#the first thing i ever made in this program is my little pony

[genderqueerdykes]

Ditch Etsy for Good: A Disabled Etsy Seller's Experience

i started my Etsy store in August of 2022. I was in desperate need of income at the time, as I am disabled, and waiting for my full disability payments to come through. I currently make $245/month off of a general assistance program that's meant to "help" while you're waiting for those payments.

I needed, at the time, $900/month for my studio apartment, because I was on a month-to-month lease, and could not re-new it, as I was the secondary renter, and my abusive ex whom I could not contact was the primary renter. They needed his signature to renew the lease, or else I was on month-to-month status, which meant they could increase my rent to whatever price they saw fit at any point.

I was struggling to stay alive. I had a bunch of kandi supplies I had gathered over the years, pony beads, string, all that kind of stuff. So i accrued some extra supplies to make other types of necklaces and chokers. Keep in mind my level of poverty, and the level of inflation in 2022. I was having to accrue supplies secondhand, from thrift stores. Everything I bought and sold was upcycled, save for the few times I could afford things to fill in the gaps from craft stores.

After I gathered supplies, I went to work. I spent countless hours making all types of jewelry. Not really sleeping. Just countless hours of stringing beads, if I woke up in the middle of the night from a bad dream or stress about homelessness, I would go back to work. I've been homeless before. Several times. Never lived on the street or in a shelter, but I have lived in hotels, cars, crashed on couches and have run from getting kicked out for making little money endless times.

I drank a lot of coffee and ate very little. Eating consumed time, time that I didn't have. Once I was done making things, it was time to photograph every. single. item., then edit them, and upload them to Etsy. I had to create listings for each individual item, all of which cost $0.20 to create, and again to renew when it ran out in 3 months if not purchased. There was already a start-up cost.

Shipping made my life a nightmare. Etsy charged me for each and every single label. I tried free shipping at first, as it's a huge draw for customers, but labels were around $3.69 from my state to the mainland United States at the time, creeping ever closer to $4. For anywhere else it would easily come to $10 or more, international shipping was easily $20 - $40. Even if the customer paid for shipping I still had to go through the process of purchasing a label.

This didn't account for the fact that I had to purchase printer, ink and paper at some point to keep printing these labels. Ink is wildly expensive and your cartridges run out faster than they should. They are rigged to flag as empty when they're not. This also does not account for ink and paper lost when the printer does something in error, which is often. The office at my apartment complex was willing to print labels and packing slips for me for a while, but they cut me off after a few months.

The biggest kick in the teeth was the processing time for my payments. Because I shipped my first few orders without tracking labels. Etsy put a hold on my money for the next 3 months. They would take a random amount of time to process each payment. I could never figure out the schedule. My money would sometimes take days or weeks to arrive when I set Etsy to a "daily" payment schedule. It was torture. I was sweating over not having money constantly, and missing payment deadlines left and right.

I was getting orders at every hour of the day. I didn't "clock out" of this job. I had to change the notification sound of the Etsy Seller app on my phone because when I heard it, I would panic. I wasn't excited, I was filled with dread. It was never ending, and I was constantly stressed about getting orders out on time. I never had time to rest. I didn't get days off. I was on the job 24/7. Unless you completely uninstall the Etsy app and refuse to check it fora while, you can't really clock out of this job.

This isn't even touching the fact that Etsy also takes a cut out of every single sale you make, meaning you have to jack up your prices wildly either to make free shipping reasonable so you're not losing money on each sale, or you have to play a dance of figuring out what the best balance between shipping and item costs are, which is time consuming. It's a lot of math and comparing against your niche's market.

Etsy has an ads feature, which you must again pay for, where they will run ads for your products in random banner ads and whatnot. You are charged if one customer clicks the ad, not purchases something, meaning this is a complete fucking scam. The minimum is $1/day and you are forced to subscribe monthly. You can cancel at any point, but sometimes it takes a full day for this to cancellation to go through. The Etsy Ads feature sucks ass. I received exactly 2 orders through their service and kept it on for a few weeks here and there. It's horrid. You do not receive a significant enough boost in traffic to make the investment worth it. Also consider how many people use adblockers these days. This isn't hard to see.

The amount of time you have to spend promoting and boosting your own shop, buying supplies, creating and photographic products, uploading them to the website, and everything else in between is not worth the amount of money you make. You do not turn a profit unless you are selling very high end products like fine jewelry and antiques. Anyone else in the bottom rungs loses money through one avenue or another, Etsy finds ways to make the entire process draining and expensive for the seller.

The also will not provide you a 1099 document to file your taxes for your earned income unless you have made over $25,000 in one year on Etsy, which is literally impossible unless you make, as I said, fine jewelry. The average Etsy seller does not make this much in one year. We do not make a liveable wage, yet Etsy pretends like we do.

I didn't realize how draining it was to run this store until I put it in vacation mode. I'm shutting it down as soon as I'm able to. I could not handle the pressure of orders coming in in the middle of the night. I could not handle the pressure of not being able to remember which bracelets I could wear, and which ones were up on the store. Or which ones I could give to friends freely without having to issue someone a refund because I made a mistake. The worry of sending the wrong customer the wrong product was constantly on my mind. Every review that came in made me scared I had fucked up or provided an inferior product. I was distraught, broken and scared.

Now I'm much more free. The piddly jackshit amount of income I made was not worth it at all. I don't think I made back the cost of supplies and I definitely was never compensated for the sheer amount of labor I put into my products and orders. Etsy just kept kicking me while I was down and now that they have made it so that you are unable to file a class action lawsuit against them, they are only becoming more tyrannical.

Etsy does not care about their small sellers. They only care about the big cash cows who bring in big views and line Etsy's pockets with the Etsy Ads program. If you're too poor too keep up they'll chew you up and spit you out. Fuck Etsy. Fuck the lack of respect for their sellers. Fuck them for holding my money randomly for 3 months because I didn't know tracking labels were REQUIRED in their eyes. Fuck Etsy for never letting me know when I was getting paid, and for paying me on such an irregular schedule. Fuck Etsy for the fucked up fees and expensive shipping labels.

Fuck Etsy for everything. Let them go. Cut the cord. Navigate to Ko-Fi or somewhere else. Let this horrid site fucking die.

[duckapus]

Had an interesting idea. You may have noticed that in this post I implied that there may be at least one non-game-based living Character-Level server somewhere out in the digital multiverse that nobody knows about yet because they think it's impossible for one to form without outside influence. Well, I figured out which one it is: A universe made from a pirated collection of every official episode, movie, short, music video, and even scans of the dubiously canon IDW comics run of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, along with any other official media I can't think of at the moment. Because I can. Whoever owns the collection doesn't know that they have a real live Equestria at their fingertips because the actual media storage is a layer above the living universe (or universes, what with Starswirl's Mirror Portals), so watching/reading the stuff doesn't affect what's happening down there or vice-versa, and the characters also don't know that they're digital beings brought to life by the love of a fan.

If anyone, be they Program, Virus, Anomaly, or Character, were to go there they'd be changed into a form that fits the universe (so a pony/dragon/griffon/etc. choose whatever fits best in the main world, a human with the same color scheme as their Equestria form in the Canterlot High world) Because Mirror Portal Magic, though Code-Level entities can change back to their usual form if they prefer. When they leave they go back to normal. If any locals ever managed to go to other digital universes they'd stay in their usual forms because Most Universes Don't Do That. It's similar to the Enforced Art Styles of the Cats are Liquid and Fairly Oddparents universes, though FiM and CaL are obviously more drastic than FOP.

The first major characters to find out about this are Ozymandias and Garyboy, who stumble upon it at some point post-release and decide to use it as a base of operations, on the grounds that 1) Nobody else knows this world exists, 2) if anyone else did find it they'd never expect those two to be living there, and 3) the whole transformation thing means they can hide in plain sight. When they're there Garyboy is a purple-and-green pegasus with a black-cupped plunger for a cutie mark, while Ozzy is a vaguely serpentine dragon and his maneuver form is a Kirin. They later find out that prolonged exposure to Equestria's magic has had side-effects, namely that they can now use their Equestrian Form abilities (weather magic for Gary, fire breath, flaming rage form and unicorn magic for Ozzy) in their normal forms. That'll be fun to show off to their enemies.

[kindheart525]

“Just a couple more finishing touches!”

Triple Threat practically looked like an alicorn princess in her new gown, with its lavender folds cascading down her figure and accenting all her best features, including a tasteful slit by her leg. She felt sexy and ethereal wearing it, like she was about to be the belle of the ball at the next Grand Galloping Gala!

The event she was getting ready for was just as good.

“I just can’t believe you’ve been invited to the Bridleway Ball!” Stockholm gushed on her behalf while she mended some of the seams. “It’s only one of the biggest events in Manehattan. I hear you’ll even get to go to the ballet after, am I right?”

“Yes!” TT grinned. “It’s a very old tradition. They’ve been hosting this particular event for about 120 years, I think?”

“Close, it’s 113 years!” Stockholm corrected her lightheartedly. “And they invited Queen Celestia to the first one so you know it’s a big deal! I read all about it as soon as I found out you were going.”

The conversation flowed so naturally for the two cousins-in-law as they both indulged in their interests over this one topic, Stockholm contributing her history expertise and TT bringing her love for the theatre into their growing excitement for all that laid ahead.

“I’ll bet your older Bridleway friends will really appreciate this dress. You made a great choice! The sleek fit really reminds me of the old movie stars. Probably a little bit before their time, but maybe it’d remind them of their mothers’ and grandmothers’ time. The big and beautiful stars that came even earlier!”

Even though many of Triple Threat’s older friends were “firsts” in their performances, they weren’t the first to ever grace the Bridleway stage while fat. That honor went to ponies before them. This was something that never fully registered to TT with all of her focus on more immediate events, but Stockholm was right. It was like she was honoring the firsts of the firsts by attending that ball.

“You’re absolutely right,” TT said after some pondering. “And they’ll all be there too! We made sure we all got invited, we weren’t about to sit back and take it if only one of us got to go.”

“Being the only fat girl in the room is old news!” Stockholm added playfully. “I know how it is, being the only one of a lot of things.”

“And it shouldn’t stay that way!” TT asserted. “There’s a lot of potential actors of all backgrounds who could really change things up even more. Build a coalition, maybe. Then we’d get even more done than me and my fat body alone could do it.

“Yes, please!” Stockholm grew giddy with excitement at the idea. “You’d literally be making history! They’d be looking at your coalition the same way you looked up to Sugar Shaker and all the others.”

This was true. TT hadn’t quite thought of that either, until Boot and Stockholm told her about their work—how future performers and artists would be looking back on her generation the same way she idolized her forebears as a filly. It was wild to think about and only reminded her of how much she owed to them while she was still in the business.

“How do you think you’d start?” Stockholm inquired.

“Well, the problem is kind of like how Boot said it,” TT posited. “Many would be really good at acting and don’t think they can. That one kid, Skydance, thought that just because they felt they didn’t have the personality for it, but a lot don’t think they have the looks for it. Because all they’ve seen is the same old bodies over and over again! I already hope to show them what’s possible by being in these shows, but I feel like there could be more ways to really reach them.”

Stockholm nodded. “Your old lady friends could help you with that, right?”

“Yes, but not just them.”

TT’s mind suddenly lit up with ideas.

“We could reach the schools! Like the theater program you and Boot work for. Or the School of Friendship. But not just schools. We could invest more in local theater! Create opportunities all the way down the line, you know?”

“Yes! Who says all the changes have to be at the top?”

“You’re right!”

TT suddenly felt herself ready to take on the world in a new way than ever before. 

“We’ll reach every corner of theater, every corner of the arts! Whoever makes the rules won’t know what hit them. There’ll a whole new rulebook by the time we’re done.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Previous: Damned If You Do

[salim--slayerofnations]

He wasn’t hard to find. Taking refuge in a small town in Minnesota, his hammer striking nails into a wooden framework in the name of building houses. It was one of the many ways he kept the memory of his daughter alive. Affordable tiny homes was the first life-long goal Demetria ever made. Leilani always pushed little Demi to shoot for the stars, and in the stars, she saw a way to help the old man begging for change on the street corner. And people like him. Affordable tiny homes wasn’t an original idea, but it was something that fueled her heart with passion.

In the year and change since Demetria’s murder, Koa had started a small company that built dozens of tiny homes in her memory.

The frame was close to finished on their latest house, but the work stalled, the laborers dispersed by a violent storm. But not Koa. There was no due date, but in his heart, he could not delay. Demi would never look down from Heaven and watch him delay. He would finish the frame on his own.

He only slowed down when he saw a maroon Cadillac park itself on the street. But when Koa saw the woman step out of the driver’s side…he stopped.

Koa knew her as a child. The skills of a tactical nuke in a tiny frame, but none of the social skills necessary to make friends. He remembered fighting with her and ending up thrown in the river because it was the only way to make her acquaintance, He remembered being her friend when she had none. And then he remembered when they took her away to continue her training. It was the first time his heart was ever broken.

They were young then, barely peeking over the horizon of adulthood. Now…they were different people.  But she still had a strange approach to social interactions. She used to read about how to deal with people and apply what she learned to real life…with varying results. Maybe that’s why she wore a black dress coat while standing beneath a black umbrella with her hair tied in a neat pony that rested over her shoulder.

Koa could only scoff at the effort….but even after all that’s happened, he appreciated it. “Funeral was a few months ago, Paris,”  He kept hammering. A few more nails and the frame would be finished.

“If I had any notion that I was welcome, I would have been there in person.”

The sentence she uttered betrayed the awkwardness he had known her for in their youth. The coat was deliberately symbolic. An offer of resonance. 

No. He had to be angry. It was Koa’s duty as a father to be angry… for as long as he could be. “Is it still Paris? Or is it Shiloh? I’m hearing different things nowadays.”

“Either works,” She replied. 

“So, Annalis’e decides to change her name back to her mother’s chosen name to distance herself from her dad…” Koa continued to strike the nail into the wood. “I’m guessing you changed yours to distance yourself from the Slayer’s program?”

In the dark, in the rain, Koa could barely see her nod in reply.

“So I guess now that you don’t want anything to do with the title, that absolves you of your involvement with Sparrow?”

It took her a second, but eventually, she shook her head. “If I had known–”

“You should have known. You handled Sparrow, you should have been on top of it.”

She nodded. No resistance. 

Paris was always resistant. Always a fighter. For her to pretend otherwise was beginning to upset Koa. He dropped the hammer and marched to her, staring her down with a heavy brow. “What the fuck do you want?”

“A friend,” she replied simply.

Koa scoffed as he turned away. “You’re in the wrong place, ‘Shiloh’”

She reached for Koa’s arm, but there wasn’t a significant force on her part that kept him in place. 

“You were always my north star. Even after they sent me away. You always believed in my humanity. I need that now. I need someone that knows the good I can do.”

