Polyamory

How can I explain what I feel when I am not sure myself? I was talking to Hoss last night and I don’t think I explained it well to him either, and it’s because I’ve never really tried to articulate what I am in words, at least not this part of myself. And that’s the whole point, there is so much of me, and the more I let go the more it comes.

I am this cup of infinite love and sexuality and I feed from it and I let others drink of it. For each mouth I add to the source of love and pleasure, there is an exponential growth in energy for me to feed from more and again, and again, and again.

Being this a crazy time to be alive, when online dating stays online and you can only choose from a set of sex toys to give yourself pleasure, it turned to be an incredible moment of exploration for me. I opened an Only Fans account three months ago to help myself pay the bills and stuff, and it now turns to be my primary source of income because companies turned their asses on me and other sex workers and creators can’t really step into the picture (literally) because they are self-isolating too like normal human beings should. Not having other people to film with, made me focus on myself and what I have to offer to my viewers, because I would have never started to make porn because of money, it has to be about pleasure and empowerment, it is that simple. And when I have that approach in life in general, money just comes naturally.

I opened up again. It’s pretty awesome that pornography gives me a chance to really be myself, no matter what side of the camera. I play a character and I discover that it’s just another raw part of myself that comes through and integrates with all the other pieces. I feel so complete.

As I was easing into being in front of the lens with no one around, I met C, just a week before lock down and we ended up self-isolating together, not out of need but out of luck. I am polyamourous but not really a group person, I like my encounters to be one on one as much as possible, I really want to know the other, I want to know myself through the other (don’t get me wrong, even I miss a beautiful orgy at this point). The lock down played in my favour and all the other possible encounters flaked off and only C stayed and I felt a little bit like in front of my camera when no one is watching, except C watching me became the lens, and their body the shutter, their movements a diaphragm reacting to the light that I’d let through.

Being able to do rope once or twice a week is such a luxury, such a fucking privilege, and because I couldn’t see anyone but C, I got to know them really well, and they probably know me really well now too. Their tying style stayed, their touch and intensity changed, and I’ve never had a chance to explore my body and mind like that, because I couldn’t go and tie with someone else, ‘cause, ya know, there is a deadly virus out there (you can tell yourself whatever fairy tales, people are dying). I came to a point of completeness with C in our rope play, so now I know that when I’ll tie with someone else it’s not going to be out of need but out of that specific and unique connection with my potential play partner. I crave rope with C because it’s with C, and not because it’s just any rope, so that is so beautiful too.

I saw F two weeks before lock down and we had a beautiful rope session, it was the first time, still getting to know each other but it was very intense nonetheless. Few days before then I had that first session with C and my sheen still hurt, and F’s tie just wrecked that sheen even more, and it was amazing, I love when pain overlaps, I love to feel more people on my skin without them even touching me. But I am a huge masochist and I have to keep that in check and heal properly each time, I don’t always want to... The self-isolation forced me to give myself that time to recover.

So this is the situation. I am self-isolating with C and the more time we spend together, the more coffee and sex and rope and intellectual clusterfuck talks, the more I struggle to keep my feelings in check, and I don’t think I should, and I don’t think I want to, I just want to feel. As this is happening in me, I miss F even if we’ve only met twice and I am so fond of their persona, and I can’t wait to see them again and talk about AI and kink and do rope together and explore all the new ways to have my body fucked up (with grace).

And I could talk about C and F for days, especially C because I know them better, I could write books about who they are and how I feel about them, and in a way I already am. You may wonder where Hoss stands in all of this, and Hoss stands exactly where he deserves to stand: deep in my heart. No one is taking that away from me or from him, never ever no matter what (I always think of Paz De La Huerta saying that to Oscar in Enter The Void, don’t ask why -  you know if you know). And the beautiful part in all this is that no one can take that away not because they are less important but because no one is less important.

I can be myself, my true self in all the facets: One, No one and a Thousand Hundred. The first time I’d read that book by Pirandello I had a little existential crisis, not because I didn’t know what to do with that information but because I exactly knew what it meant and I finally had words to describe it. It was simply too much and I didn’t have the tools to live my life the way I wanted. I can only live the infinite “who” through other people, I can only be complete when I don’t confine myself. One of the polyamory aspects is that of expressing my entity at its fullest. The other side to it it’s the exploration, I can’t imagine not getting to know other people, and sexuality is just one of the keys to a deeper level, and it’s about how you use it. Many people fuck, only a few really get it. And I finally feel like I surrounded myself with people that really get it, and I have space for more, it’s like giving infinite birth in reverse.

