(cross-posted from my professional blog)
My blogs have both been on the quiet side recently, mostly owing to
the fact that I've either been traveling like a madwoman or writing like
a madwoman to make up for all the time I've been traveling. Now that
I'm back in the land of corn and flatness, it's time for a recap of my
most recent trip, which was to Chicago.
The trip began
in a benign, stress-free manner. My trusty Ford Exploder whisked me
across Iowa and part of Illinois without incident, which is extra
surprising when you consider that a) I drive like a bat out of hell and
b) I'm reasonably certain every Iowa state trooper was on I-80 that day.
I even had change handy for the copious amounts of toll booths when I
crossed into Illinois, and managed to eat my lunch without getting
crumbs all over myself or the interstate. So everything was off to a
Not long after I made it into Chicago, my GPS
advised me to get off the freeway and begin a series of turns. This is
normal, of course. The turns were turned and the directions were
followed, and lo and behold I found myself...
I wanted to be. What the hell? I pulled over at the exact address where
my hotel allegedly stood, except there wasn't a hotel in sight. And
even if there was, I sure as hell wasn't staying in this particular
neighborhood. And I've lived in a bad neighborhood in Norfolk, VA, so
that says something.
Anyway, after a few moments of
confusion, I looked up the address again and discovered, to my horror,
where I went wrong. You see, I had put the address in the Notepad app on
my iPhone. Turns out, if you tap an address in the Notepad app, it'll
take you straight into the GPS app, and tell you how to get there.
Wonderful...except when autocorrect changes "Monroe" to "Madison" and
lands you about 15 miles away from your destination. 15 miles isn't too
bad, but let me tell you, when you've been driving for almost 7 hours,
the prospect of getting back on the road and straight into afternoon
traffic in downtown Chicago is...less than thrilling.
Especially when there's an Occupy rally going on...
Sarah Frantz (formerly of Dear Author) and Annabel Joseph
(click on Annabel's name for her recap of the trip). Annabel is a very
sweet and funny author, and Sarah is not nearly as terrifying in person
as I thought she'd be. Kind of makes me feel silly for packing the
garlic and crucifixes, but one can never be too careful.
Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Okay, but why the
hell were you in Chicago to begin with? Especially with such shady
individuals?" I asked myself the same thing at the time, but then my
long term memory kicked in and I remembered there was actually a reason
for me to be there. Funny how that works.
That reason? The CARAS research conference
at the Adler School of Psychology. This was a conference for
therapists, social workers, psychologists, etc., to educate them to be
kink-aware and kink-friendly. Sarah invited Annabel and me, as well as
authors Heidi Cullinan, James Buchanan, and Edmond Manning,
to speak on a panel about positive and realistic portrayals of BDSM in
romantic fiction. The panel went swimmingly, and hopefully there will be
a link to the original webcast that I can post in the future, but for
now you'll just have to take my word for it that the six of us worked
fabulously together, the audience had some great questions, and I
managed to keep my swearing to a minimum.
From there we went to lunch. For the life of me I can't remember
the name of the place, but it was one of those
pizza/sandwich/pasta/soup/kitchen sink places, and the food was great.
"The food was great" seems to be a theme in Chicago, so I'll refrain
from repeating it at every mention of dining establishments. Just assume
unless otherwise noted that the food was awesome. Anyway, where was I?
Oh yes. So you take six people who've just given a panel on all things
good and kinky, and stick them at a table in a public place. What do you
get? Strange looks from other restaurant patrons.
As it turned out, this was the very same day that another Lambda
finalist reading was occurring, this time in Chicago. My fellow
panelists were fabulously supportive and came to the reading, which was
awesome. Of course we had to kill some time between the panel and the
reading. Naturally, we (and in this case I mean James, Edmond, and I,
since we were driving together) killed time by hunkering down at a
Panera to do some writing. Duh. It should be noted here that when the
cashier tried to hand me my sugar-laden pastry of choice, Edmond
valiantly attempted to intervene and thus save the city from me turning
into a cracked out squirrel for the afternoon. He was unsuccessful, but
his attempt was noteworthy nonetheless.
