…and he is cranky abut that.

On the one hand, I understand, and can empathize. I mean, come on. Certainly, someone gushing over your sexual prowess, the magnificence of your penis, the thoroughness of your hotness and how generally amazing and brilliant you are, in explicit terms, is a dangerous thing.

I tried to explain that, frankly, the djinni is out of the flask and, thanks to Google and the WayBack, nothing can ever be erased.

I also gently pointed out that he never asked me if it was OK to write half an album about me, and furthermore to actually use my fucking name for one of his songs…on not one but two of his records…and if he was concerned about people making the connection, he well should have considered that first. (Oh, if you wanna hear it, you can do that here. You can do it for free. Save the ninety-nine cents, dear reader.)

It hardly helps that this extended remix situation is one of the Obsessions Of My Lifetimes.

No, that isn’t a typo…I’m a Hindu-esque kid.

I have also had a preemptive strike levied against my writing. A man with whom I was (very briefly) involved specifically insisted I not write about our encounter, as it might muddy the waters with someone he was in the process of wooing, and that wasn’t OK.

Douchetastic? Yep.

THAT situation was cunningly crafted by the very Gods to take me out at the knees, and sucked in several ways. I wish I’d had the ovaries at the time to hash that one out, but instead my submissive reflex kicked in, to my detriment, and I just caved to the command.

It is a very odd sensation to feel like your own life and the means by which you express that to the world is possibly offensive, probably unacceptable, certainly cumbersome, often unwelcome.

Whatever.

Really, the main intent I have, in my life and in my writings, is to illuminate. To talk through my past, my kink, my life and loves and the messy, messy beautiful and delicious kaleidoscope through which I see everything. To use my own voice, my own light, to refract the gloom of the quotidian through my own prism, my fresh perspective.

I am not sure when speaking my piece, in my way, became such a minefield.

And it is very tough to remain strong, loud and proud when a miasma of shame, reluctance, fear and regret wraps about the ankles, creeps up goosebumped arms and condenses sorrow within your ears.