“Can you?” Koa lashed out quietly. “Do good?”

“I’m trying to,” she replied. “There’s a girl that needs help. It's the first thing I chose to do after my therapy. But…I think she knows something you need.”

Koa frowned. “How?”

“She’s hiding secrets,” Paris replied. “From Agnes. And when she found out, she abducted three Shadows and sent them after this girl. Whatever she found, it was enough for Agnes to act against her own exile.”

“....you’re bribing me.”

“No. There are many who would help me if asked…but I know that this means something to you. And I know I’ll never be able to fill the hole that my negligence cost you. But I’d like to try. I’d be a horrible friend if I didn’t.”

Koa finally turned back to Paris. “What do you think? Does Agnes deserve to go away for driving Sparrow to do what she did? Do my wife and child deserve justice? Or will you say or do anything so that things go back to how they were?”

Paris dropped her umbrella. She peered up into the rain to meet Koa’s eyes. “I believe that a Weaving Shadows that knows the weight of consequence and holds itself accountable for its mistakes must begin somewhere. Why not with you and I?”

Koa stared and stared. And his anger slipped through his fingers. “Demi said the same about society in general. And her role in it.” He held Paris’s hand in his left hand, while he picked up her umbrella with his right. He placed the handle back in her grasp and smiled. “You’ll catch a cold.”

[fedorahead]

this is why i'm always glad the ads are for things i have no interest in, or the rare spanish ad that pops up. they can't get me if i can't understand them/will never purchase their thing.

i am vulnerable to ads. the first time i ever ate at sonic it was because a commercial made their food look good. i am aware of this, and use an adblocking browser on my phone and pay for tumblr to block ads and then i still go on tiktok once a month and if i use the for you page it's *only* ads. and i go on facebook and even on my friends' walls now there are advertisements and i genuinely thought the first few i saw were things they'd shared.

i'm staunchly anti-consumerist, even moreso than anti-capitalist, and i am struggling. i mindfully put my money into little boxes that it doesn't fill, an account for my bills, an account for my food budget, an account to save, and then some person starts talking about their recent purchase or i get an adhd brainworm to do a project and suddenly i'm overbudget and packages are arriving at my door and i can't even remember half of them and my credit card debt rises again. i am 31 years old, i have been homeless from poverty, i lived off of <$20 a week for several years, i have a car payment to make and i have so much programming blasting into my head 24/7 that i only really see the problem clearly when i'm sitting alone in my room and feeling like i'm drowning because i bought a set of pony beads that was so cheap because i've been getting ads for waist beads because i looked up a tutorial on waist beads when i bought some seed beads to make waist beads because i had one simple idea that maybe it would be fun to decorate more than my neck a year ago and it snowballed into three different kinds of projects, none of which are actually accomplishing what i want because the stores i'm *not* boycotting don't have the stock i need, so i've settled for the wrong stuff three times but settling means i'm unsatisfied and so then those ads show up and start the whole process again.

i consider myself particularly conscientious, especially with a roommate that genuinely believes "the viral tiktok [product]" is a real phrase real human beings say to each other outside of advertisements. we had to explain to this 36 year old woman that the videos of people trying products are ads. and she buys every damn thing they advertise to her. she has a scrub daddy. she has a lisa frank blender with four spare blending cups. she has the starbucks iridescent reusable cup. she makes good money and they're struggling, meanwhile i make ok money and i'm going insane from this shit. and i'm not sure if it's worse that she's not aware of her purchasing habits or that i am fully aware and still have no control.

we're not built to handle these types of stressors.

Something so profoundly fucked up between the inverse ratio of shrinking middle class and ever increasing aggression of advertisement

[equestrianempire]

Information from FutureTrack for Monday News &

The Windurra Riding Academy for little wild babies and little not-at-all-fauna ponies is back in action, and now it’s cross-country time! Everyone who has ever experienced a horse stopping for grazing during a tutoring program deserves this apology. I am aware that there are more of us than any of us would like to say. It’s ok, it’s good, just let the splinter of the little hooves in a water jump help you with your pain.

National Napping Day:   The most revered of nights, in my opinion.

U.S. Weekend Action:

Results from Bouckaert Equestrian H. T. International ( Fairburn, GA )[ Website]

Full Gallop Farm March I H. T. ( Aiken, SC )[ Website ] Results

[ Website ]  Results ] SAzEA Spring H. T. ( Tucson, Arizona )

Results from Southern Pines H. T. I. ( Raeford, NC )[ Website]

Benefits for the UK Weekend:

Tweseldown ( 1 ) ( Church Crookham, Hants. Results ): ]

Oasby ( 1 ) ( Grantham, Lincs. Results ):

Your Reading Listing for Monday:

What does your daily schedule for post-ride care look like? Possibly, you give your horse a nozzle off to remove the sweat and sand, or perhaps it has undergone a complete grooming to remove any lumps and bumps. But how hands-on are you with him after a journey? It’s definitely worth reading this guide to find out how many icing, hosing, wrapping, and treating you should really be doing in order to identify any problems before they turn into major concerns.

Following a string of happiness violations in dressage, a website has been suggested for after Paris to address the root of the problem. It’s been made clear that it would be a grave mistake to assume that the issues that have been raised in dressage are unique to that discipline, and any misuse of horses in any area of the business should undoubtedly been a matter of great importance to the industry as a whole. Find out more around.

Alexa Thompson keeps ticking off large things off her bucket list, and she’s doing it with a two&nbsp, homebred. The Lexington-based rider’s first venture into breeding about happened by accident, but presently her two nine-year-olds are producing big-time with kind at three-star and a half-season in Europe under their belt. In this report, swim deeper into the account.

Finally, you’re missing out if you have n’t read this one yet. Dr. Anastasia Curwood’s meticulous analysis of the story of all-Black horse shows in the US and during World War II offers a fascinating insight into the cultural attraction of showing and how a daring group of people carved out their own place in an usually incredibly unique world. Continue reading.

Morning Viewing:

Consider purchasing a particular breed of sports equine to enjoy success in eventing? Remake a second thought because husks are having fun! Check out show seven of Cobs You Get Eventing, the seventh show of Horse&amp, Country TV’s new series, and learn how to make the most of these amazing characters with tips from five-star eventer Simon Grieve.

[docholligay]

As someone who read a LOT as a kid but as an adult, I am kind of burnt out from reading even though it has been a good amount of time since i graduated, (Gifted Child Program so I was going through several books a week) I want to start reading again but I have no idea where to start without having burnout.

So we're familiar with my work, before I answer this. I am a very straightforward person and I don't often mince words. I can't be sitting across from you, and so you can't read my body language. So you'll have to trust that while I'm gonna be a little hard on you, it's done with a smile and the understanding that you wouldn't ask me if you didn't want an honest answer.

First off, we're all a little old to be blaming being a gifted kid. I was also in Gifted and Talented. I am, realistically, neither. That is not me dogging on myself. I don't think I'm a useless or whatever person. I just think, I'm just as gifted and behind, in a patchwork as anyone. I think some people trip on discovering, when they get older, that they were never ever special, they could just read well or do math good or whatever, and it didn't spin out to success in life.

That's...actually not the G&T program's fault. We can argue if the G&T program is a good thing--I think it's mixed bag--and we can argue that one's parent's made you think it meant something, but: We're all adults now, and the statute of limitations on blaming a program that told us we were SMART when we were, what eight to twelve? For our lack of motivation now, is pretty much over. We gotta own our own bullshit, friend. That's the start.

I graduated with a whole-ass double major in literature and history, despite being an ADHD sack of shit I cannot TELL you how many books I read in a week, and how often I read a book in a DAY sometimes because I put it off. I still love to read.

Having read a lot of books when you were ten is not the problem. I say this with my hand on your knee and a kind eye, but its the truth.

You probably loved to read when you were a kid because it was your form of escapism, and as we've gotten older, forms of escapism have gotten incredibly sophisticated and made specifically to encourage addiction/addiction-style behaviors in us. It's your phone. I'm talking about your phone. Flash games, social media, etc, its all designed to fuck with us. And whenever I say this, its ASTOUNDING how many people are like, "well fuck can't do anything about it then" instead of getting pissed off. I got pissed off ahaha. I don't like to be taken in!

So let's take the word "burnout" off the table. I don't find it helpful. I guess if you find it in some way a useful tool, more power to you, but let's refocus our way of thinking about our behaviors as things we control rather than things that happen to us. Just try it on for size for me.

I think reading is a fantastic tool to reteach us how to focus our attentions, and help us regain things that technology intentionally seeks for us to lose. You can absolutely sit and do something for an hour or two, I know this because I would be willing to lay every dollar of money in my bank account on the fact that you can sit and play on your phone for an hour. This isn't me saying you suck, or you're stupid, or anything like that. I can also get caught up in bullshit.

You have to set up specific time to allow reading to work for you, and that means renegotiating your relationship with technology, often. For me, it is reading in the bathtub and putting my phone in another room. I'm not going to get out of the tub, walk into another room, just to see if someone hearted my comment*. I read in bed at night, and at night? My phone gets turned all the way the fuck off. This has helped my sleep immensely, for starters. After 10 pm, or so, I am dead to the world. If there's an emergency, I trust the pony express. The odds are low.

Before I had the baby, Shabbat was specifically set up as a time where I didn't have my phone at all, it got shut up and put in a drawer, and I HAVE to get back to that, it was such an incredible reshaping of my mind and my relationship with myself.

So, like so many things in life, it's SIMPLE, even if it isn't EASY. Pick up a book you know you like--I'm a big believer in pushing ourselves with our media but first things first**. And make time to read it. Start with a half hour three times a week. The phone is not allowed to be around. Let yourself dip back into WHY you liked reading. Let your imagination run wild, let yourself live another person's life, learn to see things in your mind again! Anyone can do it, if they want to. And it's okay...not to want to. If you genuinely would rather play video games and watch anime, that's actually fine. Just be straight up. "I don't like reading. I like to play video games and watch anime." Honesty is the best policy. Don't just say "I love to read but I can't but" just because you wish you were the kind of person who loved to read.

It's like I often say to myself, 'The shitty thing about calling myself a distance runner is it means I have to run distances' as I trod off to run another ten miles ahaha. Like, I think it would be easy to say, 'Oh I love to clean and organize, but I can't because I have a baby" Bitch I love to clean and organize, except for the fact that I fucking hate every minute of it, and my behavior bears that out. I clean! But because I have to, to be a partner and family member. I will NEVER EVER take my spare time to do it outside of my chore cahrt that I force myself into. NEVERRRRRRR. Even with all the time and label makers in the world.

This is because I don't like it. Same with other shit I wish I liked doing: strength training, sewing, drawing.

But I believe I could learn to like those things, if I made it a part of my life. I believe that thoughts often follow actions. Whe I started running, I did not like it, and sometimes I still don't, but overall I love being the person who runs, and I love how I feel after a run.

You can be the person who reads!

*Again, I am human! I also desperately want the validation and connection of these things. But I ALSO know I need to be wary of such.

**Another good way to do this, initially, is to allow yourself comfort with books but not tv/movies. If you watch tv or a movie it has to be something challenging instead of comforting, but in books it can be ca comfort read. Just to start changing associations.

[yikesharringrove]

Show Pony

Chapter 5

Kids

Read on ao3

-

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. She’s going to Morocco.”

There was something in Steve’s throat, making his voice waver and sound reverent at the same time. 

“She’s going to Morocco.” Billy pressed his hand down Steve’s back, dragging his fingertips along his skin, surprisingly smooth and soft. 

Steve had his head on Billy’s chest, their bodies stuck together uncomfortably with sweat, but neither of them could be assed to move. 

They were wrapping up their little movie night, Almost Famous playing to a close on Steve’s laptop, perched on the kitchenette counter, just where they could see it from the bed. 

“Okay, that was really good.”

“I fucking told you. My mom showed me that movie when I was, like, eight. Shit changed me fundamentally.”

Steve shifted his leg a little bit but stayed silent. Billy could feel his muscles tensing uncomfortably.

“What?”

“What what?”

“I can tell you’re tense.”

“I just,” Steve sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention your mom before.”

“Yeah. Don’t really like talking ‘bout her.”

“Did she, you know ?”

Yeah. Billy did know. 

“Nah, she didn’t die. She left. Not long after that movie night.”

Steve’s head popped up from where it was rested on Billy, giving him those big fuckin’ eyes looking sappy and sad as all hell. 

“I’m sorry.”

Billy didn’t know what to say to that. 

He doesn’t tell people about his mom. About her lovely life that she’s built without him in it. 

It breaks his heart just to think about. 

“She’s got kids now. A husband.”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m just. Sorry.”

“I don’t know what I want to hear. But yeah. T’sucks.”

“You wanna know something that makes me sad? So we’re even?”

Billy huffed a laugh through his nose, bringing his hand up to tuck some of Steve’s messy hair behind his ear.

“Only if you wanna tell me.”

“Remember how I said I was supposedta get my high school diploma soon? Well, by soon I mean, like, maybe within the next few years.” Steve wasn’t meeting Billy’s eyes, and he put his head back down on his solid chest, his shoulders tensing up around his ears. “I never went to school. Not even when I was little. I’ve had the same tutor on the road since I was a kid, and he’s good. Tries his best. I just. I’m- not good . I’m not smart. You need to pass this test to get your high school GED if you’ve taken an ‘ alternative route ’. Like I have. But I can’t take it until I know the shit that’s on it, and my tutor, Scott, he’s too nice. Says I’m okay. That I’m on track. But I saw the program he teaches from. Says it’s for ninth and tenth graders. I’m nearly nineteen, and I’m in fucking ninth grade .”

Oh fuck. 

Oh fuck . 

Billy’s 98.6% sure Steve is fighting back serious tears right now. 

It was crushing Billy’s soul and making him feel like he was gonna join right on in.

But for how much Billy is a goddamn little crybaby, he sure is useless when other people start crying.

“It’s, Steve- that’s not your fault. You’ve literally never gone to school. Plus, like, I’m sure you don’t do your tutoring like I did school. Five days a week for like seven hours since I was five or something. You’ve been. Busy. You travel around and do all these amazing things, and, and, you're not dumb. Your parents just chose to not put you in school and then got mad when that didn’t work out as planned. It’s got nothin’ to do with your brain.”

This is gonna sound shitty. 

And Billy really doesn’t mean it like that. 

It’s just, well. Billy didn’t realize Steve was so. Fucked up. 

Traumatized. Might be a less harsh word for it. 

Billy just never woulda thought, when he first watched Steve ride like a fucking expert, or when he first noticed him strutting around the grounds of the rodeo, that there was actually something really sad behind that denim and flannel. 

It made something in Billy’s gut twist and turn. 

Because he’s the exact same way. 

Because underneath the layer of carefully maintained hot muscle-head douchebag jock, there’s a really sensitive boy who was abandoned by his mother and gets regular hits from his father. 

