Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

July 19, 2014


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 8:51 pm

I danced with a girl some weeks ago – she was smart and delicate – rarely do I hold someone slighter than myself. She wore lace, smiled when she re-adjusted her slipping purse strap. I felt so responsible, holding her – jeans to her lace – cropped hair to her straight brown tresses.

My arms get bigger as I’m working out. The man who molested me had arms like sick alloy of iron and skin – sometimes I flex and want fleetingly to be stronger than him. Not to harm. Never to harm. Holding a slenderer woman, I can’t understand how anyone could use their strength for ill. It’s stayed with me – the sense of duty in strength. A good lesson.


April 3, 2014


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 11:18 pm

Athena asked me moons ago whether there was a theme to my fetishes.* With some highway miles of deliberation I realized the commonality is focus. I generally am a handful of places at once; studying the light, your voice, hedonics, dynamics. Perhaps the high alert habit of a girl from a semi-broken home; perhaps it’s typical to be scattered. Though, I’m so much better when I’m focused.

I like how suspension forces perception to that of force and binds and air. How latex focuses form to monochromatic curves. How D/s focuses attention to another’s line of command, or their vulnerability.

Some things in kink are just fun. Some are transformative, connective, so on. I like practically any given action, in the right context. The moment and the other/s are what matter. But the common thread of what fetishes I like most? If pressed to find one, that thing is focus.

*Fetish as slang, not psychological definition. Athena as lady, not deity.

July 14, 2013

ritual for a quarry

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 11:35 am

someone at pantheacon said,
‘you wouldn’t have a ritual in a quarry’
but i know a ritual
for a quarry.
as at least a quarter of women

a place plundered and turned
from place to thing.
genius loci quantified in pounds and spatial measurements
dug up, hollowed and claimed
by men in cars.

stones taken. fine marble, rough and right in the earth, now taken
on a countertop. i mean, for a countertop.

the ritual says, you are not hollow.
your stone was stripped off
leaving not emptiness but
air. light. space. dust.
the stone beneath.
these are your tools now
if you will claim them.

bring a stone. when you leave, leave it behind.

August 16, 2011


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 7:08 pm

Humiliation is secretly a relief. I want to hear the fat and flaws on my body illuminated; having identified with the chevalier mal fet, T. H. White’s Lancelot, since I read the book in childhood. White writes that Lance was dreadfully ugly and taught himself, in isolation, to be the best knight in the world. My perfectionist mind gnaws at the waste surrounding what I might be; the slender golden goddess who is my spare ideal for myself. Her words have the strength of a thousand oxen. She is bones and taut skin, pared into a state of grace, gold and white and shining. In the mirror she is overlaid on every ounce of fat and I want to cry in desperation and peel off my skin when I see I am not like her. I am ill-made. Look at the shining golden girls about me; how they laugh. They are none of them perfect, but I have not idealized them with the cruelty I have idealized my potential self. I’ve created a parallel Lilac-who-might-be; she haunts me silently.

When you humiliate me, you let me know you see her too. Some of my tears will be pain but some will be relief. My torment will be in another’s hands for a while.

When I was younger I pencilled Lancelot’s name on my bedroom doorpost; he was a sort of protector, not because I wanted him to look after me, but because he was a hero whom I understood intimately in his self-torment. He had a strict moral code because he was bad inside, and broke it in the stupidity of love. I still, like a child, feel possessive of my hero whom I understand better than anyone.

And I want to be the best knight in all the world.

March 6, 2011


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 7:29 pm

I have deep sensory appetites; I crave denial as hard as satiation. I want to sate my sweet tooth on salt caramel chocolates then I want to hunger, watching my belly fall flat below my ribs, and to feel your hand trace each discrete curve of bone. I want to eat. I want to hurt.

I’ve even grown a taste for envy, which spikes my pain tolerance very high. It is a sort of catalyst for masochism.

February 22, 2011

Playing like kittens

Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 1:44 pm

I’m playing with the kitten. She’s leaping and tumbling over herself; sometimes she can’t run fast enough to catch the feathery toy I taunt her with. I smile, empathizing from my experience in impossible scenes. My kitty is learning to jump higher, run faster, hunt better. She’s an amazing little creature, whether she catches the feathery-toy or not; even when she abandons the game in favour of pettings and a nap. It’s play, it’s fun, I love her. I do not care if she’s spectacular, I care that she’s engaged and happy and that we connect.

This reassures me. I expect my brother has higher bars for a partner than a pet, but he’s playing with a little sister whose limits and rates of growth he understands, and he won’t stop loving me if I’m imperfect or outdone, if I can’t (yet? ever?) grasp the feathery-toys he dangles above me.

What matters is that you try.

December 15, 2010

Stew’d in corruption

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 12:03 am

Healing ought not imply altering to fit a norm. I am healed by being whole, integrating the insights & strengths I gained through abuse. They’ll always be part of my psyche. My sexuality reflects what I’ve seen, gazing into the abyss, in the rank sweat of an enseamed bed beneath a man three times my age.

What is it about trauma and sexuality? We learn the power of want. We learn to separate sex from its connotations, action from reaction, experience from meaning. We learn this world of desire exists outside all laws and the optimistic social contract. We see men risk jail for us. It’s not about sex, they say. It’s about power. We learn that sex can be about power.

We grow up reclaiming our sexuality. We tap into this power. If they don’t play by the rules, if desire is stronger than the rules…

I allow this to be part of myself and my sexuality, though wielded with kindness instead of abuse. I use the strengths I’ve learned: endurance, understanding, deconstruction.

And it is validating to see, consensually expressed in kink, the kind of sick greed and power a man once indulged upon me. Though I like to be challenged and learn, I linger in situations I’ve grown the tools to handle, for I am stronger there. I can develop other tools but it takes time, energy. Do I want to invest the work?

I’m aware I learned some fucked up lessons, but I try to harm none.

I get off on callous disregard, sadism (receiving), ageplay. To quote The Suicide Kings, The only way that I can be more than the sum of what has been done to me is to do it all again to myself.

November 24, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 12:45 pm

You ask me to sit straight against shots of electricity to the nipples, forcing me to control physical reaction on a level more base than I’ve been able to. I try not to flinch but haven’t that level of control, though I subdue the reaction. I’m crying in terror at my inability to acquiesce, and at the threatened punishment (electricity to the bare clit).

I fail. You move to my clit…
Just fucking with you. I wasn’t going to.

Why did you ask for electricity? you say in the car. You always react with very strong terror to it.

I offer possible answers. I’ve had such a hard week; thought I might just ride the momentum and keep doing difficult things.

If you need to recover from giving so much of yourself, is giving more the best way? I want to challenge you and make you better, but that doesn’t just come from pushing you. I want you to learn from this.
I tend to fight until wrecked. Like you, I often work by brute force; I’d rather fight my knuckles bloody at the strongest thing I can think of than carve a middle path. Once they’re bloodied and I can’t move my hands, I can rest a little while…

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