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By George, Heart, it worked! 

I’m home safe and sound, tumblr. I basically slept through both of my flights, so I don’t really have anything vaguely entertaining to tell you except that now I can’t fall asleep since I spent most of my day that way. Oh boy.

But, thank you for all the support and love I got over these two months I’ve been gone. I got a little over 150 new followers during the time, which might just be an indication that absence makes the heart grow fonder (or that I should go away more often).

<3,

Ivy

herdirtylittleheart:

Dear Ivy,

If I post pictures of pirate style knife play will you come back?

With love,

-Heart

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Dear Followers,

I seem to have picked up quite a few of you lately. Welcome aboard. I haven’t gotten around to saying hello to all of you because I’m still working abroad, but this lack of communication could be broken. 

I’m currently lounging around, waiting for the call to go get drinks with my coworkers. I’d like to get to know you in the meantime. Drop me an ask and say hi. Tell me something about yourself. Tell me something about your day. Tell me something.

So, followers old and new, keep me amused. (No, it doesn’t need to be under the sex or violence category. The whatever works well enough for me). Don’t be shy.

<3, Ivy

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Oh, the prospect is tempting.

herdirtylittleheart:

Oh Ivy… please tell me this has you considering tattoo ideas…. at least just a little…

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This man was extremely formative in defining my sexuality. 

I was about twelve or thirteen years old when Songs About Jane first came out and, after hearing a few of its singles bouncing around the radio, I asked for a copy for my birthday. I remember bringing it up to my room that morning after my mother had given it to me, putting it into my boom-box, laying down on my carpet, and listening to the whole album through. 

I didn’t understand all of his lyrics. I assumed the phrase “keep her cumming every night” meant to have her continue to visit his house each evening. A ton of innuendos zoomed right over my head. But, somehow, it resonated. I felt it. I understood him without even beginning to understand.

I remember sitting in the back of the car, having the album on in my walkman, and hearing my mother say to my father, “just let her listen to it, they like to have things to themselves at this age”. It was how Songs About Jane felt to me. It was something I had with myself. It was this little secret thing I could listen to over and over as I tried to align myself to the lyrics. I wanted to understand. He seemed so much deeper than the sex ed lessons I was getting in middle school, and he was actually answering the questions I did not realize I had.

I learned lust. I learned sexual envy. I learned sexual greed. I learned what it meant to want. In school, I learned the mechanisms. In his songs, I learned what turned them. And, I learned that I didn’t want to just be the women in his songs, I wanted to be with them, even though he had spelled out their problems very clearly in his songs. 

Not to mention his voice is pure sex. That counts for something.

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I have a fantasy of being institutionalized for one reason or another. But, here’s the thing, it’s just as glamorous as this. There’s no pills, no emotional trauma, no group therapy, no straitjackets. There’s just me, a couple of nurses, and a bed with plenty of straps and buckles. It usually ends with them taking turns at sitting on my face, giggling and shoving each other aside to get on my mouth.

WARNING, RANT STARTS HERE:

One issue I have with my kinks a lot of the time is how they are watered-down versions of actually really terrible things. Institutional rape happens. Kidnapping happens. People wind up with their significant other’s hands around their throats. They wind up being tossed to the wolves (so to speak) and thrown into sex with a ridiculous amount of partners simultaneously. It’s not glamorous. No one is giggling.

Where I am working at my internship right now, I’m encountering women who have fallen victim to a few of the things, and several other ills of society that don’t wander into my sex life, that I fantasize about. And I cannot help but sit there sometimes and feel terribly guilty for glamorizing and sexualizing things that absolutely traumatized them.

Sometimes I run into a moral dilemma on having these fantasies and, moreover, indulging them. You’re stuck differentiating between what is a purely consensual act and what is a crime against humanity, society, etc. Moreover, if I am acting in imitation of an act, such as institutional rape, I am not only acknowledging its existence, but attributing my own “fun” to its existence. And maybe I’m taking it too far. Maybe I’m getting too introspective.

But, then there’s the issue for me of posting stuff like that on my tumblr. Not too long ago, a group of black men watched Mississippi Burning and, inspired, walked across the street and beat a little white boy to death. The issue was brought up if Mississippi Burning was to blame at all for the actions taken by this group of men. Of course, one could argue that it’s the same sort of misinterpretation that lead Catcher in the Rye to be misread, causing John Lennon to be shot. We can blame the person’s own insanity for the actions, of course, but can we also blame the incendiary material as well for sparking the insanity? You don’t give a serial killer a freaking box-cutter and diplomatic immunity.

So, I wonder, as I make posts about all sorts of forced sexual interaction, which of course exist in a consensual frame for me, who is reading it and what they are doing it. I’m in no way as influential as JD Salinger or the creative staff behind Mississippi Burning, but, nonetheless, my fantasies are on the Internet and they have the propensity to be misinterpreted. 

I don’t know if this is a rant, a self-criticism or an attempt to cover my ass. But, I suppose I need to say that what I write here is purely fantasy that exists in a frame of consent, willingness, and trust. While I still have not been able to reconcile that with the actual acts that go on and what my endorsement of a glamorized, watered-down version of them might entail, I in no way encourage the acts.

Rant over. Thanks for sticking around.