“Are we the rattlesnake or the snake’s tail?
Who should we let prevail?
The head or the tail?”
– a Friend of the Darklady
The process of Becoming is never-ending. It begins before we realize it and when it ends is the stuff of philosophical rants and religious doctrines. Some people seem to spend their lives in a state of perpetual sleep, never quite Becoming yet somehow still Existing. I sometimes wonder if the moment of their deaths won’t be the moment at which they awaken, however briefly.
Working writers, just like mainstream actors or video vixens, are only as good as their last releases, so as soon as the ink is dry on the CRT, it’s time to get moving on the next piece of priceless prose. Time to create. Time to Become again. In order for that to happen, there has to be an eternal flame of some sort that burns inside, probably where sanity is usually located. The process of Becoming, of using that internal fire as a motivating force that purifies and strengthens is an inherent part of the creative process. It is also inherently risky, since it opens the individual up to constant change and growth, both of which can be exhausting.
By late September, I was feeling burned by my own fire and in desperate need of reconnecting with my creative Self. My titleholder year as Ms. Oregon State Leather 2004 had been wonderful and the Ms. World Leather contest, in spite of its many rather horrific aspects, had been filled with gifts of insight, friendship, and adventure – but it was time to redefine myself and determine where I would focus my passions. It was time for me to remember what it meant to be a writer on fire from within.
The annual Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco proved to be an excellent excuse for both business and pleasure travel – and an excellent decision on my part. Although I’ve never technically left my heart there, I love to schedule whirlwind tours of the Bay Area so that I can return and indulge the strong affection that I feel for my friends and comrades who live there. If friendships, like wine, improve with age then I have a glorious future of drunkenness ahead of me.
Porn stars, perverts, photographers – these are the men and woman who purify my soul. Richard Pacheco, Mark Kliem, Charles Gatewood, David Steinberg, Michael Rosen, Jay Wiseman, Fakir Musafar, Bill Brent, Carol Queen, Cleo Dubois – these were some of the friends and companions who reminded me that I am a writer. Steinberg’s hot lips against mine reminded me that I am a woman. As a sex writer, that’s not a bad combination.
But I’m not yet the writer or the woman or the sex writer whom I will Become. If all goes according to plan, I won’t be those things until I wake up the moment before my death – which I’m hoping is many decades, many deadlines, many adventures, many trips to San Francisco – and many hot kisses — in the future.
— Originally published in Playtime Magazine —