It was they day after the panel and the reading that things got
really interesting. I had planned to hole up in the room for the day and
write, but you see, I very much live my life in the spirit of carpe diem.
For me, that means I don't pass up potentially awesome and interesting
experiences unless there is absolutely no way I can do it. So when Sarah
and James say, "We're invited to a leather bar to watch a bondage
demonstration, wanna go?", there is only one correct answer, and that
answer is, "I'll get my shoes."
On the way out, we stopped by James's hotel room to pick something up,
and I feel compelled to say this: While I can appreciate the decorating
tastes of The Rainforest Cafe, and I understand the need to draw
customers in, etc., I am inclined to think that when one is building a
place of business across the street from a hotel, perhaps this is not
the best thing to have said hotel's guests see when they look out their
Moving right along, there's no sense
going to a bondage demonstration at a leather bar on an empty stomach,
though, so we first went to dinner, this time at a Brazilian steakhouse.
The food was amazing, blah blah blah, but the main reason I felt that
meal worth mentioning is my undying amusement about the waiter who
thought ice cream was an ideal dessert solution for a lactose intolerant
After dining lavishly on meat, more meat, alcohol, additional
meat, and some fabulous flan (for those of us who are tolerant of
lactose), we hopped aboard ye olde L train and went...I guess north. My
sense of direction isn't so great, and I spent most of the weekend
having absolutely zero clue where I was and even less of a clue where I
was going. So I just followed James and Sarah.
But the leather bar was only the beginning! A warm-up, if you will. Why? Because this was the weekend of International Mr. Leather.
(I'm sure I don't have to mention it, but just in case: that link is
NSFW) So, on Saturday, Sarah, James, and I went to the IML vendor fair.
was certainly an experience, I assure you. I have never seen more
leather, shoulders, asses, and general eyecandy than I did while walking
the crowded halls between vendor booths. The smells of leather, rubber,
and a hint of sweat weren't overpowering, but they were definitely
there. I remember musing at one point that if ever there was a
poorly-ventilated store between a saddle shop and a motorcycle shop,
this is probably what it would smell like. Not unpleasant, mind you,
just an observation.
I saw all manner of devices ranging from the "wait, how does that work?" to the "oh my God, I am so using that in a book." I even got to try out a few.
The Lightsaber, a zappy shocky electro-stim device, which was interesting.
Others, I elected not to try myself. Diamond plate paddles, for example.
And floggers with chains instead of leather tails.
I discovered a thing called "evil sticks":
And there were some devices that I lacked the necessary equipment to try even if I wanted to:
It wasn't unusual for people to stop and watch other people. What
they were trying on, what they were trying out, what they were wearing,
what they weren't wearing. Being a people-watcher, I found
myself watching both whoever had caught their eye as well as the
onlookers themselves. And most of what I saw was people watching others
out of curiosity or fascination. No nose-wrinkling, no judgment. Maybe
some "Oh my God, WHAT is that???", which was invariably followed by "Oh.
Interesting." Whether it was someone demonstrating a particular type of
bondage, someone trying on a cock ring (I'm not kidding), or a pair of
furries walking by, the thing that struck me the most was the lack of
judging. Not that it was surprising -- if you're coming to a kink
convention to be judgmental, you need to get a life -- just that it's so
unusual to see so many people at ease with themselves, their own kinks,
and other people's kinks.
And then, after being immersed in this for hours, we
returned to the real world, had some lunch, and went our separate ways
to return to our own worlds.
Speaking of returning to our own worlds, I would like to offer a small
piece of advice before I sign off. If you, like me, live in an
uber-conservative part of the midwest, and you've recently attended an
event such as IML, and during your attendance spent money on themed
apparel, be aware of what you're wearing before you decide to go out for
an impulsive trip to Cold Stone.
Because I assure you, there are few ways to gather a more rapid
succession of dirty looks in Omaha, Nebraska, than wandering out in
public with this on your shirt: