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Sometimes it is worth remembering that even the shiny ones get insecure.  Calico followed up riffing on maymay’s excellent comment on that first post, reminding us again that "Your sex appeal is not your self worth".

And that is, of course, very true. (really, just go read her post)

 Of course, there are times you just really want to be all twisted steel and sex appeal. Everyone wants to be desirable to those they want to be desired by. And it is insidious sometimes, how our minds will latch onto a certain self image and not budge.

 For instance, not long after this post, I ended up in a long IM conversation with a friend about my sex drive and my insecurities about sex, sexual performance, and my perception of myself as desirable or not. 

I do not think of myself as someone who people just instantly find pretty and hot and desirable. Charming, yes. Fun, yes. Eventually sexy because sex appeal is by no means limited to simple aesthetics, yes. But I tend not (for various reasons) think of myself as "see across the room/dance/fire/what have you and go YUM, must have" hot. It always confuses me some when anything like that happens.

 My friend asked me, "You do know there are people who think you are just pretty and hot, right?"

And yes, I do know that. And no, I do not base my entire self-worth on that. But to show you how insidious these kinds of things can be, even as I acknowledged that as true, and felt somewhat better about it, my brain could not help but notice that she constructed it in passive voice - thus excluding herself. Messed up, I know.

 We are a mass of contradictions, we humans, and we do live in a society that insists being pretty (whatever that might be) is of such importance. As if pretty and desirable were the same thing anyway.

 I have a coffee with my ex to go to, and am feeling introspective. 

 

I should point out that despite the interesting new insight in how I deal with different types of pain, this was in no way a bad weekend.

It isn’ t even as if that ruined the scene. It was delicious up until then. And these things happen, something doesn’t work and snaps a headspace and then you take a breather and do something else. And after that there was a more restrictive tie, and some more knives which were fine since I had been… reset by then. 

 And the weekend included getting to cane someone (and it is always flattering for a masochist to tell you that you have more of a mean streak than she expected) and having someone give me a blowjob with my knife at her throat. (Which is more logistically difficult than one might expect, but still better than the cake I baked.)

 And, interestingly enough, of all the bites I received, the one that remains most noted by my body, and provokes a small smile of endorphin-fueled grinning whenever it gets bumped by something in my pocket, is the one I have on my thigh. Thus the one that "broke" me lingers the most sweetly.

All in all, I am not TOO torn up I missed the Flea (although there are reasons I am disappointed).

 A New Year’s Eve Party, well past midnight. I am downstairs with an artist friend, the fabulous diva who is her gay male twin, and a couple of others. I have been kneeling in front of a low chair, and to loosen up, I stretch backwards on it, hands over my head, so I am a supine line facing The Artist, with my knees just short of touching hers.

 "Dammit Victor!" she yells, "I’m trying to be faithful!"

 And it was simply the sweetest thing she could possibly say.