He can’t really decide if being able to see through Steve is a good thing or a bad thing, though. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to act like a fucking baby over it. I never really talk about it, so I guess the bad shit just kinda all decided to explode out all over you.”

“Nah, Pretty Boy. S’okay. I’m used to bad shit.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I meant it more in a bummer way, I guess.”

“I am sorry about your mom. It seems like you really loved her.”

Little bastard had brought it back around to Billy’s shitty baggage now. 

The gorgeous little dickhead.

“I do.”

And that’s probably the worst thing about it. 

All these years of feeling abandoned and forgotten. Of trying to make himself hate her, he still loves her so much. 

He is her. 

So much of himself modelled around the aspects of her he found most beautiful. 

The things, try as he might, he can’t help but love.

Billy felt Steve take a large deep breath on top of him. 

“Do you, like, talk to her much?”

“Nah. Should be getting a FaceBook message for my birthday next week. And then nothing ‘til Christmas. That’s how it goes with her.” She was literally the only reason Billy still kept his FaceBook account around. 

Mostly because when he was feeling sorry for himself he’d go over to her profile and peruse the album labelled “Family ❤️” until he felt worse. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologizin’. Not your fault she couldn’t handle it all.”

“Was she really young, or something?”

“Yeah. It was a case of too young and her own shitty father giving her enough issues to make her wanna marry the first asshole that told her she was pretty.” He’s never said all of this out loud. 

But he couldn’t. Stop. Talking. 

“Then when he turned out to be a bigger dick than she imagined, she split. Basically fell off the Earth for a few years. Served my dad divorce papers out of the blue one day. Now, she’s got a family that doesn’t suck, and barely spares any thought for the kid she left down south. Not that I blame her.”

He does, and he doesn’t. 

It’s an odd situation. 

He blames Neil for everything, when he’s thinking clearly. 

He pushed his mother away with the same violence, the same painful rage he shows Billy. 

But he also blames her. 

She could’ve taken him before she scrammed. Could’ve fought for custody over him while she and his father met for Skype calls with their lawyers to settle the divorce.

Their split was easy, because she didn’t want anything. 

Not their house, not their belongings.

Not their son. 

“Wow. I thought my family was fucked up. Not to be rude, or anything.” Steve flushed, but he had the ghost of a smirk on his face.

“Every family is fucked up. Just in different ways.” 

“I guess you’re right. I should probably get my head outta my ass and quit bein’ so selfish, then.”

Billy smiled fondly at Steve.

“You’re not selfish. Just don’t got a lot of outlets, I assume.”

Steve nodded, and Billy understood. 

He doesn’t either. 

The only person he even considers close enough to vent to, is Max. And even then, he doesn’t tell her all of it. Not nearly any of it. 

She knows he’s gay only because she knows Neil’s a fucking homophobe. She knows he gets beat only because Neil does it in front of her. She knows his mom left only because sometimes Neil gets drunk and spits in Billy’s face that it’s all his fault she’s gone. 

But she doesn’t know that Billy agrees with Neil on that last bit. 

That maybe if he fought for her better-

Got in between her and Neil when he was goin’ in rough and hard on her down in the kitchen, instead of hiding under his bed with his hands pressed over his ears. 

He’s got no one to work through all this shit with, and by the sounds of things, Steve hasn’t got anyone either. 

And maybe that’s what they could be. 

For each other. 

Billy shook himself.

“You wanna start your movie?” He asked Steve, trying to redirect the evening back to their Favorite Movie Double Feature, and out of Billy’s Hopeless and Has Feelings territory. 

Because time was ticking down. 

And no matter how much Billy felt like Steve was the perfect compliment to his frayed and ragged soul.

Steve was leaving. 

Steve was always leaving. 

[clawsextended]

she tells her not to. but selina only knows how to compartmentalize. it isn’t healthier but sometimes it is. sometimes it’s almost a relief. sometimes it all feels like too much and even if she accepts only the hardest part of it, truly it’s the beginnings of that acceptance that’s vital.

how is she supposed to heal if she won’t even begin to stitch the wound?

but what bryce doesn’t understand is the weight selina feels. the constant responsibility. the absolutely destructive need to take care of everything even at her own expense.

(and do people take advantage of that? absolutely more than she can explain to another human being. selina is always there. if you show up, she’ll cook you dinner. you need a place to crash? her guest room is all yours. breakfast? it’s more like ‘bed and’ in the kyle household. selina gives a gives and gives when surrounded by people intrinsically programmed to take. heroism is only unselfish for the people you save. it speaks nothing of the tears shed when the hero dies, or getting a little girl ready for her first picture day in a silly uniform she’s been trying a thousand ways to help her customize. you cannot wear that eyeliner. are you getting preppy now? no, you look like the cutest little raccoon. you never remember to take your eyeblack off.)

“i was shitty. and my mouth gets real ugly when i’m pissed. i’m sorry, anyway, for saying the shit i said to you.”

because she can’t not be. she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt she has a harsh way of wording things — that for someone so forgiving she can be extremely punishing. she has to be sorry as much for herself as for bryce — has to hold herself accountable just the same.

“I’m… too tired to fight. i don’t want to. there’s no satisfaction in a screaming match. less in punching you. it doesn’t change the situation, just my endorphin levels.”

rationality is a rarity with selina, but where bryce had ran off, selina’s been more rooted, more careful than ever. she’s had more of a reason to stay in a single place, to adhere to a single thought than any other time. she’s had more security than she can ever explain.

the manor is spacious, even if it’s too haunted for her. but holly loves the gargoyles — the eerie architecture, the looming, foreboding shadows to read books and climb trees in. a school where the teachers might look at her as hollyanne, a whole person and not hollyanne, the kid who gets into weekly arguments with school security about an arbitrary concept that pissed her off. a place where selina can sit down with faculty and actually get her kid real help, the kind that’s not designed to put her in a corral away from all the other ponies.

it would’ve been both selfish and reckless to move out. to upheave holly from what was otherwise supposed to be stable… until the rug yanked out from under her. she remembers the idea of structures becoming shackles and sometimes she wonders if that’s it, if her incarceration is a foreign life she wasn’t cut out for.

but she doesn’t want that. and that’s how it’s felt.

“I don’t feel real until you walk into a room. when you look at me, i’m real. i exist.”

it’s murmured, a terribly hurt, shy thing. so quiet the humiliation is vivid, neon lights all its own. for how silent she tries to be, the shame is far more enormous.

“you— wanted me to rip myself apart and then you left me to pick up the shreds. you — you made me feel like i was nothing. and then i had to figure out how to be something — how to be someone — without you. i don’t… hope. and i don’t believe in anything, much less me. you don’t… understand. when i took holly, i promised myself i would only ever be a good mom. what kind of mom could take away a kid’s home? much less the other person she knows how to rely on? i’m angry at you. but i’m angrier at me for being selfish.”

where bryce doesn’t think of everyone else, selina is much the opposite. she doesn’t allow holly into anything she’d consider unhealthy. she won’t.

“i’m so used to being — unimportant. my mom didn’t want me. both my dads hated me. i just — i felt unimportant to you. and it hurt. it hurt so fucking bad. to feel completely unimportant to the most important person in my life. i know i can’t be everything for you. i don’t even want to be. but maybe i was hoping i was — something.”

maybe she was hoping she was worth it.

The kiss takes her breath away, it silences her heart, it ends the torrent of thoughts in her mind. She is... at ease. But not for long. It's the cat's apology that makes the bat step aside and let Bryce step forward. "Lina... Don't" She didn't want to hear it, because she'd start to actually believe it. That they both had done something wrong. To justify her actions. To once again say: I will do it again. And she will! She will do it again because that's what the cowl means, that's what she stands for. But she doesn't want to feel like it's justified. She doesn't want to get used to the feeling of always getting her way.

Alfred just let her go. They had a mutual understanding. But Selina? Selina was different. Selina is someone she wanted to hold close. To be more than just family. If Selina, just like Alfred, starts saying it's okay. Then what? What does she come home for? Why even bother coming home at all? Alfred experienced that period, maybe Selina will too.

That's not true. Bryce sighs deeply, planting a few soft and loving kisses to Selina's hand, hers placed over that of the cat. Gently nuzzling it.

She had already experienced such a period. When Bryce left without a word, and came back after months of no contact.

Selina had experienced Batwoman doing whatever she wanted. For the people; but not for her people.

"Don't say you're sorry."

"Because you did nothing wrong. Nothing. It's all my fault. I should've not gone. I should've at the very least let you know. Left a message, called you, let Alfred inform you. Anything... But instead I just ran off and let the Bat decide. I left you and Holly alone in that estate."

"I'm the one whose, sorry. I am the one who promised that I'd always be there for you. How not Batwoman but Bryce would be there for you, to help you through it."

"And I just left..."

Bryce pulled her head a way from Selina's touch, gently taking her hand into her own and planting several more pecks on her knuckles. "You should be hitting me, yelling at me, demanding me to do whatever you want to make it up to you."

"Just don't."

"Don't say you're sorry, Lina."

// - @clawsextended

[pen-paper-and-ink]

Champagne Problems

Chapter Two

Masterlist

Aelin Galathynius was tired, but that was what you got when you decided to wake up at six in the morning. Aelin doesn’t remember how Rowan convinced her that 6:30 was a perfectly acceptable time to run in the morning, or how six a.m. really wasn’t thatearly, but she despised him for it.  She knew that was a lie, that she adored Rowan, but every time her alarm goes off, she can’t help but silently curse her best friend.  

Aelin was not a morning person.  One of the only ways she could actually meet Rowan on time most mornings was by sleeping in her leggings, or her gym clothes, that way most mornings all she would have to do was push her feet in her sneakers and pull her golden blonde hair into a pony and be out the door.  Coffee also may or may not help her get her day started.  

She had a Keurig in her apartment, and the sugariest, most creamy coffee creamer in the fridge to help her wake up in the morning.  So that how she usually started her mornings: shoes, hair, and coffee.

The caffine and the sugar in her drink wakes her up as she sips her drink on the way to meet Rowan in front of the campus library, managing to recycle the empty cup just before she sees Rowan.  

They have been going on these morning runs for nearly two years now, since they decided to put their differences beside and become friends. They hated each other when they first met, both dealing with their own inner demons and not realizing that the person they each hated reminded themselves a little too much of what they saw when they looked in the mirror. When they finally called a truce, they decided the both needed a better way to deal with their loss and the stress of the world, hence the near daily jogs.

Even though she hated the early mornings, Aelin would be the first to admit that the runs helped.  She was no longer drinking herself half to death and getting into fist fights, and instead was feeling the steady pound of her feet on the pavement and the beat of her heart as she pushed her body to its limit.  Aelin had always been active in her childhood, avidly practicing karate and mixed martial arts until she was sixteen, she didn’t realize how much she craved the endorphins of exercise and a runner’s high until she was nineteen and started to run with Rowan.

Early on into her friendship with Rowan, Aelin decided becoming friends was one of the best things she had ever done.  Together they had decided to walk the path back to the light, and it had changed Aelin’s life for the better.  Nearing the end of her Junior year at the University of Terrasen, Aelin no longer felt like that angry and bitter freshmen she once was.

Aelin noticed Rowan seemed tired as she approached him, though she supposed that wasn’t odd.  She knew from Sam that he and the guys went out get drinks last night, he usually just wasn’t quite so hung over.  As one of the “healthy lifestyle choices”, as Rowan liked to put it, that they would partake in together was to no longer overindulge in alcohol, and drink their problems away.  Though perhaps this time it was in celebration, as he was approaching the end of his senior year, and she knew how beyond excited he was about starting his master’s program coming that fall.

Though they no longer overindulged, Aelin missed drinking with Rowan.  Rowan got goofy when he drank and damn her if it wasn’t one of the cutest things she had ever seen.  Especially how he giggled when he was tipsy, and she was telling some stupid joke.  She missed him, their lives had been so hectic lately between finishing up the semester and splitting their time among their various friends.

Rowan sighed as they began their run.  Aelin glanced over at Rowan. Who was scowling his way through his morning workout, that at least was semi-normal.  Rowan was not the mostly openly happy man on the best of days, scowling while running through his hangover seemed just like Rowan. They made their way through campus and ran past some of the historic buildings of downtown Orynth.  Aelin always loved this part of the city, she liked to imagine the lives of the long-ago royals as she ran past the palace and what used to be the mansions and hot spots of the wealthy.  

The buildings still belonged to the wealthy, but now they mostly made-up high-end apartment buildings and trendy boutiques and restaurants  near the U of T campus. Aelin should know, her apartment was located inside one of the former mansions, now a trendy apartment complex, near the palace and just a fifteen-minute walk to the campus library.

Aelin and Rowan’s pace began to slow down as they reached the end of their five-mile run, they had almost made it back to the library, the halfway point between both of their apartments.  When they finally reached their stopping point, Aelin flashed Rowan a smile over her shoulder which her warily returned.

“Well, you certainly worked your alcohol consumption off now.” Aelin joked towards Rowan, who just scowled in return.  “You can now go out again tonight, and not feel guilty about all the drinks you downed yesterday.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Rowan protested.

“Really? That’s not what Sam told me,” Aelin shot back snarkily.  Rowan just sighed, and Aelin flashed him a triumphant grin. “Will I see you at the Cadre tonight?” she asked, naming their local haunt for cheap drinks near campus.

Rowan just solemnly nodded and said “See you tonight, Ace.” As he trudged his way back to his own apartment.

Aelin smiled to herself as she strolled at a leisurely pace as she made her way back to her own apartment.  Aelin loved her apartment.  She loved the white marble counter tops in her kitchen, her sofa in her living room, perfect for lounging the day away, it was her safe haven.  Aelin purchased the place right after her freshmen year of College ended, she would soon be moving out of her dorm and she needed a place to call home, since she could not stand to be alone in the house where she and her parents once lived.

One of the newer fixtures in Aelin apartment was her boyfriend, Sam Cortland.  She had just recently given him a key, so he saw fit to come to her apartment whenever he pleased.

“I see you let yourself in.” Aelin called as she walked through the door.

Sam looked up and grinned at her from his seat at the kitchen island, “Just thought I’d check on my beautiful girlfriend, and see what she was up to today.”

“Besides finishing my English lit paper and getting out of these disgustingly sweaty clothes?” Aelin asked.

“Yes, besides that.” Sam laughed over his cup of coffee.

“I told Rowan I’d meet him at the Cadre tonight.” Aelin said, as she watched Sam’s face become closed off, as he stared deeply into his mug.

“Rowan didn’t say anything about last night, did he?” Sam asked cautiously.

Aelin snorted, “No. It seems you guys had fun last night, judging by Rowan’s hang over though,” Aelin laughed. “I’m surprised you’re up and functioning this morning,” Aelin said as she went over to poke her boyfriend in the stomach.

“Well, I clearly didn’t have as good of a night as Rowan did,” Sam laughed, “but I was thinking we could have a good night soon.” Aelin perked up. “How about Mistward’s next Friday night? We can invite the whole gang. It can be our celebration for graduating and finishing our sophomore year.”

“Mistwards, huh?” Aelin was skeptical, Mistward’s was one of the nicest restaurants in all of Orynth, and one of the most expensive. “Do you really think our friends would be up for that? I don’t think Lorcan can dress nicely enough to get into a place like Mistward’s.”

At the end of every school year, Aelin and all her friends would gather, usually at the Cadre, and have a huge blow out celebration for finishing up the school year.  This year was different since both Rowan and Sam were graduating, this celebration had to be better, and to reflect all of them, and MIstward’s definitely did not reflect Rowan.

“I think I can convince them,” Sam said with a sly grin.

“I don’t Know…”

“Come on, Aelin,” He was still smiling, “I got it covered.” He set his mug of coffee on the counter and got up to kiss her. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close.  She relaxed into his warmth.

“I’m surprised you’re willing to touch me; I’m covered in sweat.” Aelin mumbled into his chest.

Sam laughed heartily, “Maybe my intentions weren’t so pure, we’re both fairly sweaty now. How about I run us a shower.”

Aelin laughed and began to walk into her bathroom to run a shower for the both of them.

[fruit-teeth]

Obscure stories from my childhood/teen years

1. Once when I was like three years old and laying in bed, I watched a black, slimy creature with red eyes climb out of my floorboards and look me in the eyes while grinning before disappearing. This memory has haunted me for years and I’m sure it was just a dream, but if it wasn’t...what the fuck

2. When I took tap-dancing lessons, a screw came loose in my tap shoe and scraped the floor by mistake. Upon noticing it, my dance instructor began screaming and crying and hyperventilating, and she went to get her husband who then started screaming at me because the floors were apparently very expensive (I was six so why he thought I would understand this is beyond me). Later, one of my friends in middle school had the same dance instructor, but when I told him this story I don’t think he believed me.

3. At that same dance program, I knew a girl who was really rude to everyone except me, but she only liked me because I brought plastic dragons to our class and she really liked dragons. I looked her up on Facebook awhile ago and she’s apparently a physic medium now. I have no idea what to do with this information

4. My nickname in eighth grade and all throughout high school was Pony, because I drew My Little Pony characters all over my notebooks. I also did a video project for my Global History class wherein I didn’t want to film my own face so instead I used my Fluttershy doll to explain the history of Libya. Thinking about this makes me cringe so hard every muscle in my body clenches

5. In high school, I role played as a character from Homestuck to impress some girls I was friends with. The kicker: I have never read Homestuck

6. I found a book of magic spells when I was 15, and the first thing I did was curse one of my teachers. I don’t think it worked, but he did get a broken rib several weeks later in an ice skating incident. However, a week after his accident, I got the worst stomach flu I have ever had. Karma is real

7. I quoted Doug Walker (the Nostalgia Critic) in an essay I wrote for my sophomore English class...and I am ashamed. To be fair, though, I don’t think my teacher even read it because she gave me a 95 anyway.

8. In fifth grade, I drew the PowerPuff Girls violently attacking my teacher because she made me mad one day. In case you can’t tell my relationships with my teachers were troubled

9. I wrote a series of very terrible Invader Zim fan comics in 7th grade. The plot was incomprehensible, but it was full of memes and a surprising amount of fan made lore. I also unapologetically stole jokes from other comics. I still have all of these comics but I am in decisive over ever sharing them with anyone because GOD they are bad

10. At ten years old, I opened up a word document and typed my first fanfiction. It was a PowerPuff Girls fanfic and it wasn’t good, but my mom was so impressed that on Thanksgiving, she printed it out and had all of my family members take turns reading it. Thinking about this sort of makes me cringe but at the time I felt like the coolest bitch on the block

[20dollarlolita]

20dollarlolita vs ink/stitch, day 3:

If you think you're going to be interested in making your own designs via machine embroidery someday, start casually learning inkscape and ink/stitch now. Ink/Stitch competes with full-featured embroidery software the same way a $2 bill competes with a $1000 check. You can do a whole lot more with a $1000 check, but not everyone has one, and a $2 bill is still pretty cool. It's not worthless just because it won't buy you an original Iron Gate release.

Also, the digitizing process for making vector art and the digitizing process for making embroidery designs are very similar. You still have to think of things in terms of outlines and fills. This is different to how you would think of a drawing you would make with a pencil and markers.

Ink/Stitch is a plugin for Inkscape. Inkscape is a vector software that you can use for computer controlled cutter/plotter machines, laser cutting and etching machines, lots of graphic designs and advertising, fashion flats, and a lot more. Vector images are able to be scaled up and down with no loss, so if you can make a graphic on your computer for your dad's business that says, "Rick's Legal advice and Lobster BBQ" on your computer, your dad can get it printed onto menus, attache cases, a 7 foot wide banner, and the local billboard of your small town. Help your family out, and all that. I'm the person that my store goes to for most image editing, which is because I learned GIMP when I was 13 and had a need to make Inuyasha image edits for my signature on forum posts (yes, Comic Sans was involved). My childhood hobby has turned into a useful skill that I have in my adult life.

So, to everyone, especially the 13-year-olds out there who need to make *looks up the hip anime of the youth these days* uh...Miraculous Ladybug? embroideries, Ink/Stitch is a really good product for teaching yourself how to do this.

Set my Facebook profile picture to Rarity Pie as a joke, and then my idiot ass decided to try to join a Facebook group WITH A MY LITTLE PONY AVATAR

I shall never again rise from the ashes of my shame and humiliation

[bopinion]

Book of the month / 2021 / 04 April

I love books. Even though I hardly read any. Because my library is more like a collection of tomes, coffee-table books, limited editions... in short: books in which not "only" the content counts, but also the editorial performance, the presentation, the curating of the topic - the book as a total work of art itself.

björk :archives. A retrospective

Klaus Biesenbach

Monograph / 2015 / Schirmer/Mosel Publishing House

Iceland, the land of geysers, the largest volcanic island on the planet. Home of the Icelandic pony with its exclusive gait of the tölt and the most active literary community in the world. Soccer mecca and most sparsely populated country in Europe. Icelandic names - for example the highest mountain Hvannadalshnúkur - are hardly pronounceable, although the alphabet does not even know many common letters such as C, W, Q and Z. There is a separate holiday for seafarers and a division of time into 3-hour periods starting at midnight. 16 German cities each have more inhabitants than all of Iceland, which has therefore its own dating app to prevent relatives who are biologically too close from mating. It's a fascinating country.

Given the size of the country, it's probably no wonder that Iceland's pop cultural influence internationally is rather limited. Despite the Nobel Prize for Literature winner Halldór Laxness, whose work I don't know, and the crime series The Valhalla Murderers, which I know thanks to Netflix. But wait - wasn't there something else? Yes, that's right, Iceland has a globally successful Gesamtkunstwerk named Björk. Her contributions to music, video, film, fashion and art have influenced a generation worldwide.

Björk Guðmundsdóttir, born in Reykjavík in 1965, has made a name for herself as a singer, music producer, composer, songwriter and actress with a broad interest in different types of music, including pop music, electronic music, trip-hop, alternative rock, jazz, folk music and classical music. To date, she has sold over 20 million albums worldwide. Certainly not only because of the seemingly endless variability of her compositions, but also because of her voice, which one can confidently call unmistakable. She causes goose bumps, whether you like her music or not.

Little Björk attended music school at the age of five and was taught singing, piano and flute, among other things, for ten years. One of the teachers sent a recording of her singing the song "I Love To Love" by Tina Charles to a radio station. The broadcast was heard and liked by an employee of the Icelandic record publisher Fálkinn and subsequently offered her a recording contract - when she was eleven years old. With the help of her stepfather, who played guitar, she recorded her first album. It contained various Icelandic children's songs and cover versions of popular titles, such as "Fool on the Hill" by the Beatles. The album became a great national success.

At 14, Björk formed the girl punk group Spit and Snot, the maximum contrast program to the children's songs. This was followed by the fusion jazz group Exodus, later Tappi Tíkarrass and Kukl (Icelandic for witchcraft), with whom she developed her signature vocal style. First foreign tours to England and West Berlin followed. Then in 1986 came the formation of the band Pukl, later renamed The Sugarcubes. The first single brought respectable success in England and USA, The Sugarcubes reached cult status. The first record deal with Elektra Records led to the album "Life's too good" in 1988, making them the first Icelandic band ever to become world famous.

The transformation into a total work of art began in 1992 at the latest with Björk's move to London. The first solo album, appropriately named "Debut," became the album of the year according to New Musical Express. Now even Madonna wanted to have a whole album written by Björk, but it remained with the title track "Bedtime Story", she remained true to herself and her love of experimentation. The New York based news magazine "Time" named her the "high priestess of art" and in 2015 put her on the list of the 100 most influential people on earth. She rounded off her visual extravaganza, that even her wardrobe was prominently featured in the major retrospective at New York's Museum of Modern Art (MoMA).

Schirmer/Mosel Verlag is an art book publisher in Munich founded in 1974 by Lothar Schirmer and the commercial artist Erik Mosel. Schirmer became friends with artists such as Cy Twombly and Joseph Beuys at a young age and began collecting their works. By buying and reselling art prints and drawings, he earned the start-up capital for his publishing house. With his publishing debut, he ensured the rediscovery of August Sander, a visual artist of the Weimar Republic. There were various publishing collaborations with the MoMA, and in 2015 there was also the retrospective mentioned above. And of course, in keeping with the protagonist, the publication had to become a work of art itself.

"björk :archives" comes in an elegant slipcase containing six parts: four booklets, a paperback and a folded catalogue raisonné poster with the covers of all Björk albums. A closer look is worthwhile: first there is a thematic introduction by the editor and exhibition curator at the MoMA, Klaus Biesenbach. Then an illustrated essay by Alex Ross, music critic of the New Yorker, which deals with Björk's creative dissolution of musical and aesthetic boundaries. Another by Nicola Dibben, professor of musicology at the University of Sheffield, on Björk's creativity and collaborations. And the collected e-mail correspondence similar to a pen pal relationship between Björk and American publicist, philosopher and literary scholar Timothy Morton.

The book itself, the centerpiece of the edition, is about Björk's seven major albums and the characters she created for them. Poetic texts by Icelandic author Sjón, with whom Björk has long collaborated, are joined by a veritable treasure trove of illustrations: Photos of live performances, stills from the music videos of masters like Michel Gondry or Spike Jonze, Björk in stunning costumes by designers like Hussein Chalayan or Alexander McQueen, and PR shots by star photographers like the duo Inez van Lamsweerde & Vinoodh Matadin or provocateur Araki.

The design of the publication quotes music scores and comes from the renowned Parisian design studio M/M. It all adds up to an extraordinary visual masterpiece, a tribute to the magical world of Björk. And that at an hardly believable price of € 19.80. A reviewer on Amazon (no, you shouldn't shop there - support local businesses!) sums it up: "This is a collection of art, stories and references very well organized and assembled with care. The price does absolutely not represent how valuable this product is, I am positively surprised." Positively surprising - that could truly be Björk's mission statement.

Björk's music itself is so rich in pictorial statements that it doesn't really need any exuberantly creative videos to go with it. Therefore, according to Slant Magazine, her best video is her first, relatively simple one: "Big Time sensuality" from her "Debut" album purely shows her joy in music. Here's the link:

https://youtu.be/-wYmq2Vz5yM

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

The Wages of Sin

Before I found tumblr, I seriously believed I was the only person on Earth whose pulse went up when Samoa Joe appeared. He just broadcasts pure dominant energy and power. I miss seeing him in the ring but I’m glad he’s still on my tv on a (mostly) weekly basis. 

Pairing: Samoa Joe x reader

Word count: 3,732

Content advisory: BDSM smut

It was all you could do not to roll your eyes at his expression when you came in the door. It was always the same with men: they called to have a computer technician come over and when a woman showed up, they looked at you like there had been some mistake. Some would even be so gauche as to ask if you were qualified to do this sort of work. This guy wasn’t that bad but when he saw you, his eyes swept up and down over your body, lingering on your breasts longer than he should have before he waved you inside with nothing more than a grunt. 

“The computer’s in the office,” he informed you. “First door on the left back there. Off the kitchen. It’s been slowing down for a while and now it won’t even start up.”

“Ok. Other than slowing down, have there been any other problems you’ve noticed, Mr…” 

“Joe,” he grunts. “Joe is fine. And yeah, there have been a bunch of programs crashing.”

“Well, Joe, why don’t we have a look and see what the problem is?”

You head in the direction that he’s indicated and enter a neatly organized office space. There’s a desk in one corner, but the room is dominated by a large section coach flanked  by a couple of odd looking benches. It’s strange, because there’s no television in the room, no books, nothing that would indicate this was a place where one would sit and relax. You shrug it off. Maybe he likes to take a nap after he’s done working. Maybe this is where he takes women to seduce them.

Immediately, you try to push that image from your mind. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but when he gave you that once-over, you’d felt a shiver run through your whole body. He was massive and while at first glance he’d appeared fat, you quickly saw that he was just powerfully built. As he stood behind you and watched what you working, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt, pushing them up and revealing forearms like iron girders, the kind of arms you could imagine holding you down with ease, choking you, forcing you to do whatever he wanted. 

You try to shake those thoughts out of your head and focus on the task at hand. You boot up his computer in safe mode and, once you’re able to get a look around, it’s clear that the problem is a large number of files that have taken up so much space that the computer barely has any available memory to launch or run anything. On top of that, there are multiple malware programs that are deviously working away. You’ll have to work on those right away in order to get the computer stable enough for you to see the files and try to clear out some space. 

He stands behind you as you start to untangle the electronic knots, his breath heavy and incredibly distracting. 

“This is gonna take me a while,” you tell him.

“Well I’ll leave you to it then.” His tone is friendly but there’s a dark undertone to it, like he can see inside your mind and know that he’s having an effect on you. 

Once he’s gone, you settle down and focus on the task at hand. He pokes his head in a couple of times but leaves you alone otherwise. It’s just as well because what he’s got is a real mess and it takes a lot of work to identify and then scrub the malware. Normally, you could run a program to deal with the majority of the work but his computer is so unstable that it can’t run anything, meaning that you have to do everything manually. 

Thirteen programs. It takes two and a half hours but you’re finally able to remove all traces of the thirteen programs that have contaminated his hard drive. The early winter light is already starting to fade and now you have to start isolating files. Protocol is that you identify duplicates and separate them onto a second drive without ever looking but everyone takes a peek to see what secrets a client has. Nine times out of ten it’s porn, usually varying flavors of vanilla. It’s never happened to you personally, but a couple of the people you work with have found photos or videos of kids, something that immediately gets reported to the cops. (Peeking at a client’s files is unethical but not illegal, meaning that what the technician sees is fair game.)