My ethics is still very strong, and we live in a society and not in a delusional happy hippy forest, there is a lot of work to do. There is a lot of talk going on, especially with Hoss since we’ve been together for a while now and it’s the first time a kink endeavour of mine goes further than a couple of plays; we’ve been through ice and fire together, I owe a good explanation about my feelings and intentions. I’ve got to respect other people’s desires and priorities outside of my main relationship too, and it’s all been said, it’s all been stated, it’s all in the open so that we can put that on the side like a fire that warms you up after a walk in the snow and we can enjoy each other and learn from each other and explore pain and pleasure in the darkest and safest of ways.

The more I give, the more I regenerate, that’s the best I can define what polyamory is for me. And I love all the definitions of family or fluid bonds, packs, brotherhoods and a sense of community, but before trying to save each other and lose a sense of individuality, I think it’s important to explore solo, learn respect and communication, and only then fully open and stay that way when the family you’ve chosen keeps you safe, and wild.

Analogue photos of me by Conor James

Last night rewind

Stay, he says, and I want to stay but I lift my head from his chest and all the memories from last night hit me very hard. Whiskey, cigarettes, soup... Soup? Soup. It was delicious.

He saved me from a very boring night at Chukotka (Google it, it’s in Almaty – you can Google Almaty too, it’s ok). Any night without him on stage was a boring night but at least I’d have the expectation, the hope of him showing up, but he never did. And that’s because I never asked... until last night.

And he came, and he smiled, and he waited for me to say bye to my sister and we walked down the street; shortly after, that soup for me and the whiskey for him happened. I will never, ever, ever, ever forget that sunrise. Some moments we just remember better than others, and they are usually simple but not easy to explain emotionally.

Sshh he whispered into my ear and fucked me. I can’t say we fucked each other. He definitely fucked me and I think it was the first time I just allowed someone to fuck me like that. Many people before him fucked me but it always felt like against my will. With him I unleashed that sense of submission, and it came with trust, and all the teasing and edging and the conversations, not rushing into the physicality of things. I didn’t know that my brain was my number one tool of pleasure.

Yeah, last night was awesome.

I sit up and think about my dad, he’s probably worried now. It feels a little bit like I shouldn’t really give a fuck because I lived my whole life without his supervision, so why would he be worried now? But then I want this sense of normality, of familiarity and care, I want my dad to worry so that I can reassure him, even if this is only happening for the time being until I go back to my life in Europe.

So D calls me a taxi and walks me out in the cold morning, he’s sleepy, barely dressed, he has some sense of vulnerability I’ve never seen before, not like I know him but he always looks like he has his shit together more than anyone else. Does he ever feel lonely? He probably does. And that’s the thing I know about myself, I would never use someone’s vulnerability to harm them, not even if it would be to protect my life. I am loyal to the bone, whether we’ve known each other for a month or for ten years... You can count on me. You fuck me over, you’re left with less than what you had before; you respect me, I protect you.

I sit in the taxi and I don’t want to leave, I want to just lean on his chest again and carry on sleeping like the future has never happened. He waves and smiles, I smile and relax, the car is now driving through an empty city. This is my city, we’re reunited like never before, it feels to me like coming back to a broken relationship, trying to pick up the pieces, to forgive and forget the abuse and the pain. What a beautiful dark city, and a twenty four year old Nina rewriting the memories.

I get home around nine in the morning and the whole family is awake; my dad is smiling at me and no one is asking questions. I assume my sister told him I left with D last night. I brought them back some pastries D bought, so we drink coffee and have breakfast together. My dad is a very intuitive person, I don’t know him that well to be honest but I feel him and I think that we’ve never lost that connection... if we focus hard, even with four thousand miles separating us, we feel it, we feel the blood. Despite our differences and family drama and trauma, there is this pure thing that nothing can contaminate.
He knows I’ll do what I want, and that I did more than what I wanted, and by him knowing that it’s like talking to a best friend without saying a word. It’s like talking to god. My dad also makes the best coffee in the world, because he puts so much love into every little thing that he puts his beautiful hands on. That’s about it, I don’t know much else but it’s enough. The soup was still better because there was an expectation of sex.

My brain goes all the weird places, you have to be ok with it.

I go upstairs into my dad’s music studio, cover the window with a blanket because there are no curtains and lay down. It’s the best feeling in the world when you have the taste of coffee in your mouth and you smell like sex and you are so sleepy but don’t want to give in yet. I text D, I don’t remember what I tell him, I don’t remember what he replies. I fall asleep and don’t wake up until five in the afternoon. And that’s where it stops.

And life resumes. Welcome back. Rewind. Play.

A tool

I am going to walk you around. I will wash you. I will feed you. I will listen and wait for the signs in order to keep you healthy and satisfied. I will give you all the pleasures and I will train you hard for you to be strong and efficient. So you will be able to serve and support the brain, and it will work uninterrupted, it will take in the information and process it into ideas.

My dear body.

