Tuesday Advice: Shifting identities

This week’s question is a doozy, and it comes at a time when I’ve been thinking about the topic of identity a lot. A big post is in the offing about shifting identities, switching, genderfuck, orientation, and a whole bunch of other shit that I found myself navigating this past weekend. But now, to the question.

Dear Delilah,

In the kink scene, we tend to get attached to certain identities – top, bottom, dom, switch, sub, master, slave, crossdresser, straight, bi, queer, and on and on. Sometimes these labels start to feel confining over time, though. What advice would you give to someone who is starting to feel that an old label might not be fitting them so well anymore, but isn’t sure they want to embrace a new one? How related are identity and behavior? How do you communicate the right information to the right people?

Boy, did you ask it. A snarky part of me wants to say, “You sure that’s enough? Anything else??” Because jeebus, this is a big question, and it’s probably going to take me several posts to address it with anything approaching completeness.

But I’ll take a first stab at it.

Others might disagree, but I tend to think that identity and behavior are very strongly related. I just happened to listen to an episode of Dan Savage’s podcast today, on which a lesbian called him out for saying that anyone can identify any way they want, even if they are a woman in a relationship with a man who wants to call herself a dyke. The caller said that such a person “doesn’t get” to call herself a dyke. Dan respectfully disagreed and said that yes she does, but the caller of course has the right not to believe her.

I for one think it’s absurd when someone is so attached a particular identity that they insist on hanging onto it for dear life even when their actions indicate a different identity. If it’s an exception to a general rule, that’s one thing: I would never say that a butch who femmes out from time to time shouldn’t call herself butch, or that a straight man who wants to touch someone else’s cock once in a while must identify as bisexual. But I don’t think that a woman who is happily married to a man can really sincerely continue to say that she’s a lesbian. Or rather: she can feel free to do that, I’m just not going to believe her.

On the flip side of this, though, is the closeted gay man who’s married to a woman and has fourteen kids. His actions strongly indicate a straight identity – which, after all, is what he is desperately trying to promote. That doesn’t mean that he is not gay. However, it once again shows the strong relationship between identity and actions.

Identity, after all, is mutable, and it’s a tool. People talk about and use identity as a way of presenting themselves in the world: I have a bisexual identity, you have a black identity, he has a gay identity, she has a Latina identity, and so on. Your identity is a combination of who you are, and how you want to be seen. Some aspects of identity cannot be changed: an African American person is 99% of the time visible as such, and so will be seen as such regardless of how deeply that person decides to embrace and promote that identity. Some racial identities must be more actively constructed: not every Hispanic person “looks” Hispanic, and not every person of Latin American descent identifies as Latino. Sexual orientation can also be immutable, as in some gay people who knew from the time they were five years old. Or it can shift over time, as the bisexual who later realizes she’s functionally a lesbian, or the lesbian who gradually opens to the possibility of male partners.

And so on. But another part of identity is decided upon by the individual. That visible African American may grow up in an immediate culture that is mostly white, and grow up queer and kinky. That person may feel more resonance with a queer kinky identity than he does with his black identity. This doesn’t mean he stops being African American (and dealing with all that that brings in this culture); just that it’s not the part of his makeup that he emphasizes. That closeted man from the example above may finally come out, at which point he had traded his straight identity for a gay one.

One of the dangers of shifting identities within the kink scene, of course, is that people will just think you’re flaky. If you’ve been in the scene as a straight female submissive for like five years, and suddenly you demand to be addressed as Mistress McToppyDomme by all the women you’re hoping to fuck, that can cause some spinning heads, and like Dan Savage’s caller, you might not be believed. But one of the advantages of the kink scene is that you can enact those aspects of your identity you want known in public, so that over time, people who may have seen you one way will begin to see other possibilities.

Which brings me (finally) to my advice: if you’re tired of a given label, if you feel your identity is shifting, then simply act on it. Be the change you want to see in yourself, to paraphrase. If you want people to know that you’re not just that one thing that everyone thinks you are, then do other things in front of those people. Even better: suggest that you might like to do those other things with those people. Start with people you already trust, who know you well and will have your back. And if you don’t feel the need to take on a new label, but simply to softly shed one you’ve outgrown…then go naked for a while. Humans are great at labeling – too good, in fact – and if you need a new one, I’ve no doubt it will appear.

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In which I show my true colors

[Note: for those of you who watch Lost and haven’t yet reached the Season 5 episode “He’s Our You” – SPOILER ALERT – READ NO FURTHER!]

I’ve mentioned in this space before that I have a thing for interrogation scenes, and that that fact scares me a bit. In fact, the more I’ve gotten into them, the more uncomfortable watching them on TV is, and I’m not sure if it’s discomfort in a good or a bad way.

But last night I was just delighted to watch an episode of Lost in which the always-yummy Sayid gets shackled to a tree and fed a truth serum. What starts out as something really frightening quickly turns into something almost goofy: they don’t beat Sayid or even treat him all that roughly, though there’s a marvelous physical reference to the way Sayid tortured Sawyer in the first season, when the leader of the Dharma Initiative pulls out a pair of shears to cut Sayid’s handcuffs off. (“Put out your hands,” he says, and the alert viewer recalls the way Sayid put that same instrument around Sawyer’s finger and threatened to snip it off.)

Instead the interrogator – the magnificent William Sanderson of Blade Runner fame – tells the others to open Sayid’s mouth, and puts in a sugar cube onto which he’s dropped some kind of drug. Sayid’s resultant confession is wide-eyed, soft, and reminiscent of someone on Ecstasy. “I come from the FUTURE!”

Oh, how awesome. I definitely have some guilt at times for enjoying those kinds of scenes, but I feel a bit let off the hook when they turn out like this.

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Tuesday Advice, back at last! Now with more choking!

It’s been a while, as I haven’t had a backlog of questions. (You people are obviously just too well-adjusted. Or you think my advice stinks. Or something. Anyway!) I have a new question this week that’s fairly simple, but may send me off on a tear about the topic anyway. So here goes.

My partner and I have discovered that we love it when he puts his hand around the front of my throat. Is there a way to do this that is safer than any other way, in terms of placement or pressure? We’re not trying to restrict air or bloodflow; it’s just the symbolism of it.

So, knowledgeable questioner: you obviously already know that restricting either airflow or bloodflow can be dangerous, and in fact, there’s no “safe” way to do it. Does that mean I don’t do it, or don’t think anyone should? Hell no. It just means that it’s all about managing risk, rather than believing that you’re being safe. I saw an amazing presentation on breathplay in all its permutations by Lee Harrington some years ago, and that was the main message I took away from it.

What you’re doing, though, is much less risky, though I would advise you to look more deeply into the risks as you go forward, because we all know how these things can escalate. As far as simply placing a hand around the throat, though, here’s some things to keep in mind.

First off, don’t press hard or squeeze. If the symbolism is all you’re after, there’s no reason for him risk entering into actual choking. If you’re doing this as part of vigorous sex, watch out for him being on top and putting his weight on that hand, or you on top and leaning into his hand, both of which will put more pressure than you want or may even be aware of in the heat of the moment.

Second, get the placement right. The temptation when putting a hand on someone’s throat is to place the palm over the Adam’s apple and squeeze a little with your fingers. This position very easily tips over into the two things you want to avoid: airway and bloodflow restriction. Just a little pressure on the larynx can begin to restrict airflow, not to mention that the trachea is fairly easy to crush. This type of choking is also much more unpleasant in general than the bloodflow-restricting kind, as it causes a choking feeling in the throat and can easily initiate panic – for good reason. The fingers at the sides of the throat, on the other hand, can begin to restrict carotid artery flow – the blood going to your brain. This is what causes that floaty feeling that eventually leads to fainting – a very high risk type of play.

But that position, done very gently, can feel very protective, loving, and controlling without any pressure at all. Save it for times when you’re not also engaged in anything vigorous that might distract him from how much pressure he’s applying.