When you see that the files are almost all videos, you figure you pretty much know what you’re in for. The nature of the videos, though, is more than you bargained for. This is hardcore stuff, all women getting flogged and bound and taken roughly in every hole as they scream in pain and ecstasy at the same time. There are dozens if not hundreds like this and mixed in among them are videos of Joe himself, proudly displaying his naked body and a thick cock that you can imagine would be rough to take even under normal circumstances.   

Watching all this, you feel your breathing grow faster and that familiar wetness in your core soaking your panties within minutes. The fact is that you’ve desperately wanted a man who’d take you like this, who’d use you and brutalize you, but you’d never found one. You’d eventually had to dump your last boyfriend because the sex was so boring you found yourself repulsed by it. You’ve watched plenty of videos like these at home, but knowing you were only a couple of rooms away from a man who clearly indulged in these activities a lot makes you squirm in your seat, trying to get some friction against the seam of your jeans to relieve a bit of the pressure. 

Your eyes flicker towards the benches you’d noticed when you came in and now you know what their purpose is. You open another file, Joe again with a woman tied up and bent nearly double, his hand wound around her pony tale as he pounds mercilessly into her. 

Looking once again at the benches, you imagine him strapping you to one and whipping you, making you beg for him. 

The woman in the video is screaming non-stop about how good he feels, how she deserves what she’s getting, welcoming every vile slur he hurls at her. 

You’re so caught up in what you’re seeing and in what you’re imagining that you don’t notice that the sound on this video is a fair bit higher than in the others, and are caught totally off-guard when you hear the voice behind you. 

“See something you like?” he drawls. 

Right away, you feel not just your face but your whole upper body grow hot with humiliation. It’s one thing for you to be fantasizing but this is you getting caught invading a customer’s privacy. Even if it’s understood that everybody does it, you’ll be lucky to keep your job if and when he complains. 

“Not really my scene,” you lie. “But I don’t judge. I just need to sort through stuff to free up some space. I’m going to install an external drive and move your videos there. It’s an extra charge but it’s not too much. You can call the office to find out the exact amount if you want.”

Joe gives a noncommittal sound and walks away without another glance. Your cheeks are still burning an hour later when you’ve dutifully moved the files onto the external drive, careful not to open a single one, even though you’re dying of curiosity. Trembling, you pack up your stuff and prepare to make a shame-faced exit. You’re wondering if you should just apologize to him, maybe say that you opened one of the files by accident and just started poking around, not quite believing what you were seeing. You’re unable to decide if that would be better than saying nothing and trying to pretend that nothing had happened. He’s standing in front of the door with an unfriendly look on his face. 

“Well,” you begin unsteadily, “you haven’t lost any files. There wasn’t any permanent damage, so other than moving some stuff to an external drive, everything will be exactly the way it was, but it’ll run a lot faster.” 

He folds his arms and looks down his nose at you without speaking. It takes you a few seconds to figure out what to say next under the weight of his stare. 

“There were a bunch of malware programs I had to remove. That was what was causing most of the problem. There are certain sites that tend to… have… lots of those things. Anyway, I installed newer antiviral software that should block them.”

You sound completely lost and you are. You feel like, rather than registering a complaint with your employer, Joe is preparing to kill you and eat you for violating his privacy. In the interest of getting out before you’re made into a main course, you opt to stop speaking and to leave the subject of your intrusion out of the conversation. 

As you reach for the doorknob, though, Joe presses his arm against the door and his scowl deepens. 

“You lied to me,” he seethes. 

“Excuse me?”

“Before. You were lying when you said you weren’t interested in those videos. I can always tell.���

“Oh,” you murmur, “about that. Look, I’m really sorry that I was going through your-”

“Yeah, that’s not what we’re talking about little girl.”

“It isn’t?” You feel yourself shrinking back from him and he leans closer as you do, until your back is pressed into the doorframe.

“No,” he purrs. “We’re talking about you and how you were turned on by what you saw. We’re talking about how your panties are probably still soaked because you were so excited.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times as you fight to think of something to say. His broad chest is just inches from you, heat radiating from him and clouding your thoughts even more. 

“I have to go,” is what you’re eventually able to croak. 

“Is that so?” he hums. “Well I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna go get into something more comfortable. If you want to go, you go. I won’t stop you. But if you want to find out what I can do to you, what I can make you feel, then you get back in the office and wait for me.”

He steps back and heads up the stairs without another syllable, leaving you with a decision to make. There are assuredly better ways for you to find a man to dominate you. But you’ve seen what this man can do and you’ve felt the power and confidence roll off him, leaving you quivering inside and out. You take a deep breath and head back down to his office. 

He makes you wait. It’s a good fifteen or twenty minutes before he reappears wearing nothing but boxers, a towel over his shoulders and an arrogant expression that says he never had any doubt you’d be here. 

“Eyes down.” It’s an order, you know, even though he speaks as quietly as ever, and you immediately comply. 

You’re able to see him toss the towel on the sofa and you hear him opening something- a drawer?- and then close it again a second later. Whatever he was looking for, he knew exactly where it was. 

“Top off and hands behind your back.” His voice is behind you, even as ever. 

You comply right away, stripping yourself of your sweater and t-shirt, hesitating a little at the thought of removing your bra. 

“Everything off,” he whispers, much closer than he was before. 

Keeping your eyes on the floor, you remove it and try to steady your breath. You feel a light line traced across your back by something you can’t identify. It’s thin and pliable, but has some strength to it, like the branch of a sapling. It makes you shiver as he continues to move it softly back and forth across the widest part of your back. 

“So you like snooping around in other people’s things, do you?”

“No,” you stammer, “I don’t usually do that, I don’t know what I was-”

Immediately, there’s a sharp crack as he brings the branch-like thing, a riding crop, you guess, down on your back with force. You give a short scream and your breathing speeds up as you feel the pain leak from the narrow band of impact across your skin. 

“You’re lying to me again,” he taunts. “We both know you do that kind of thing all the time, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to focus on anything but the pain and at the same time feeling the juices pooling between your thighs.

“What a bad girl you are.” You flex your muscles, anticipating another strike but he does nothing. You let yourself exhale and relax just a little and that’s when the second blow comes, even harder than the first. The scream you give is louder and tears spring to your eyes. Behind you, you hear him hum in satisfaction and it reverberates in your core. 

“You were watching quite a few of those videos. I saw you,” he continues, to your shame. “Tell me, what did you like the most about them?”

“I- I don’t know…”

This time, the strike hits the flesh of your inner arm, exposed because you have your hands clasped behind your back, the way he told you. 

“If you’re not going to be honest with me, this is going to be a very rough night for you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” And there’s a sharp impact on your other arm that draws a sob and a long whine. 

“Get to the point, little girl.”

“I liked seeing you. I got turned on by what you were doing to those women because I’ve wanted someone to do those things to me.”

He presses himself against your back, running his thumb roughly along one of the whip marks he’s made there. “Now was that so hard?”

You shake your head, struggling to keep your eyes fixed on the ground as he circles around you. He presses the handle end of the riding crop- you were right about that- under your chin. 

“Look at me.”

You do as you're told, more tears dripping from your eyes as you lift your head. 

“Already crying? Are you sure you want this?”

“I do,” you assure him, nodding your head vigorously. 

“It only gets rougher from here,” he warns you. “So if you want it to stop…”

“I want to keep going.”

“So you think you deserve to be punished.”

“I do.”

“You know what you did was wrong. And you know that you’re a filthy girl for liking what you saw so much.”

“Yes.”

“That’s ‘yes, sir’” he corrects you sharply. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think about doing things like that when you’re by yourself? About big, mean taking whatever they want from you? About them hurting you and using you?”

“Yes.”

You hear the sound of the riding crop cutting through the air, but not in time to brace yourself for the impact. It hits right across your nipples and if you had thought that the blows to your back and arms hurt, they were nothing compared to this. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir,” you sob. 

He snaps the riding crop across the same point, the center of both nipples, making you shriek. 

“Show me your hands.”

You lift them for his inspection and he whips your palms repeatedly, like you’re a misbehaving child. 

“Now take off the rest of your clothes,” he instructs. “And give me your panties.”

You move to follow the order, flinching in pain at having to use your wounded hands. He paces in front of you, seeming impatient but letting you take the time you need to get fully undressed. When you’re done, you offer him the garment he requested, which he snatches away from you. 

He smirks as he rolls them around in his hand. To your relief, he places the riding crop on the desk behind him before he approaches you. 

“What’s this?” he sneers, wiping the soaked cotton over your face. “Is this because of what you saw?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You liked it even more than I thought. You really are a dirty little slut. Do you think you deserve to be punished more?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask me.”

“Please, sir,” you stammer, “I want you to punish me because I’m a dirty slut who got turned on watching your videos.”

He gives you a smirk that carries just a hint of approbation. “Very good, slut. Go kneel on the sofa, ass out, arms on the back.”

You scurry over and do exactly as you’ve been told. Once you’re in position, he follows you, hovering over you. 

“Your eyes stay straight ahead,” he cautions. 

He kneels on the sofa beside you and reaches down, producing a pair of handcuffs already attached to the old-fashioned heater, obviously installed for the purpose of chaining women in place. You let him take your wrists and manacle them, flinching because the metal is actually hot on your skin. Once again, he disappears behind you. 

His hand comes down on your ass with a thunderous noise and you swear you can feel the reverberations in your skeleton. You let out a half-gasp, half-cry but before you’re able to regroup, he smacks your other cheek just as hard, if not harder. He continues this, increasing the pace as he does until you’re screaming and crying. 

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“I… I think so?”

“I don’t know,” he muses, “your pussy is dripping. I think we might need to look at punishing you another way. I think I might have to pound that slit with my cock to show you what happens to dirty sluts who go looking at things they’re not supposed to.”

“Yes, sir, you should.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“Yes, please, sir, I want your cock.”

“What’s that?”

“Please fuck me, sir. Show me how bad I am.”

He bends over you, pushing his boxers off, and whispers harshly in your ear, “Well as long as you’re absolutely sure.”

You nod and he accepts that, grasping your bruised ass tightly and ramming into you like a jackhammer. He pounds relentlessly, leaving you with nothing to do but take what he’s giving, gasping and mewling in ecstasy as each brutal thrust seems to increase the sensitivity of your cunt, the sensation of pleasure flooding through you. 

“Is this what you needed?” he snarls, panting. 

“Yes, oh god, yes!” You’re a little shocked at the volume of your own voice but all you want to do is scream because what he’s giving you is what you’ve fantasized about for so long, what your body has always known it needed but could never get. You can feel every nerve rushing towards climax and just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge, he pulls out, pressing the tip of his dick against your tailbone, just above the crack of your ass, and he comes, the hot liquid trickling down between your ass cheeks and your swollen lips in streams. He traces the flow with his thick fingers, up and down, making you whine in need. Finally, he grabs the towel he brought with him and wipes you off. You’re still whimpering, moving your hips all around, searching for any kind of contract. 

He gives a dark chuckle and you hear him walk away. You want to cry but he’s back in a moment, close by you. Immediately, he starts to wind a rope around your legs, soft like silk and strong. He binds your thighs to your calves, your ankles together and then he flips you over, the chain on the handcuffs pulling your arms taut. 

You could not be more vulnerable, spread open before him. He wipes his dick across your chest to remove the remaining mix of your juices. 

“I’ll bet you think you deserve to come, now, don’t you?” 

“Yes, please sir.”

“Why should I let you.”

“I’ve tried to be good for you, sir. I’ve done everything you asked. I’m sorry I lied to you before but I told you the truth after. And you just turn me on so much, sir.”

He smirks again and plants his tree trunk of a thigh on the sofa between your legs. 

“Like this,” he growls. “You want to get off? You fuck yourself on my leg like an animal who doesn’t know any better.”

Part of you wants to resist, but you’re so desperate for it that you press yourself against him and start grinding into his thigh. You can feel the powerful muscle beneath the flesh as he flexes, giving you a little more friction. It’s still slippery and the way that you’re bound makes it difficult to move the way you need to, but you’re able to make it work. 

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

“So close, sir!”

“And am I good to you, letting you cum on my leg like this?”

“Yes, thank you!”

You thrust yourself even harder against him to add just the little bit more pressure that you need, moving faster as you can feel your orgasm ready to burst through you. 

And with a nasty grin, he steps back. 

Your clit is so engorged that the sensation of air hitting it is actually painful. Although you’d like to remain composed and be angry, you just sob, tears welling up yet again. 

“Why?” you cry at him. 

“You don’t get to cum until I decide you’re ready.”

“Please, sir, I’m begging you, I need to.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He pulls his boxers back on and grabs the towel, heading towards the door. 

“Wait!” you yelp after him. “Where are you going?”

He laughs again, deep and almost demonic. “I’m a busy man. I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

“Aren’t you going to untie me?”

He smirks and throws the towel over his shoulders again. “Oh no. You’re gonna stay right there until I’m ready to use you again.”       

[alex51324]

Thomas and the Island of the Gays, rough draft, first section

Several people have mentioned how excited they are for this, and honestly I could use a dopamine hit, so I thought I’d try something I haven’t done for a while and post what I have so far.  (Way back in the days of LJ, I used to call this “Is this anything?”)

For those who didn’t see the previous post, this is an AU where Thomas ends up in a very unusual treatment program for his homosexuality.  Will eventually include just about every gay OC from every Thomas story I’ve ever written. Thomas/Happiness (slow burn).

Content notes: The first part of this is a bit dark, because Thomas was in a much less fun “treatment” program before the one that the story is really about.  Also, this whole section is pretty much exposition and worldbuilding porn.  

Content warnings:  conversion therapy, mention of suicide, period-typical homophobia, brief period-typical racism.  

And I hope to God my Readmore works, because otherwise this is gonna kill people’s dashes.  

Thomas stood blinking in the bright light.  Bright to his eyes, anyway—he hadn’t stepped foot outside The Clinic for…God, how long had it been?  Hadn’t worn his own clothes, either; it felt strange to be wearing shoes with laces in them.

They watched you when you shaved, too, and counted the razors after you were done.  One bloke had managed it anyway—bedsheet twisted into a rope and looped around a doorknob.  That had to take some balls.  Thomas knew he couldn’t have managed it.  Maybe if he’d had a chance, after they told him he was going…wherever it was he was going.

“—Tanner, and that one’s Barrow,” the guard—orderly—was saying.  “You want to watch out for that one.  Took a swing at me mate earlier this morning.”

“Goodness,” said a more educated voice.  Doctor…L, something.  He’d been to examine Thomas, and a couple of the others, some time ago.  If Thomas had known what it was about, he’d have lied more. Doctor L. went on talking, something about not giving any further trouble.  It ended with a, “Will you, Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell whether the question warranted a “yes” or a “no,” so he just said, “Sir.”

