That dead German poof ruins you for everyone and everything else, the fucker
I was talking with ataslightangle about Connie on her LJ, but my reply just became so long and ponderous I'm going to put it over here in a separate post. I realised I'd typed for over an hour, on my mobile, and that was getting frankly fucking ridiculous. So, here we go. She'd been talking about how Connie makes everyone else feel... not just second best, but like they barely touch you at all in comparison. Like wanking to someone else is like this phantom limb in comparison, or that he's intoxicating alcohol in comparison to everyone else's rice water, stuff like that. And it's frightening how this is exactly how I've felt about him for almost four years now. As you've seen.
***
But... *exhausted sigh* I know exactly what you mean. Exactly. And I honestly don't know why we (why Connie makes us) keep going round in circles having the same conversations about him and have done so for over a year now. Like it's an exercise for the body and the mind. Is this like a hatha yoga sequence? In which you do the same things over and over again, repeat the exact same movements and breaths according to plan, but every session, every day is subtly different? That different visions emerge and evolve from previous experiences of the sort, like you're picking up a story and continuing where you left off, or like it's a story within a story within a story, he our ever-captivating, ever-beautiful, ever-playful Scheherazade.
The phantom itch describes it pretty accurately, yeah. Like, IDK, sometimes I feel it (trying to fap to others, I mean) is like that sort of disconnect you can have between your mind and your body when one of them wants a fap and the other doesn't. And then my bits aren't as sensitive (whether because I can't focus on the fantasy or because there's a physiological reason for it, like not having eaten enough meat, having taken medication X, Y number of hours ago) and the wanking will be really frustrating and the orgasms harder to get, and even when they come, they are pretty flat. That's how it is for me.
And it's so fucking frustrating if you fancy a multitude of things, absolutely, like he's insulting my nymphomania and polyamorousness and bisexuality and my vaster-than-vast erotic imagination. Like, I can and do visualise fucking orgies--even more varied than what you see in my stories because during a wank, I can peek into any part of that orgy and slip into anyone's body and POV--but it's he who decides what really flares up my pussy's heat and fullness and what hits my emotions so hard I sob out loud. It's especially infuriating the more homosexual I keep getting with age. Like, I need to usually visualise pussies for proper arousal and have set out, at times, to just imagine a woman I fancy naked (and only that woman), but he shows up to fuck her. And/or in a classic horror twist, the woman whose bent-over pussy and arse I have just been lapping and sucking at turns her head, and HE is the pimpmoustachioed face looking at me over the shoulder. Fuck him. Slash is not enough, lesbianism isn't enough, just the one sex is not enough; it's got to be het in addition to that, hermaphroditic polygender sex pantherorgying.
But enough navel-gazing about my sexuality; Tumblr's obsession with all that actually just throws his whole multiplicity, diversity and limitlessness into sharp relief because he is just So. Beyond. Everything.
Nowadays, the idea of having desire without Connie, experiencing love without Connie is the most terrifying thing to think of for me. Like I would be condemned to bread and water for the rest of my days. Like all the most horrifying medical situations possible that involve being lobotomised or in a coma where people think you're unconscious but are, in fact, fully awake trapped in an unmoving body and screaming for help. And you would be slowly suffocating to death. This is a frequent horror for me when it comes to the material he inspires--there is so much Stuff unrolling into view in my mind, vast vistas of the most heart-vibrating romances, endless lovers, places, endless beauties and poetries and lovemakings without end. From the littlest gesture he would do to the grandest of novel-length journeys--and I live in this constant state of panic of never being able to get all of it out. No matter how fast I typed or even spoke; you guys are getting only a fraction of it and its intensity. I am racing, running, my lungs burning, my heart and womb and pussy in *pain* and he just slinks his hips there on the ever unattainable horizon and laughs his wonky-toothed laugh and grins. The son of a bitch.
I find it terrifying to think of myself as going through the same old motions of a celebrity crush as well. And having to come up against all the usual disappointments and limitations of that person. And that I could so easily have had a life where that would have been the default, you know? That I would've just had to accept that no figure could give me all I needed; that I would have to do *so* much patching up, so much fannish rewriting of that person to fulfill the deep, aching need in my soul for very specific kinds of Romanticism, love, sex. Everything that I desperately need, the food my soul requires to stay alive. But it's usually something I've only got in snatches from others; these fucking crumbs. And then I have to grit my teeth and push aside everything else about them, the things that don't fit me or even stand in complete opposition to what I am. I do that with Bunny and Baz now to bear the things I find disappointing or even revolting about them--the knowledge of Bunny having been a fucking Republican, the infuriating failure of Baz to be what he could have been were he not so bloody repressed, that sort of thing.
(Gosh, that sounds terribly utilitarian/objectifying in its way, that I would be using people as these tools to satisfy my needs, but I think I'm just being honest. That's what people do with idols all the time--hell, they do it with real people! But an idol allows you to do more of that, to do it openly, especially if you are fully aware that you are fantasising and if you aren't in any contact with that real person. It only becomes damaging when fans start harassing actors, that sort of thing, but there's no danger here when Connie's been gone for 73 years. It's also a huge relief because it's so unlikely that he'll come and smash our dreams by suddenly saying something twattish, the way it always goes with living people.)
So, yes, it terrifies me that I could have, so easily, had to satisfy myself with second best. But on the other hand, I am also terrified now that I *have* got that which I always dreamt of. Be careful what you wish for and all that. But even in my wildest and craziest dreams, I would never have expected that he would turn my life around so much, that he would transform me so much, that he would have such an alchemical and life-bringing effect on my sexuality and the way I love, that he would teach me spiritually so much, that he would make my creativity explode the way he's done. And I speak as a person whose life and friendships and lovers have been shaped more by fandom than anything else, as a person who's been obsessive and fannishly very creative and productive since childhood, and as someone who's always been massively erotic and deeply spiritual. How in the fuck he can take a bitch for whom so many things are already turned up to eleven and turn her up to 1,000,000?!?
He's just more powerful than anyone or anything I've ever experienced. And there is always a sort of strange, grudging resentment to that, for me, alongside the gratitude that plunges me into samadhi. You'd think that I would be just... 100% happy? And why does this sort of thing continue, because it's not exactly a new feeling to realise that he's cleverer than me when it comes to knowing what my own damn spirituality, my own damn sexuality, my own damn writing are all about? Why does he keep on taking me over and over again? Somehow never losing his power (but that power just increasing because he's now dug all these routes through my brain and can speed through it faster, slamming into me with even more force now that he doesn't have to dig away past anything)? How is it that he is always new somehow, always blowing me away? Because even if it's the exact same fucking thing, it never diminishes. I never get used to it or bored by it, the way people get with relationships when they get used to their spouse or some shit like that. Or they get bored by eating the same thing day after day or having the same sex fantasy while wanking day after day... but, no. He always takes my breath away. My breathing literally fucking *stops* every time I browse back to the shot of Jaffar in his litter, or Torsten flicking his eyelashes, or the fucking hipslink coming out SOMEWHERE. Or the damn tjahs and mms and THE FUCKING ZOOOOOOS AND PITIES AND THE SCHADES. *How* in the hell does he do that?!?
It's just... I guess that it feels unfair? That I feel like I should be giving other people a chance? Like there's something wrong with me, maybe, if I'm just incapable of being "fair" towards others? That might enter into it? He is a jealous lover, and in turn ruins us for everyone else. (Do let me know about this in particular, Huffpussy. I'd love to know if there was something like that in it for you as well.)
Right, fuckit, I'm getting far too scatterbrained to concentrate on this further, and it's sad because you guys will have heard most of this before! But it's... I probably won't stop going on about this until he stops overwhelming me. Which is never.
***
But... *exhausted sigh* I know exactly what you mean. Exactly. And I honestly don't know why we (why Connie makes us) keep going round in circles having the same conversations about him and have done so for over a year now. Like it's an exercise for the body and the mind. Is this like a hatha yoga sequence? In which you do the same things over and over again, repeat the exact same movements and breaths according to plan, but every session, every day is subtly different? That different visions emerge and evolve from previous experiences of the sort, like you're picking up a story and continuing where you left off, or like it's a story within a story within a story, he our ever-captivating, ever-beautiful, ever-playful Scheherazade.
The phantom itch describes it pretty accurately, yeah. Like, IDK, sometimes I feel it (trying to fap to others, I mean) is like that sort of disconnect you can have between your mind and your body when one of them wants a fap and the other doesn't. And then my bits aren't as sensitive (whether because I can't focus on the fantasy or because there's a physiological reason for it, like not having eaten enough meat, having taken medication X, Y number of hours ago) and the wanking will be really frustrating and the orgasms harder to get, and even when they come, they are pretty flat. That's how it is for me.
And it's so fucking frustrating if you fancy a multitude of things, absolutely, like he's insulting my nymphomania and polyamorousness and bisexuality and my vaster-than-vast erotic imagination. Like, I can and do visualise fucking orgies--even more varied than what you see in my stories because during a wank, I can peek into any part of that orgy and slip into anyone's body and POV--but it's he who decides what really flares up my pussy's heat and fullness and what hits my emotions so hard I sob out loud. It's especially infuriating the more homosexual I keep getting with age. Like, I need to usually visualise pussies for proper arousal and have set out, at times, to just imagine a woman I fancy naked (and only that woman), but he shows up to fuck her. And/or in a classic horror twist, the woman whose bent-over pussy and arse I have just been lapping and sucking at turns her head, and HE is the pimpmoustachioed face looking at me over the shoulder. Fuck him. Slash is not enough, lesbianism isn't enough, just the one sex is not enough; it's got to be het in addition to that, hermaphroditic polygender sex pantherorgying.
But enough navel-gazing about my sexuality; Tumblr's obsession with all that actually just throws his whole multiplicity, diversity and limitlessness into sharp relief because he is just So. Beyond. Everything.
Nowadays, the idea of having desire without Connie, experiencing love without Connie is the most terrifying thing to think of for me. Like I would be condemned to bread and water for the rest of my days. Like all the most horrifying medical situations possible that involve being lobotomised or in a coma where people think you're unconscious but are, in fact, fully awake trapped in an unmoving body and screaming for help. And you would be slowly suffocating to death. This is a frequent horror for me when it comes to the material he inspires--there is so much Stuff unrolling into view in my mind, vast vistas of the most heart-vibrating romances, endless lovers, places, endless beauties and poetries and lovemakings without end. From the littlest gesture he would do to the grandest of novel-length journeys--and I live in this constant state of panic of never being able to get all of it out. No matter how fast I typed or even spoke; you guys are getting only a fraction of it and its intensity. I am racing, running, my lungs burning, my heart and womb and pussy in *pain* and he just slinks his hips there on the ever unattainable horizon and laughs his wonky-toothed laugh and grins. The son of a bitch.
I find it terrifying to think of myself as going through the same old motions of a celebrity crush as well. And having to come up against all the usual disappointments and limitations of that person. And that I could so easily have had a life where that would have been the default, you know? That I would've just had to accept that no figure could give me all I needed; that I would have to do *so* much patching up, so much fannish rewriting of that person to fulfill the deep, aching need in my soul for very specific kinds of Romanticism, love, sex. Everything that I desperately need, the food my soul requires to stay alive. But it's usually something I've only got in snatches from others; these fucking crumbs. And then I have to grit my teeth and push aside everything else about them, the things that don't fit me or even stand in complete opposition to what I am. I do that with Bunny and Baz now to bear the things I find disappointing or even revolting about them--the knowledge of Bunny having been a fucking Republican, the infuriating failure of Baz to be what he could have been were he not so bloody repressed, that sort of thing.
(Gosh, that sounds terribly utilitarian/objectifying in its way, that I would be using people as these tools to satisfy my needs, but I think I'm just being honest. That's what people do with idols all the time--hell, they do it with real people! But an idol allows you to do more of that, to do it openly, especially if you are fully aware that you are fantasising and if you aren't in any contact with that real person. It only becomes damaging when fans start harassing actors, that sort of thing, but there's no danger here when Connie's been gone for 73 years. It's also a huge relief because it's so unlikely that he'll come and smash our dreams by suddenly saying something twattish, the way it always goes with living people.)
So, yes, it terrifies me that I could have, so easily, had to satisfy myself with second best. But on the other hand, I am also terrified now that I *have* got that which I always dreamt of. Be careful what you wish for and all that. But even in my wildest and craziest dreams, I would never have expected that he would turn my life around so much, that he would transform me so much, that he would have such an alchemical and life-bringing effect on my sexuality and the way I love, that he would teach me spiritually so much, that he would make my creativity explode the way he's done. And I speak as a person whose life and friendships and lovers have been shaped more by fandom than anything else, as a person who's been obsessive and fannishly very creative and productive since childhood, and as someone who's always been massively erotic and deeply spiritual. How in the fuck he can take a bitch for whom so many things are already turned up to eleven and turn her up to 1,000,000?!?
He's just more powerful than anyone or anything I've ever experienced. And there is always a sort of strange, grudging resentment to that, for me, alongside the gratitude that plunges me into samadhi. You'd think that I would be just... 100% happy? And why does this sort of thing continue, because it's not exactly a new feeling to realise that he's cleverer than me when it comes to knowing what my own damn spirituality, my own damn sexuality, my own damn writing are all about? Why does he keep on taking me over and over again? Somehow never losing his power (but that power just increasing because he's now dug all these routes through my brain and can speed through it faster, slamming into me with even more force now that he doesn't have to dig away past anything)? How is it that he is always new somehow, always blowing me away? Because even if it's the exact same fucking thing, it never diminishes. I never get used to it or bored by it, the way people get with relationships when they get used to their spouse or some shit like that. Or they get bored by eating the same thing day after day or having the same sex fantasy while wanking day after day... but, no. He always takes my breath away. My breathing literally fucking *stops* every time I browse back to the shot of Jaffar in his litter, or Torsten flicking his eyelashes, or the fucking hipslink coming out SOMEWHERE. Or the damn tjahs and mms and THE FUCKING ZOOOOOOS AND PITIES AND THE SCHADES. *How* in the hell does he do that?!?
It's just... I guess that it feels unfair? That I feel like I should be giving other people a chance? Like there's something wrong with me, maybe, if I'm just incapable of being "fair" towards others? That might enter into it? He is a jealous lover, and in turn ruins us for everyone else. (Do let me know about this in particular, Huffpussy. I'd love to know if there was something like that in it for you as well.)
Right, fuckit, I'm getting far too scatterbrained to concentrate on this further, and it's sad because you guys will have heard most of this before! But it's... I probably won't stop going on about this until he stops overwhelming me. Which is never.