widowcentauri

Playing With Truth

In American Dominatrix on October 25, 2010 at 7:09 am

It is three in the morning. I’m living in a ghetto apartment. My cat took a big shit / piss on my very expensive, comfortable, and given to me bed today. I have been in the sex industry my whole adult life, I have nothing to show for it save for a few good stories, some horribly uncomfortable footwear, and the embarrassment of my biofamily. I’m a hundred grand in debt for an education that only I really appreciate. I’m deep in a rut. I am suffering from imposter complex. I have been for a long time. There is always someone cooler than me. Always. I’m an awesome writer, but I can’t get it through my head to work on the projects that I need to finish. I’m hot, but who gives a shit, I’m a mess. I want to be able to do something that other people can’t do but I just don’t feel like I am very good at anything right now.

I suck.

I like to play with the truth, but then people think they know me, know who I am and what I am about, but they don’t they only know some little thing that I told them, wrote about, told the truth about.

I’m working as a stripper, again after years of not doing that. I have been avoiding working in the sex trade the whole time I have been involved with it. I only work when I need money. If I don’t need money I’m on the outs with this biz. I’m the sort who works a little, then does not answer my phone for a month, then desperately tries to round up some work cause my phone is about to get shut off. I think working is over rated.

I love my craft, but when I find myself looking for other people like me I only find myself becoming desperately frightened of my own disposable nature. You see, the problem is that I really don’t think I am anything special at all. I’m just like everyone else, everyone who worked really hard and has nothing to show for it; everyone who used the sex industry to fund their art, but got taken by an industry that chews up and spits people out. I’m really pretty unrecognizable in a sea of whorish women. It’s not that I have a low self-image or some horse shit like that, I just spent that last couple years in grad school, I feel like a louse.

I’m writing this to warm up my fingers but I don’t know what I’m really going to write, something smutty, something about my exciting life, the life that sucks less than most, but still seems like a cat just shit on my bed to me.

  1. Seems almost strange to be posting this on a public forum, but here goes. . . First— you say “I just don’t feel like I am very good at anything right now. I suck.” and “I’m really pretty unrecognizable in a sea of whorish women.”— and then you say “It’s not that I have a low self-image or some horse shit like that.” Maybe that was a joke that went right over my head, but it does sure sound like you’re having some self-esteem issues.

    I know about those. I don’t know, but I imagine, that at times it must be hard to keep up uour self-image working in an industry that the mainstream society does it’s best to despise. I think to be a sex worker of any kind (stipper, domme, pisser….) in this world must take a lot of balls, especially to be a sex worker who’s also an intelligent, thinking, feeling individual. My hat’s off to you. But I’m sure there must be times when it’s really hard to hang onto your truths, including your beleif in self. I hope you have freinds you can talk to, who are accepting of your life style, but who are also intelligent thinking caring folks.

    I also wonder what kind of degree you’re working on, and what kind of career you envision for your self in a few years. Even if it weren’t for the “use-you-up-and-spit-you-out” stuff that seems almost inevitable in your trade, I would still think that it’s a world that would be fun and exciting for a few years, but would begin to feel empty after a while. I mean, even if pissing in a man’s mouth is what you’d like to do for the rest of your life, wouldn’t you want to know that the man (or woman) loves you— not just for what you do, but because your inner soul is beautiful?

    I’d like you to know that even in the world of folks you think of as customers, there are folks who are gentle and caring . I hope you feel better. Feel free to delete this comment and/or to respond in private, if you wish.

    • I’m just gonna respond here, why not?

      “I’m really pretty unrecognizable in a sea of whorish women.”— and then you say “It’s not that I have a low self-image or some horse shit like that.” Maybe that was a joke that went right over my head, but it does sure sound like you’re having some self-esteem issues.

      Why do I have to feel “special” in order to have a decent self image? I think this is a horrible western construct that perpetuates a cult of personality. I’m quite confidant and articulate, who cares if my ass is a recognizable commodity in this biz? Does it somehow validate my self worth to consider myself better than thou? I think a lot of dominatrices put on a power face, they scowl and demand things from people. I’m interested in exploring the honest reality of alienation in the work place, even if that work place expects me not to.

      I really think that westerners are often quite misguided when seeking “happiness.” The whole thing seems like a crock of shit to me. Seems like the expectation to be phony, superficial, and self centered mask the inner pain that most of us feel.

      We should all be questioning the reality we live in.

  2. I’m a submissive male who subscribes to your posts. I read yesterday’s, and just want to pass on my good wishes.
    Life is way harder than it ought to be, or would be if people were more often rational and caring. I’m sorry things are rough for you. If you need someone to talk to, i’ll be glad to give you my ear. Just drop me an email. I would like to do it privately, rather than on your site.
    Anyway, hope things will be well for you. Take care.

  3. Well, I think I agree that we don’t need to feel “special” to have good self-esteem. Not absolutely certain, because almost all of us come out of an infant/mother relationship where we are in fact treated as the most special thing in the world. Those who don’t are more apt, not less, to have self-esteem issues. If we are healthy (and not too caught up in the “western construct that perpetuates a cult of personality,” as you put it) then we put that feeling of specialness into a realistic and honest perspective—but it’s still there as one of the foundation blocks of who we are, and it helps us get through rough times.

    But given what you say here, I’m confused by your previous comment—”the problem is that I really don’t think I am anything special at all.” The more I think about this, the more I think it _is_ a problem, or at least can be. I don’t think we need others to treat us as special (though it’s pretty nice if one or two people do) but I think we do need to retain some of that feeling of specialness inside ourselves.

    With your last statement—”we all should be questioning the reality we live in”—I couldn’t agree more. To prompt that questioning is the role of the trickster. For which role, you qualify.

  4. “We should all be questioning the reality we live in.”

    Precisely. Some of us read your blog as a measure of our own discomfiture with reality. And it has nothing to do with the sex industry. It has to do with the fact that you are alive irrespective of the conditions of your life. Not that you are Henry Miller. Yet

  5. From Alan Alda commencement address CalTech 2002 but it is the famous Feynman plate story

    The plate story is this: After the war, Feynman became depressed. His first wife had just died of tuberculosis and the realization of the awful destructive power of the bomb he had helped make had finally sunk in. He was teaching at Cornell, but he had no taste for it. He couldn’t concentrate. Then, one day, he’s in the school cafeteria and some guy starts fooling around, tossing a plate in the air. Feynman watches the design on the rim of the plate as it spins and he sees that as it spins, the plate wobbles. He gets fascinated, and he tries to figure out the relationship between the spin and the wobble. He spends months on this. And finally comes up with this complicated equation, which he shows to Hans Bethe.

    And Bethe says, “That’s interesting, Feynman, but what’s the importance of it?” And Feynman says, “It has no importance, it’s just fun!”

    But, see, that’s the thing—it not only brought him out of his slump, but that playful inquiry, according to Feynman, eventually led in a circuitous way to the work that won him the Nobel Prize.

    But no matter where it might have led him, he made up his mind that day in the cafeteria never to work on anything that didn’t interest him, that wasn’t fun.

    Of course, what Feynman was looking for was serious fun. It was the awe he felt when he looked at nature. And not just the official great wonders of nature, but any little part of nature, because any little part of it is as amazing and beautiful and complicated as the whole thing is.

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