A safer and still symbolically strong position goes like this: Hold your hand up in front of you with the fingers together and the thumb out (your fingers and thumb will make an “L”). Now put the crook made by your fingers and thumb against your throat, directly under your chin and above the larynx. Your fingers and thumb should point upward, lying along your jawline. From this position, you can press upward with your whole hand, creating a feeling of control and force without actually putting any pressure on dangerous points. Do not squeeze the hand together, as this will cause the same problem of putting pressure on the blood vessels at the sides of the neck. Do this to yourself, and then teach him to do it.

Remember: pretty much any type of BDSM play is going to involve a certain amount of risk. This is why I prefer the RACK (Risk-Aware Consensual Kink) system to the SSC (Safe, Sane and Consensual) system: I don’t really believe that any kink, or any sex for that matter, can be completely safe. (I prefer the term “safer sex” to “safe sex” for that reason as well.) Then again, why do we do these things if not for the thrill? Besides, skydiving, playing sports, and driving your car carry far more risks than BDSM. I often think that some people do kink – and extreme sports – because we live in a way that our ancestors never dreamed of, and that is almost entirely without physical risk. Or rather, there is risk, but not in a way that we’re consciously aware of in the moment. (You’re probably driving on the highway daily and inhaling enough pollutants to kill you in thirty years, but when was the last time you were chased down by a tiger?)

Which reminds me: if you haven’t seen David Cronenburg’s Crash, you should.

And if you have a question for me, you should comment here or email me!
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Identity management

Sorry for the long hiatus; holidays, Martian death flu, and all manner of other drama have kept me from this page. Hoping to remedy that and crank out more regular material.

Ages ago, a friend asked me how I manage privacy online. See, I have a few online identities. Some things I write are public, some aren’t. Some are under my real name, and some under this one. Some I write in a place where anyone can see it, unless I lock the post so only friends can see it. But what made this question interesting for my questioner was the fact that sometimes, I write under my real name about the same topics I cover here.

So what’s the deal? How do I decide which parts of me are public and which aren’t?

It’s probably telling that I received this question in October and still haven’t answered it.

Recently, I kind of figured out the short answer to this: as my real name, I write about topics pertaining to sexuality and relationships; as Delilah, I write about topics pertaining to my sexuality and relationships. There’s a third problem, too: there are aspects of my relationships that I consider so private and precious that I don’t even write about them here – particularly because I know that so many of my readers know me in real life. I’ve therefore published erotica under still another name, and blog in total secrecy (nobody knows the username but me) about the deepest stuff.

It’s probably also telling that I feel the need to have all of this material out there, even if nobody ever reads it or knows that it’s me writing it. What can I say: I’ve been a journaler and a maker of stories for as long as I can remember, and when I don’t write down what’s happened to me, the intensity of my experiences (which often, surprise surprise, are in the sexual realm) slip from my consciousness quickly. It’s long been important to me to have a narrative of my life, something to look back on so I can see where I’ve been and remember what’s happened to me.

My friend asked whether it ever gets weird when worlds collide: like if people I know socially start buying videos from my site, or people who have seen my writing assume things about me before meeting me. The answer to this is “sort of.” This has actually occurred a couple of times just in the past weeks. Someone who knows me socially contacted me in my capacity as Delilah for some kink consultation in person. And someone who found my writing under my real identity contacted me and seems to be assuming, because I’m poly, that I would want to meet him.

Neither of these things is “weird,” per se, but it has been and continues to be a kind of tightrope walk, figuring out what I want the whole damn world to know and what I really would rather only my friends know and what I need to write about so that someone will read it, but nobody needs to know that it’s me writing it.

I’m a great admirer of Maymay in this regard (as in many other regards), in that he has the flaming gonads to be completely out online and in every other area of his life. But even he remarks that he doesn’t write very much about the literal ins and outs of his own sex life. He’s about half a generation behind me in age, and I’m sincerely hoping that his bravery and forthrightness is a sign of things to come. For my part, though, I still can’t deal with the idea of my family finding out that I was a sex worker. I’m not sure what that says about me.

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