Keep the hands sweaty with writing because there is a lot to say about your past, let’s transform your memories into portals I can use to time travel. You are just a tool I rearrange and mistreat and the more time we spend together the less I see you as myself. I should be nicer to you.

But you are not here to just execute my orders, I know I am learning so much from and through you; I really need to listen to you more carefully because it’s the only way to exist in this tangible world. You are the connection with everyone else, and they are all on different planes, shuffling through black holes, in and out, in and out, and here we are.

We bond through language but we only get to be on the same level when we stay in silence, our bodies breathing, our hands touching, our atoms acknowledging each other’s souls. Our consciousness is flickering in the air and we pretend like we don’t know what it means. And we get closer, we want to get under the skin, into the flesh, we want to eat each other to the point of breaking the tools that keep as grounded; we don’t remember that by doing so we lose touch with what really matters.

My dear body.

Every time I break you I feel lonelier. I only now realise that you are the way through to all the other entities. My lovers. My friends. And the older you get the less I care about their bodies. Just tools. Just portals. Kept nicely, taken care of, polished and pleased. Just tools. And hopefully if used properly, we will all meet again.

Perhaps the soul, the data, is not lost once you die, perhaps it hides in the atoms, in the trees, in the rocks and water and the air, until the atoms accumulate in a new human configuration. Perhaps I hang in those atoms when I time travel back into your physical memory and I am there, just in a different shape, in a non shape, I am definitely infinite.

You are the perfect tool and I promise to respect you in our coexistence until the universe shuffles the atoms again and I’ll try to figure it out all over again, perhaps through fucking and writing, because sometimes this awareness and talent just pour out of me as if I’ve done this billions of times before. I only know what I remember.

I am not my body. I am not you.

My art quarantine story

“It’s funny that we became quarantine buddies.” Funny? Is it funny? I think it’s a fucking miracle. I can’t think of anyone else I would want to spend my time with right now. That makes me think of the kind of life I lead in London. Who do I really like here? Who is my real friend? I miss the freedom of choice but I realise that I’ve never had to make a choice, I just go solo by default. Am I free by default?

I don’t have to make excuses to have my alone time, because the world stepped into my realm of solitude and story writing, and when not much around you is happening, you better make sure your inner Universe is thick and overwhelming. When everyone I know found themselves where I stand twenty four seven, I felt almost violated, too much noise, making special that alone time they’ve never wanted, it felt like sharing my bed with my rapist and he was stealing the blanket. Dark, I know.

Not a nice feeling to have at night. The whole humanity is going through something and I can’t empathise. I guess it’s because everywhere I look now, I see myself reflected in people’s procrastination and loneliness and it’s time to deal with that shit.
But when I look at you there is some resolution and calmness, I see that side of me I really like, the entity that makes a lot of questions and finds the answers in the action.

“Whatever,” I say. “Yeah exactly,” you reply enthusiastically, as if I cracked the enigma code. Where is all this snobbishness coming from? But most importantly, why do I like it so much? I haven’t studied arts as much and I’ve no intention to go all banana academic about it now, I just want to create, but it doesn’t come to me without knowledge, and sweat and tears, mistakes and achievements I’ve never appreciated. There is a deep deep understanding of what my art is and what it means to me, to the point that I find it ephemeral and completely pointless. I hate the pretentiousness and forced meaning. Sometimes I take photos of people just because it feels amazing, no other meaning, and yet I have to write a fucking essay and invent some shit in order to place the project in a magazine. And I know I’ll have to do that over and over again because I want to place my photos in a gallery, so that people can wonder what the fuck all that means, and some real artist will stand in front of a photo and think “wow, I’d wank to that and regret nothing”. I want to sell feelings because I have too many and I still have to pay for a roof above my head. Win win.

These fucking false epiphanies people have all the time. All these answers whispered by the pure aesthetic gratification of an achievement. Feel the art with your eyes closed after sex... you don’t need it anymore, and that’s the whole fucking point.
The time spent with you made me realise that the destination really doesn’t matter, and the journey doesn’t have to mean anything either, it can be purely pleasurable and that’s a meaning in itself and I don’t have to use that inspiration to create art. Art is and nothing’s going to change that as long as I am, too.

Less than forty eight hours of no filters with you and I am in my raw form again. I don’t remember when I was like this the last time but I know it happened before. I think the society is a shitty construct and whoever tries to get out of it is contributing to that illusion of freedom that the pretentious artists seem to have. Are pretentious artists still artists? Or are they just using the tools of art to get somewhere? I know I don’t use art anymore. I am art, that’s why I feel like everyone is using me all the time. And I am ok with that because now I know the Universe will never run out of me.

Arrogant. I know. And yet, here you are, wanting more. I’ve no shame... but so much grace.