A few more remarks, and a quantity of paperwork, passed between Dr. L. and the Clinic man, and then Thomas and Tanner were herded into a waiting motor-taxi, the guard getting into the front with the driver.  There was another gentleman in there, but none of the rough sorts that The Clinic employed as orderlies.  Bit strange, that, when they were transporting two such dangerous incurables.

Doctor L. introduced the other gentleman as Doctor something-or-other, but Thomas didn’t catch it. As the cab lurched into motion, Dr. L. began questioning Tanner about his history before The Clinic.  Thomas had, deliberately, taken as little notice as possible of his fellow inmate-patients, but he had a vague idea that Tanner had been talkative, at first—and he’d apparently learned nothing from his stay at The Clinic, because it took very little prompting to get him chattering like a magpie.  

He went on until they fetched up at a railway station—Thomas didn’t notice which one—and were herded through the sparse midmorning crowd to a second-class compartment.  The guard took the seat nearest the door, then the two gentlemen, and their charges next to the windows.  Worn out from the short walk, Thomas let his head slump against the glass.

The respite didn’t last long.  Dr. L. started talking again, and Thomas belatedly realized he should have summoned up the wherewithal to pay attention, when whatever he’d been saying finished up with a, “Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas glanced over at Tanner, hoping for some sort of hint as to what he was expected to say, but none was forthcoming.  “Sir?” he essayed.

“You were employed as a valet, prior to your time at The Clinic?” Dr. L. repeated, peering at Thomas over his spectacles.

Oh.  “Yes, sir.”

“And before that, a footman, and RAMC in the war,” he went on, consulting a document folder that was open on his lap.  “We’ll be spoilt for choice, when it comes to finding a place for you.”  

Was that sarcasm?  It had to be.  Thomas attempted to take umbrage, but gave it up as too much work. “Sir,” he said flatly.  

“Once you’ve settled in, of course,” the other doctor added quickly.  “Where were you stationed?”

That one, Thomas had to think about, the place-names hovering just out of his grasp.  Finally, he said, “France.  Sir.”  

“Hospital work, or in trenches?”

Thomas knew that one. “Yes, sir.”

The second doctor shot a sideways glance at Dr. R, and Thomas realized that his answer hadn’t precisely been enlightening.  “Bit of both.”  There was more to it than that—hospital work first, then his time at the Front, then hospital again, back in England.  But explaining seemed like too much effort.  

Another sideways look at Dr. L., this one more obvious, and the other doctor asked in an undertone, “Is he drugged?”

Thomas said, “Yes, sir,” at the same time that Dr. L. said, “He shouldn’t be.”

There was a longish stretch of silence, and Tanner chipped in, “It was after he hit that orderly.”  

Thomas could have done without everybody being reminded of that, but at least they pretty much left him alone, after that.  Dr. L. spoke at some length to the guard, and when he’d finished with that,  Tanner went on talking nineteen to the dozen, but Thomas just drifted, settling back against the window and letting the scenery pass in front of his eyes.  

He’d only had the sedative, this time, so it wasn’t unpleasant.  He was vaguely aware that, by not listening to anything the two doctors were saying, he was missing a lot of valuable information about where he was headed—but he couldn’t quite manage to care.

He’d been full of plans on his way to The Clinic.  Them at Downton had arranged for him to be sent.  After that disastrous midnight kiss, Jimmy had wanted him sacked without a reference, but somebody—Thomas still wasn’t sure who—had heard of a place that claimed to be able to fix men like him.  Thomas knew it had to be nonsense, but with the offer of a decent character after, had agreed to take the cure, figuring that he could always pretend it had worked.  

The brief spell of unemployment while he’d received medical treatment of an unspecified nature would take some explaining, he had thought, but if he alluded to the war, no one would ask many questions—a case of shell-shock was considerably more respectable than the truth, but still not something anyone wanted to discuss at a job interview.  

But, like so many of Thomas’s plans, it hadn’t turned out that way.   If he’d known what he was getting himself in for, he’d have taken sacking-without-a-reference like a shot.  Not only was the “treatment” more horrific than he could have possibly imagined—the vast majority of the men subjected to it were there as a condition of release from prison—but they had an utterly indecent apparatus for determining whether or not it was working.

Which, of course, it hadn’t. And if that was how they treated you when they still had some hope for you…well, Thomas really didn’t want to know what they did with the incurable cases.  

He was, unfortunately, going to find out.  

The journey lasted…well, Thomas wasn’t sure, but at one point sandwiches appeared.  Thomas looked at his with undisguised loathing, and the orderly made a few threatening moves in his direction, but Dr. L. said something to him, and he subsided without actually making Thomas eat it.  

They wound up somewhere near the sea, and it wasn’t until he’d been herded onto some sort of boat or ferry that Thomas realized they’d left the orderly behind at the railway station. There might have been a chance to escape, somewhere in there, but if there was, Thomas had missed it.  

Decking that guard had probably been a mistake.  

Boarding the boat, Thomas had a vague impression of fairly substantial size, and thought idly of, perhaps, separating himself from his keepers in a crowd, but they four appeared to be the only passengers.  The two doctors showed him and Tanner into a place like a waiting room at a very small railway station, with hanging lamps and wooden benches, and passed around tea and biscuits.

The tea was welcome, and the biscuit marginally less unappealing than the sandwiches earlier, so Thomas nibbled at it experimentally.  His stomach lurched, and nobody said anything when he abandoned it on the saucer.  

Thomas attempted, and nearly managed, to maintain some awareness of his surroundings, but the only even halfway useful thing he learned was that the journey was a short one. That might have been worth knowing, in terms of escape plans, if Thomas had the slightest idea of how to operate a boat, but he didn’t.  

The boat fetched up at a small, rocky island with a tiny village clinging to one side of it, and they disembarked onto a quay, or wharf, or whatever you called it, where were gathered a dozen or so men, and a couple of carts with ponies hitched to them.   Everyone, apart from the ponies, eyed Thomas and Tanner with evident curiosity.  Thomas wondered just how much they knew about the purpose of the sanitarium. If it was of any size at all, it had to employ at least half the village, so how much of a secret could it be?

Most of the men began unloading cargo from the boat, but Dr. L. gestured to one of them, who trotted over.   “These the new arrivals?”

Dr. L. nodded.  “Sylvester Tanner, and Thomas Barrow,” he said, indicating them.  “Gentlemen, Theo will show you up to the main house and get you settled in.”

Theo was medium-sized and inoffensive-looking.  Thomas probably could have taken him—but what would be the point?  Theo said something Thomas didn’t catch, to which Tanner replied brightly—flirtatiously, even –“I’m sure we’ll be in good hands.”

Any of the orderlies at The Clinic would have smacked him, but Theo just smiled, and Dr. L. said, “Indeed.”  To the one called Theo, he added, “You can give Mr. Tanner the grand tour, but Mr. Barrow has been sedated, so there won’t be much point showing him anything but the essentials.  Bring him to my office tomorrow at eleven.  He’s excused from everything until then, but do try to get him to eat something.”  

Apparently he’d noticed about the biscuit, after all.  

Theo led them through the village.  Thomas noted a pub and a tobacconist, not that either was likely to do him much good, before becoming too weary to bother seeing things.  Of the sanitarium itself, he had only a vague impression of a stone pile. Up a staircase, down a corridor, and they wound up in a sort of ward, unoccupied at this time of day.  Theo pointed him at one of the cots, and Thomas collapsed onto it and fell promptly and deeply asleep.

He had the sort of vivid and incoherent dreams that you got when you’d been drugged insensible, and woke with a head full of disjointed and rapidly-fading images, a tongue that felt like shoe leather in his mouth, and a chatter of overlapping voices.

The rest of the ward’s inmates were back now, a half-dozen or so of them, and they all seemed to be talking at once, as they shaved or changed their shirts or combed their hair. It reminded Thomas a bit of a barracks in the war, and not at all of The Clinic, where making any kind of sound was more or less inviting the orderlies to come and shut you up.  

“He wakes!” said a familiarly irritating voice.  Tanner, and he must’ve changed his clothes since getting here; Thomas couldn’t imagine The Clinic letting him out on the street in a tie like that.  It almost looked like a ladies silk scarf.  

“You feeling all right?” asked Theo.  

Thomas sort of grunted, and Theo pointed him at the W.C.  After splashing some cold water on his face, Thomas felt marginally more human. He emerged from that sanctuary to find that much of the crowd had departed, leaving Theo, Tanner, and a couple of others.  “We’re just going down to dinner, if you feel up to it,” Theo told him.  “I’d have told the rest of that lot to keep it down a bit, except I was halfway thinking I ought to wake you up for it anyway.”  

He must, Thomas thought, be a patient, some sort of trustee, rather than an employee.  The Clinic had had a few of those, and as a rule, they’d been worse than the orderlies, but this Theo didn’t seem to have put much of a damper on Tanner.  As they started back down the stairs, Thomas essayed a question.  “What do they do to you here, if you don’t eat?”

Stopping halfway down the staircase, Theo glanced over his shoulder and up at Thomas.  “Nothing much,” he said, with a hint of pity that made Thomas want to kick him.  “Did they give you a treatment before you left that place this morning?”

“No,” Thomas said.  

Theo continued walking. “Sometimes it takes a bit for your appetite to come back,” he said.  “But the food here’s not bad, usually.”

Thomas was dubious about that—the slop they shoved at you at The Clinic was barely edible even if you weren’t heaving your guts up two or three times a day.  But the dining room that Theo led them to had, if anything, even less in common with The Clinic than the ward had.  It looked more like the dining room of an hotel that had come down in the world a bit—wainscoting, chipped; lamps, numerous but sooty and tarnished; tablecloths, white linen, but stained and mended in places.  There were about half a dozen tables, each seating six or eight.  It was about as loud as an Army mess of comparable size, but without the shoving and swearing.

He, Tanner, and Theo sat at a table with four others.  Theo introduced them, but Thomas didn’t catch the names.  One of them asked him something, and he blinked stupidly.  

“Thomas had a bit of a rough morning,” Theo said delicately.  “I’m not sure he’s feeling quite himself yet.”

The others all made sympathetic noises, and before long, another bloke arrived, carrying a large, heavily-laden tray.  The ones nearest him helped unload it, and then the newcomer sat in their table’s remaining chair.  

That, too, reminded him a bit of the Army.  The mess tins held enough for six, and usually one man was dispatched to queue up for it.  But, as Theo had intimated, the food looked to be quite a bit better than Army rations, with meat that had clearly never seen the inside of a tin, roasted potatoes that were still crisp, and fresh bread.  The dishes were passed around the table, and as each one came to him, Thomas warily helped himself to a few bites’ worth of everything.  

He didn’t do much more than pick at it, but no one seemed to take any notice.  There was a great deal of conversation, mostly about people Thomas didn’t know.  From various bits and pieces, he gradually gathered that several of the men were, in fact, employed in the village, so perhaps Dr. L. hadn’t entirely been taking the piss—though it was difficult to imagine anyone in such a remote place needing a valet, much less one who was an incurable homosexual.  

When the dishes were cleared, the bloke sitting next to Thomas offered him a cigarette, which Thomas was happy to accept.  He lit it for Thomas, too, which caused him to raise a mental eyebrow, but was perhaps just as well—Thomas didn’t have the faintest idea what had happened to his lighter. “Thanks,” he said, and groped for the man’s name.  

“Richard,” he supplied, adding, “This place is…a lot to take in.”

“You said it,” Thomas muttered.

“I’d invite you to come find me if you need a native guide, but we’re not allowed in each others’ rooms. For obvious reasons.”

“No,” Thomas agreed. He didn’t suppose they would be.  

“You’ll be all right, once your head stops spinning,” Richard added.  

“Yeah?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah,” Richard said, with a warm smile.  

Worn out from the exertion of dinner, Thomas slept fairly well…at first.  Somewhere in the small hours, he woke again, jittery and ill at ease. At The Clinic, they didn’t want you getting out of bed until they told you do, but no one stopped him, when he ventured to the W.C. for another restorative splash of cold water. Emboldened by this success, he stood for a while at a window—open, and unbarred—wishing he had a cigarette.  

He thought he might be in for it when Theo, who slept in the ward with them, stirred, but he only said, in a whisper, “You all right, Barrow?”

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Just—awake.”

Theo made a sleepy sort of sound, and fumbled in the bedside table, producing a watch, which he peered at in the moonlight.  “It’ll be at least three hours before anyone’s up,” he said, with a yawn.  “But if you’re still up then, I’ll show you around before breakfast.”  

It was very difficult to tell, Thomas reflected, whether that was meant as a treat or a threat, but whatever it was, he was still up some hours later, when the watery light of dawn crept through the curtains.  He gradually realized that the large shape at the foot of his bunk was, in fact, the trunk he’d packed with all his things before going to The Clinic, and hadn’t seen since.  He was itching to check if any of his things had been pinched, but stayed where he was, feigning sleep as a man came into the ward and shook one of the others awake.

The other man had a rummage through his own trunk, suggesting that this was an authorized morning activity, so once he had dressed and gone, Thomas sat up slowly and eased open the clasps on his.  

On top was his overcoat, under that his good suit, and hidden away at the very bottom were the dozen packs of cigarettes he’d laid in for his “treatment.”  They might be pretty stale now, but infinitely better than nothing.  He stuck one pack in the pocket of his pyjamas, and two more under the mattress, in case his trunk disappeared again.

The latter, while a sensible precaution, had the unintended side effect of waking up Theo, who glared at him balefully for a moment before grabbing a sponge bag and stumbling off toward the W.C.

He emerged a few minutes later, freshly shaven and looking marginally more awake.  He caught Thomas’s eye and tilted his head in the direction where he’d been, and mouthed, “All yours.”

So Thomas collected his own things from his trunk, and enjoyed his first unsupervised shave (et cetera) in some months.  His face in the mirror was pale and haggard, but when he’d emerged, dressed, and met Theo in the corridor, Theo said, “You look a bit less ghastly than you did last night.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said, dryly.  

“I meant, I hope you feel less ghastly.”

“I suppose,” Thomas admitted.

“Good,” Theo said, and launched into the tour.  The ward they’d just left, he explained, was for new arrivals.  Once they thought you could be trusted to behave yourself, you were allowed your own bedroom—in which, he echoed Richard from the previous night, you were not permitted to entertain callers.  The rest of the corridor was bedrooms, and so, apparently, were the two floors above.  

If they were laid out the same as this one, Thomas calculated that meant bedrooms for about thirty patients.  A bit fewer, he thought, than had been at dinner the night before.  

Perhaps there was somewhere else they sent you, after the Arrivals Ward, if you couldn’t be trusted to behave yourself.  

“There isn’t really anything to see up here, so we’ll go downstairs,” Theo said.  

They took the same route as they had to go down to dinner, but the night before, Thomas had not had the wherewithal to notice that it was a wide staircase, with carved banisters that were now considerably scuffed, but had once been fairly good.  

Not, in other words, the servants’ stairs.  

They emerged into a front hall.  “Post gets left on that table,” Theo said.  “But it only comes once a week, when the boat comes with our supplies.   You remember where the dining room is?” At Thomas’s nod, he continued, “Next to it’s the meeting room.”  He opened the door briefly, revealing a glimpse of a circle of ill-assorted chairs, arranged under a lozenge that had probably once held a chandelier.  “And over on this side, there’s the library—don’t expect too much of it, but it’s quiet—smoking room, big parlour, small parlour.”  

These rooms, too, showed traces of past grandeur.  Theo let them out onto a rather chilly veranda, where he lit a cigarette, offering one to Thomas.  “Stable and outbuildings are over there—I don’t imagine you’re much interested in those?”

“Not particularly,” Thomas admitted.  

Nodding, Theo gestured back toward the house, to a small wing jutting out to the left.  “That bit’s Dr. L.’s domain—consulting rooms on the ground floor, and he lives above the shop, so to speak.  You can get to him from inside, but the door’s in an awkward spot, so unless it’s really bucketing down, it’s actually easier to go around this way.”  

“I see,” Thomas said, though he wasn’t sure he did.

“The place was built as an hotel,” Theo explained.  “That wing was the private quarters of the family that owned it—or ran it, something like that.  I expect they didn’t want paying guests blundering in there, demanding hot water and extra towels.”

The floor plan was not precisely the part that left Thomas confused, but he only said, “I thought it looked like an hotel.”

“Never a very successful one, I gather,” Theo said.  “I believe they envisioned it as a rival to Bognor, but, well, the place gets barely a dozen sunny days a year, and half of those it’s too cold to step outside without a coat.  They got a few visitors for the fishing and shooting, but not much.  Then an uncle of Dr. L.’s had a go at running it as a tuberculosis sanitarium, but the climate’s not any more suited for that than it is for a seaside resort.   Dr. L. took it over around the turn of the century, and, well, third time lucky, I suppose.”

“Not like the current clientele is in a position to be choosy,” Thomas pointed out.  

“There is that,” Theo agreed, tapping ash from his cigarette.  “Not everyone comes here from the same place—most of the ones who work for a living, yeah, but Dr. L. has arrangements with a private clinic or two, and some Harley Street specialists.  But there isn’t another place like this they could go.”

“I see,” Thomas repeated, once again without complete honesty.

“He does insist that they’ve attempted the cure somewhere,” Theo added.  “Dr. L. does, I mean.  And that they ‘demonstrate commitment to the community’ by spending whacking great sums on fifty-year leaseholds.   Which is more or less the way he manages to keep the place running for the rest of us, so….”  He shrugged. “Which is all just to say, if you liked being a valet, we haven’t got any earls, but we’ve got one’s younger son. Lord Gerald—he lives up there.” Theo gestured in the direction of the only other substantially-sized building in view, a stone house, looking considerably older than the hotel, which Thomas wouldn’t have hesitated to call a smallish manor, if it had been located anywhere other than a few miles west of nowhere.  

“…huh,” Thomas said.  

“He’s nice,” Theo added. “If it was a butler he was looking for, I’d be tempted to take it myself, but he’s got one of those, some chap who came with him from the ancestral pile.  And I like the job I have now.”

“What’s that?” Thomas asked.

“This,” he said. “Looking after the new fellows.  I used to—well, never mind.”  He tossed away his cigarette and led the way back inside. Showing Thomas through a very battered green baize door, he explained that all of the “residents,” as the patients seemed to be called, pitched in with various chores, on a rotating basis—Dave, the one who’d been woken up a bit earlier was taking his turn as cook’s helper this week—but a few, Theo among them, were employed for particular jobs.

“You’ll be assigned something to do in a day or two,” Theo added.  “Nothing complicated, to start with.  You were a footman, before you were a valet?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be something you can just about do with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back.”

Downstairs were all of the usual domestic offices—a slightly bigger kitchen than Thomas would have expected in a private house of this size, but the only really striking difference was that the workers were all men.  

Over breakfast, Thomas mulled over Theo’s suggestion that he might valet the resident lord, and all that it implied.  If gentlemen—and even a peer’s son—paid to be here, it really couldn’t be very much like The Clinic, as Thomas’s own observations had already suggested.  But Theo’s offhand statement about the gentlemen paying to keep the rest of them pointed to another sinister possibility.   Toffs treating the working class as their own personal brothel wasn’t precisely new, although a house full of working-class queers on a remote island was a more extreme version of the concept than Thomas had ever encountered.  

If that was how it was, he could think of worse fates than being under the protection of the “nice” Lord Gerald.  

After breakfast was something called the “morning meeting,” which Thomas was, Theo reminded him, not strictly required to attend, since he was “excused from everything” until his appointment with Dr. L. later that morning, but, lacking any notion of what he might do instead, Thomas followed the rest into the meeting room.

From the name, he vaguely imagined some sort of Nonconformist religious service, and this impression was not dispelled when the man in charge, a sprightly gent of about fifty, introduced himself as “Father Timothy.”  Nor when the meeting began with a prayer, during which they were all required to hold hands.  

After that, though, the meeting moved on to secular matters.  First, Thomas and Tanner—“call me Syl”—were introduced to the rest of the group, and then there was a rather lengthy—and somewhat contentious—discussion of the task roster for the coming week.  Thomas and Syl, who it turned out had also been a footman before the war, were assigned to tidying the smoking room and library.  (Theo said he would “show them the ropes,” but Thomas quite agreed with his earlier assessment of the difficulty of the assignment.)  

Following that was a short homily on the theme of Respecting Others in the Common Areas—Thomas could hear the capital letters—which mostly had to do with not leaving one’s things lying about, and the smoking room and large parlour being the approved locations for “lively activity,” while the library and small parlour were reserved for quiet pastimes.  

The final item of business was a series of notices about what Father Timothy termed “community events.” He and someone called Mr. Bracewood were leading a nature walk on Saturday afternoon, the amateur dramatics group were doing a concert in a few nights’ time, and so on—the sort of wholesome claptrap they made you do at rest camps during the war.   The meeting concluded with a hymn—no hand-holding this time, fortunately—and about half of the group hurried off to their day’s work, while those who had nothing in particular to do next stood around chatting in small groups.

“Call me Syl” dragged Theo over to the priest to find out more about the amateur dramatics—he was, apparently, a chanteuse—leaving Thomas to stand awkwardly by the door and wait for something to happen.

He wasn’t left waiting long. “You’re looking a bit less grim,” said Richard, from last night, approaching with a lugubrious-looking fellow who was trailed by a dingy heap of rags that Thomas eventually concluded was a dog of some sort.  

Thomas nodded, unsure what to say.  

“This is Morrow—Ben Morrow—and Wilberforce,” Richard went on.

The probable-dog raised his head from his paws at the mention of his name.  

“Barrow,” Thomas said, even though the entire assemblage had been told his name not a half-hour earlier.

Morrow made a vague sound of acknowledgement.  

“So, ah,” Richard said, “what are your plans for the day?”

Plans?  “I’m supposed to see Dr. L. at eleven,” Thomas said.  “And I suppose I’m tidying the library and smoking room at some point. Apart from that, I don’t know.”

Richard seemed about to say something, but Morrow jumped in.  “He’ll probably make you go to Group,” he said grimly.

Again, Thomas heard the capital letter.  He wondered if Group was anything like Treatment.  

“He probably will,” Richard agreed, adding, “It’s not too bad.  You just sit around and talk about your neuroses for an hour.”

Thinking that he just might prefer a Clinic Treatment over that—though it would be a tough call—Thomas shared a look of mutual understanding with Morrow.  “What if you haven’t got any neuroses?” he asked, momentarily forgetting that they all had at least one, in common.

But Richard said, “Then you don’t have to go to Group.  Well, except Newcomers’ Group.  Everybody has to do that one.”  Before Thomas could angle for more details about Newcomers’ Group, he went on, “Apart from Group, there isn’t a whole lot of psychiatry that goes on, here.  You have a chat with Dr. L. once in a while, so he can see how you’re getting on, but really, it’s a lot like being in a rest camp, back in the Army.  Except they don’t make you carry ammunition up to the Front.”

Covering his surprise at hearing his own thoughts echoed, Thomas said, “But do they make you play football?”

Richard chuckled.  “There’s football, but it isn’t mandatory.  Not a sportsman, are you?”

“I’m all right at cricket,” Thomas answered.  

“That’ll make you popular,” Richard noted.  “The cricket crowd’s always looking for more players.  But none of the leisure activities are mandatory.”

“So they say,” Morrow muttered darkly.

Richard turned his eyes heavenward.  “If you won’t do anything, Dr. L. gets shirty about ‘taking part in the spirit of the community.’  But as long as you aren’t a grump who hates everything, you should be fine.”

Morrow said, “I don’t hate Wilberforce,” and Thomas privately resolved to find out exactly how much “taking part” you had to do in order to be left in peace.  

About then, Theo and Call-me-Syl collected him, and Theo showed them around the grounds a bit—vegetable patch here, chickens there, and so on.   Thomas didn’t really take in much of it, though, because he wasn’t at all interested in vegetables and chickens.

And maybe just a little bit because, with each bit of agriculture Theo pointed out, Thomas’s appointment with Dr. L. was drawing nearer.  

It would be crucial, he knew, to tell the man in charge what he wanted to hear—but what, in God’s name, was that?  If only Thomas had been able to pay more attention yesterday, when Dr. L. had been talking to Syl, he’d at least have some idea what kind of questions to expect.

Theo probably knew—hell, even Syl could fill him in to some degree—but Thomas couldn’t think of a way to get them on the subject, short of coming right out and asking.  So he just followed the others around, attempting to feign interest in cows and things, until the appointed hour came.  

The doctor’s lair was, at least, reassuringly carpeted—not at all the sort of thing you’d want people being sick on.  (He couldn’t think of a reason Richard would have misled him about them doing Treatments here, but he couldn’t rule it out.)  

Dr. L. sat behind a large desk, and there was an analyst’s couch against one wall, just like in the comic papers, but to Thomas’s relief, he was gestured into an armchair opposite the desk, instead.  

“Feeling better?” Dr. L. asked.

That was an easy one, at least.  “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.”  He opened a document folder on the desk. “Let’s see, the Clinic did the usual course of treatment with you—perfunctory attempt at talk therapy…doesn’t look like you gave them much?”

Of course he bloody well hadn’t.  “Sir.”

“Hypnosis—you were a difficult subject there, as well, and then a rather protracted course of aversion therapy.”

With a manful effort, Thomas managed to repress a shudder.  “Yes, sir.”

“What did you think of it?”

What he thought, when he hadn’t been heaving his guts out, was that the pornography they showed you was filthier and more lurid than anything Thomas had even imagined existed. The French postcard with the girl and the donkey had nothing on it.  “Sir?”

Dr. L. raised an eyebrow. “Did you feel as though it was doing you any good?”

How the hell was he meant to answer that?  “Well,” he said slowly.  Following it up with a “sir”—always a safe bet—bought him another fraction of a second to think.  “It certainly wasn’t pleasant.”  It wasn’t meant to be, so that should be safe, too.  “And it didn’t work, so….”  He trailed off.  

Thomas thought this a fairly neat piece of diplomacy, under the circumstances, but Dr. L. didn’t looked impressed.  “Let me put it another way,” he said.  “Before The Clinic, did you feel that you were ill?”

Why would he ask a thing like that?  “I knew I wasn’t like everyone else, if that’s what you mean.”  It came out more sharply than he intended.  “Sir.”  

“Of course,” said Dr. L. “But did it—this is difficult to express.  Did you truly feel that there was something wrong with you?  That these…behaviors were unnatural?”

For an instant, Thomas was back in Carson’s pantry, before the hell that was The Clinic, saying, I’m not the same as you, but I’m not foul. He knew what he was meant to say, and if he’d been drugged up to his eyeballs and so sick he couldn’t stand upright, he’d have said it.  But now, in this peaceful room, after nearly 24 hours in which nothing abjectly awful had happened…he got as far as forming the lie in his mind—yes, of course, sir, dreadful affliction, and it would have all been worth it if only they’d been able to fix me—but he couldn’t force it out.  

A long silence stretched, Dr. L. regarding him with a pleasantly expectant expression.  

Thomas remembered striking his lighter and holding his hand up above the parapet.  His hand ached.  “No,” he said flatly.  “Sir.  I can’t really say as I do.”

Then he waited for hell to break loose—and nearly jumped out of his skin when Dr. L. leaned forward, smacking the desk with the flat of his hand.  “Precisely.”  Settling back in his chair and taking out a pipe, the doctor continued, “You see, in some cases—perhaps the majority of those that come to the attention of the police—homosexuality is an acquired vice.  Men—often those in whom the sex impulse is unusually strong—turn to it in the absence of women, or out of a desire for novelty, or simply because the opportunity presents itself.  If the act is successful, the man naturally becomes more willing to try it again—the principle being essentially the same as that behind the aversion treatment, except that the stimulus of the male body is connected with the pleasurable sensation of climax—and it can eventually become an engrained habit, and even overtake the normal sexual impulse.  Do you understand?”

That blokes messed about with other blokes because it felt good?  “I believe so, sir.”

“That type of case—pseudo-homosexuality—is very treatable.  Sometimes even resolves on its own, if before it’s become too engrained, the man returns to mixed-sex society, or has a narrow escape from the police, say, and is shocked into reconsidering his behavior.  But I knew as soon as I read your case notes that you weren’t one of those.”

What was that supposed to mean?  “Sir?”

“The pseudo-homosexual’s interest in other men is nearly always carnal in emphasis.  Simple lust.  They don’t romanticize it.  But you—”  He picked up the file, with the hand that wasn’t holding the pipe.  “You kissed your footman because, you told The Clinic doctors, you were leaving your place of employment and wanted him to know how you felt?”

Damn it.  Thomas had said that, back at the very beginning. “Yes, sir.”  

“And because this lady’s maid—his aunt?—said that he reciprocated your affections.”

“She was the other footman’s aunt,” Thomas said.  Not that it was at all important.  “Sir.”

Dr. L. made a note on the file.  “This emphasis on feeling, in your account, is what tells the tale.  You see, in the genuine homosexual, the entirety of the sexual impulse, both the physical and the emotional, is directed toward the same sex.  He desires not just physical release, but psychic communion with another man.”  

The funny thing was, Dr. L. didn’t sound as though he was speaking of something loathsome, at all. Thomas nodded, and the doctor went on.

“And in nearly every case, a close analysis of the individual’s history reveals that the sexual impulse has been directed in this way since before pubescence—that is to say, before any experiences which could have perverted the impulse into this direction. That being the case, any treatment which has its basis in re-directing the sexual impulse back into its natural channel will be ineffective—because for him, the homosexual impulse is natural.”

What.  “Sir,” Thomas said, doubtfully.

“Yes?”

Quickly reviewing what the doctor had said, Thomas found a question he could reasonably ask.  “You said that, ah, it—I—can’t be cured through…the way they tried at The Clinic.  Is there some other way, then?”  He wasn’t sure whether he hoped there was or wasn’t.  It probably wouldn’t work either, anyway.

“There is a treatment,” Dr. L. said.  “Not a cure. A born homosexual, like yourself, cannot be cured, any more than a Negro can be cured of his skin color, because it isn’t a pathology, but rather an innate part of his organism.”  

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure he liked being compared to a Negro—but he supposed the Negro might find the comparison even more offensive.  

“An abnormal part, to be sure,” the doctor continued.  “Like colour-blindness, it’s a disadvantage, but one that is exacerbated by its rarity. The colour-blind man struggles with traffic signal-lights, and coloured advertisements where the text appears to him to be the same shade as the ground.  Much of art is inaccessible to him, and clothing and wallpaper that appear pleasant to him may be ugly to the rest of the world, and vice-versa.  But if half the world were colour-blind, signal-lights and advertisements would be designed so that both halves could read them, and the colour-blind man would find art that reflects the way he sees the world, and clothing and wallpaper that is intended for him.”  He paused.  “Incidentally, you aren’t colour-blind, are you?”

“No, sir,” Thomas said.

“It doesn’t seem to be any more common among homosexuals than anyone else.  Left-handedness might be.”  He made another note, presumably of the fact that Thomas was not colour-blind. “The case of the homosexual is even worse than that of the colour-blind man, because society is not merely indifferent to his needs, but actively persecutes him.  He is denied any respectable outlet for his natural impulses, and his seeking a dis-respectable outlet makes him a danger to the public health, because he encourages the pseudo-homosexual in his vices.  And often receives little satisfaction himself, in the encounter, because of the absence of the psychic element.”  

Thomas thought of Phillip Crowborough, burning his love letters and then suggesting Thomas stay for a tumble.  

The doctor puffed at his pipe and, finding it had gone out, re-lit it.  “Does that, ah, sound like something you’ve experienced?”

A direct question, he more-or-less had to answer it.  “Yes. Sir.”  

“Ah.”  The pipe successfully lit, he puffed for a moment. “I thought you might have.”  He did not, thank God, demand details.   “Have you any questions, at this point?”

Thomas did have one, and after a moment’s consideration, decided to ask it.  “The treatment, sir?”  He really did want to know what he was in for.  

“The treatment, yes. I was getting to it.  The goal of our treatment method is not to change your nature, but to enable you to live with it.  In this way, the born homosexual can live a life as healthy and as satisfying as anyone else’s.”

So it was the cold baths and wheat-bran cure, then.  That explained the cricket.   Well, it was probably an improvement over the more lurid scenario Thomas had thought of that morning, and definitely an improvement over The Clinic.  He was used to long stretches of celibacy, and with Treatments still fresh in his mind, he didn’t particularly want to even look at a cock any time soon.

Thomas assumed an expression of slightly confused interest, and, as he had hoped, the doctor went on.

“There is, often, some degree of neuroticism—either innate, or acquired through the stresses of living in a world that does not welcome him.  Or, lately, from the War.  And the experience of The Clinic doesn’t help, either.  For these difficulties, we prescribe the same treatments as for anyone else—sound nutrition, healthy exercise, fresh air, productive work that is suited as possible to the man’s nature, and a bit of talk therapy.”  With a glance at the analyst’s couch, which Thomas had been studiously avoiding looking at, he added, “Formal psychoanalysis is reserved for the most serious cases.  Most of the men are seen in groups, led by myself or my assistant, which, in addition to being more efficient, provides an element of mutual support.   There are several groups, for different needs, but you’ll start off in Newcomer’s Group, which focuses on understanding and accepting your condition, developing self-restraint and self-respect, and adjusting to our community.”  

That didn’t sound too dire—and once he’d had a chance to think a bit about everything Dr. L. had told him, he’d likely be able to figure out what sort of stuff they wanted to hear.  If he played his cards right, he might be able to avoid any of the other Groups.

“And that community is, of course, an important part of the treatment as well.  Many of our residents have struggled with…expressing themselves, forming friendships, because their nature is at odds with the expectations of the larger world, and because of the strain of keeping a shameful and dangerous secret.  But here, you are, in effect, normal.”

From his expression, Thomas could tell that Dr. L. expected some reaction to this bit of news, but he couldn’t figure out what.  He settled on, “I see, sir.”

“Do you?”  The doctor sounded skeptical.  “In many ways, we’re a village like any other.  We have people from all walks of life, sport and entertainments such as you might find anywhere in Britain, a church and a pub…just with one rather significant difference.”

He paused for effect, and Thomas blurted out, “Wait, do you mean the whole village is—”  Hearing himself, he promptly shut up.

“Yes.  Well, except for Mrs. Williams who runs the laundry. She worked for both of this place’s previous incarnations, and when I explained to her the nature of what I meant to do here, she said that at least what we have isn’t catching, and that she’d been born here, and we’d have to carry her off feet first.  She’s a bit of a character,” he added, with a smile. “But everyone else, yes.”

“I see, sir.”  Well, that was interesting.  

Dr. L. regarded him with a pleasantly expectant expression for a moment, then went on, “In addition to the unique environment, we also approach the issue of homosexuality or sexual inversion in a different way to most other, ah, experts in the topic. Rather than reducing it to a series of base urges, we identify and cultivate the higher, spiritual side, much as the larger world encourages heterosexual—that is, normal—men to do with their sex impulses.”  

Another expectant look, this time more pointed.  “Sir?” Thomas asked.

“From an early age, the heterosexual learns, from the example of the men around him, how the sex impulse is to be managed—as, indeed, does the woman, although she is more often encouraged to deny or repress her sex impulse.  In adolescence, the sex impulse is best directed into other pursuits—success in school, or on the playing field, in friendship—adolescent friendship in both sexes often has a romantic character—into hobbies, and so on. Some continue this process of sublimation into a celibate adulthood; indeed, a great deal of artistic and intellectual achievement can be attributed to homosexuals who have more-or-less successfully sublimated their sex instinct.”

And that explained the amateur theatricals, as well.  Well, if the good doctor thought that giving Thomas enough to do would stop him wanting to have it off with other blokes, he wasn’t going to argue—it couldn’t hurt, and might help.  He nodded understanding.

“But more usually, in adulthood, the normal sex impulse is integrated into everyday life, through the ideals of marital fidelity and commitment.  The carnal element is tamed, as it were, by entwining it with the higher element, and channeling it into a form which emphasizes affection, mutual cherishing, and a shared life, while maintaining the carnal as a small but important part that supports the rest.”

Thomas blinked.  He couldn’t possibly be saying what Thomas thought he was saying.

“In short, while we encourage our residents to consider the merits of a celibate life, we say, as Saint Paul said to the Corinthians, that is it better to marry than to burn.”  

That was what he was saying. Unless there was another hotel full of Sapphic women on the other side of the island, and he’d been lying about not wanting to change Thomas’s nature.  “Sir,” he said, skeptically.

“These are not, I stress, mock marriages like those carried out in the molly houses of the last century,” Dr. L. added.  “They are, of course, not recognized outside of our community, but within it, they have the full force of custom, if not of law.  Promiscuity is no more acceptable here than it is in the larger world. Couples wishing to embark upon a conjugal life are counseled, together and separately, to be sure that neither is making a hasty choice, and then they make a public expression of commitment—usually in church—and from then on, enjoy the privacy and privileges of an ordinary married couple.”

No hotel full of women, then.  Thomas wished ardently for an opportunity to absorb this information—and to figure out the catch—without an audience, but it was not to be.  Dr. L. watched him patiently for a long moment, and finally Thomas nodded.  

Bestowing a kindly smile on him, the doctor said, “It is quite a lot to take in.  That’s why we pay so much attention to newcomers’ adjustment to the community—why we have Newcomer’s Group, why you begin by living communally in the main house, and takes part in daily meetings, and so on. There is, you may have noticed, a certain element of surveillance, which is gradually decreased as you make your adjustment.  We don’t want the place turning into a den of vice.”

“Of course, sir,” said Thomas, politely and automatically.  He could see how that would be a problem.

“You are welcome, and indeed encouraged, to associate with whomever you wish, but while you are in Newcomer’s Group, we use a sort of chaperonage system.  You may participate freely in organized activities, accept any invitations from respectable and well-established members of the community, and use the common areas in and around the main house.  If you wish to go into the village, or to explore the rest of the island, you’ll need to consult with Theo about your plans, and go either alone or in a party of three or more.   It’s a bit of an inconvenience, I know,” he added apologetically.

“It’s—fine, sir.”  Until he ran out of cigarettes, he had no particular reason to go to the village, anyway.  And Theo seemed reasonable enough.  

“Newcomers always live in the main house, and those without private means usually work there, as well. That is, everyone who lives in the main house is expected to pitch in—I believe you were already given an assignment at Morning Meeting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.  We have everyone take part, whether they’ve means or not, as a way of fostering a sense of community, but there’s paid work for those who want it, once you’ve settled in a bit.”

That was good to know—after he ran out of cigarettes, Thomas’s next problem would be running out of money to buy more.   He did wonder, however, where Theo’s suggestion that he might valet the nice Lord Gerald came in.  

There was another long pause and expectant look, and finally the doctor said, “Have you any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well.  Once you’ve finished with Newcomer’s Group, you’ll be able to come and go as you please, but we still encourage going out in parties of three or more—especially if you intend to go somewhere out of public view. At that point, you’re also permitted to make your own living arrangements if you wish, but those without private means usually stay in the main house.”

Dr. L. looked at him expectantly again, and this time Thomas came up with a question.  “How long does the, ah, Newcomer’s Group last?”

“It varies, depending on your progress.  If you make a good adjustment, two or three months, but some men are in Newcomer’s Group considerably longer.”  

So that was how they got you to play along with what they wanted.  Fair enough, Thomas supposed.  

“Is there anything else that you’d like to ask me?”

Like what?  “Sir?”

The smile was slightly strained this time.  “How does all this sound to you?”

Well, since he was asking, it sounded barking mad.  Not bad, but absolutely bonkers.  “Fine.  Sir.”

Dr. L. sat back and did some more fiddling with his pipe.  “Very well.  Let’s talk again next week, all right?”

Thomas wondered what would happen if he said “no.”  “Yes, sir.”

***

That’s all, folks!  I am super-interested in hearing what people think, and if you wish to materially encourage this nonsense, you can do that here. 

[heartfullofpony]

Not Knowing

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic was constantly in the process of reinventing itself. It started out as a "Rated E for Everyone" show that had trouble getting the word "egghead" past the censors, and ultimately evolved into the kind of program where massive battle scenes felt totally in place and appropriate.

It's wild - this journey - this evolution.

I've been slowly re-watching the series, as well you know, and one thing that's lost in the experience is the sense of anticipation - the sense of not knowing where the show was heading next. That mystery was once a source of tremendous excitement.

Take Princess Luna, for example. When Season One wrapped up, a lot of us were left wondering if Princess Luna would ever return, or if her very presence had been a mere fluke of the pilot.

Why wasn't she at the Grand Galloping Gala? Why? Why? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?!

When she finally did appear in Luna Eclipsed - a full year after the pilot had first aired - many of us reasonably speculated that the suits in charge of Studio B had deemed her too spooky to appear in anything other than a Halloween episode. After all, for months and months and months after Nightmare Night, Luna still showed no sign of being integrated organically into the MLP universe.  When Canterlot Wedding aired, we freaked out in utter delight when Princess Luna was briefly seen way off in the distance. She simply said, "as always, I will guard the night," and flew away, but to us, this was amazing.

They had that confirmed that Princess Luna legitimately had something to do!  It seems like such a small thing now - a detail that should have been taken for granted, but the show had given us very little indication up until that point that they were planning on fully incorporating Luna into the show. It wasn't until Sleepless in Ponyville that Princess Luna finally had an actual role in Equestria - the Princess of Dreams - and that was two whole years after Friendship is Magic had premiered.

Luna fans had spent every moment in between eagerly anticipating the mere possibility of her return. We filled in the blanks with memes and discussions - with songs, and stories, and comics, and works of fanart. That was our attitude toward everything - taking a not-fully-fleshed-out universe that we somehow felt a part of right from the start, and just...building.

That not knowing - that mystery. At its best, it was actually part of the magic.

At its worst, it also left folks doubting the very future of the show.

It's sort of legendary how big of a wedge Magical Mystery Cure drove into the fandom when it first alicornized Twilight Sparkle. While binge watching Seasons 1-3, it's totally easy to forget that, after MMC initially aired, we didn't have the option of skipping ahead, and seeing where they were going with this idea. It left a lot of people nervous, myself included.

Looking back, Season 3 took a lot of risks - made a lot of bold changes in a very short period of time - world-altering ideas like the reformation of Discord, and the alicornization of Twilight (that probably could have benefited from a bit more build up and development). All this happened with a new show runner in Meghan McCarthy, a thirteen episode timeline, and an overworked staff simultaneously developing Equestria Girls on the side. Season 3 always felt a little disjointed to me, even though it's got a few gems in it, and that's okay.

I don't think quite as many of us would have quit the show, left the fandom, or gotten into such heated debates over Magical Mystery Cure if we could simply have skipped ahead to binge Season 4, and seen for ourselves what a spectacular job the show was going to do of following up on the idea of Twilight Sparkle, Alicorn Princess. Also those who loved MMC from the start wouldn't have had to deal with quite so much division in the fandom.

Looking back now, I realize that such a split was inevitable. Like I said, so much of our energy as a fandom was borne of anticipation. With no clear sign of where they would be going with the concept of alicorn Twilight - a lot of us, particularly those who found Magical Mystery Cure somewhat lacking as an episode - anticipated the worst. It seems so very silly now, but like I stated earlier, the very momentum of bronydom itself came from so much not knowing.

There's no way to recapture that experience - the good or the bad.

I'm glad I was around to watch the show evolve in real time - to get hyped - even to experience doubts. But I'm not writing this to wax nostalgic about the good old days of the fandom, (if such a thing can even be said to exist). In fact, I'm even more thrilled now that I can watch the whole darn thing from start to finish with the benefit of hindsight. Looking back, I not only love the shape that the show ended up taking, (especially in the very end), but I finally respect the struggle that it took to get there - the commitment to trying new things - the fearlessness. At the time, I didn't always like or agree with every single twist and turn, (and I admit that sometimes, not knowing got the better of me), but that journey, in its own way, is a huge part of the soul of My Little Pony - a constant evolution - a perpetual reinvention of itself.

There's nothing else quite like it, and there never will be again. Isn't it great to have been there as it happened, (even if you only joined the herd in the later seasons)? Isn't it magical? This quaint little show that become an inexplicable phenomenon.

What a long strange trip it's been. Sprocket

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