Kiwi Farms
https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc...-legally-nonbinary-californians-seven-n721676
Ask yourself, when you first heard the phrase "die cis scum", what did you invision in your mind? Blacklipstckbuxomboy? Boys with curls telling you heck off? A sadomasochistic California butcher with a love for self-inflicted pain and a fetish for mutilation?
If you've never heard of Char, have I got news for you.
Char is a potentially handicapped diabetic residing in California, who is neck-deep in BDSM culture. So deep, in fact, he has been spotted in NBC articles and featured on national television during the Pride '09 parade. He is an active blogger and works as a butcher, where he has a tendency to show off his latest cuts or ridiculous acts of sexualizing the meat as his boytoy/spouse.
We'll start with the oldest posts on their tumblr, categorized by month and year.
this is for TDoR.
Die cis scum.
It’s not ironic. It’s not cute. It is a threat.
How many people are murdered because they are cis? How many people are denied employment, housing, health services, turned away from shelters, refused aid, and are subjected to constant ridicule and abuse because they are cis?
If you are cis, do my tattoo and jacket make you feel uncomfortable? I can only hope so.
Right now, when I see a cis person in public, I worry. I tense and hold my breath and get ready to sprint away. You frighten me. This fear is entirely justified. I’ve already been sent to the hospital for the crime of walking down the sidewalk towards my home while visibly gender variant. I fully expect to be attacked again, severely. (The less severe attacks, the screams and threats and disapproval and hatred and thrust elbows and shoves, these are the givens. These are part of the cost I know I will be forced to pay if I wish to leave my house.)
Die cis scum. It is hostile. It’s aggression, on my part. It is a whisper of personal agency. When the cissexism and transphobia of this culture crush in, overwhelming and unstoppable, these three words are how I push back.
Would that I could push harder.
Referencing an old URL and their responses upon being asked if they're a neo-nazi.
Proceeds to try to defend said name by claiming oppression fetish.
PDFs attached.
Ask yourself, when you first heard the phrase "die cis scum", what did you invision in your mind? Blacklipstckbuxomboy? Boys with curls telling you heck off? A sadomasochistic California butcher with a love for self-inflicted pain and a fetish for mutilation?
If you've never heard of Char, have I got news for you.
Char is a potentially handicapped diabetic residing in California, who is neck-deep in BDSM culture. So deep, in fact, he has been spotted in NBC articles and featured on national television during the Pride '09 parade. He is an active blogger and works as a butcher, where he has a tendency to show off his latest cuts or ridiculous acts of sexualizing the meat as his boytoy/spouse.
We'll start with the oldest posts on their tumblr, categorized by month and year.
He wrapped me up to keep my blood from splashing everywhere. He was hitting me so hard that the needles in my flesh kept on ripping through the wrap, so we would stop to add some more. The deep red flood was captured beautifully through the clear plastic, trapped against my thigh, spreading out and down in small wet surges with every jarring blow.
When he finally cut me free, careful to blot out the pools of liquid me before they ran across the table and down to the floor, the 18-gauge needles were barely visible through the messy ruin. When the needles were pulled out, we could see that the beating had bent the metal into forty-five degree angles.
When he finally cut me free, careful to blot out the pools of liquid me before they ran across the table and down to the floor, the 18-gauge needles were barely visible through the messy ruin. When the needles were pulled out, we could see that the beating had bent the metal into forty-five degree angles.
As a trans person, one of the more difficult parts of being around those who are not trans is the danger of being misgendered- that is, being addressed with a pronoun (he/she/etc) which is incorrect. This happens to trans people with unfortunate regularity, and is an error committed almost exclusively by those who are aware of the trans status of the person being misgendered.
When someone is misgendered, I often get quite visibly angry. The thing is, I know that kind of strong reaction can take someone who has committed this offense off guard, especially if one has little experience with interacting with openly trans people. I can understand why someone who has made this mistake with a trans person might feel hurt and defensive in response to that person’s clear anger, when one is not sure why this is such a sensitive issue in the first place. So I was hoping to take just a moment to explain why we react this way.
People with trans history are not able to take their gender for granted, the way that people without that history do. We go through a long and really difficult process, almost all of which is invisible to anyone else. For example, I struggled with profound gender dysphoria for over a decade before deciding to take any steps to alleviate it. This struggle did not kill me, but it came close on countless occasions. At this point, I see my active transition process as the only alternative to suicide, a perspective shared by quite a few trans people.
We’re not ignorant of the consequences of being trans, after all. Our culture fears and hates us, openly and actively. It seems that every damn day I see another reporting of assault on a trans sibling of mine. We would not accept the clear day-to-day risks of living in such a trans-hostile environment if we were not convinced that the alternative to transition were worse. All of which is simply to illustrate the fact that gender is not something we take lightly, but is an aspect of our identity upon which we place great value and importance.
People who have misgendered anyone with trans history often take the defensive position that misgendering is not such a big deal. Often the argument is made that they, personally, would not take such offense if they had been misgendered. First, let me reiterate that gender is something people with no trans experience or history can take for granted. If you have never had to earn the right to be your gender from an unwelcoming physician, or fight for the right to exist as your gender while waiting for the bus or trying to use a public restroom, then you are probably a whole lot less invested in the way that people see you. Second, I have to disagree with the idea that trans people are the only people who are offended by misgendering. In my years in the service industry, I have seen firsthand countless reactions of people exploding in rage when offered an incorrect ma’am or sir. Gender is important to most people’s identity, regardless of trans history, and most find the egregious insult of misgendering pretty darn offensive.
Also important for myself and many like me is the question of sexual orientation. When my boyfriend or I have been misgendered, the message implied (despite any intent on the part of the person who misgendered us) is that he and I are engaged in a heterosexual relationship. The further implication is that we are playing the part of a queer couple, faux faggots, merrily appropriating the fashion of the gay community while actually living out a straight lifestyle.
The gaybashers on the street corners disagree. We are read as homos by people who don’t know us- a fact which highlights the interesting point that without exception, the people who misgender my boyfriend are those who know that he is trans. So we find ourselves stuck: attacked by homophobes for being gay, and snubbed by the gay community for being transgendered. Being misgendered brings up these frustrations and resentments, reminding us that it is impossible for us to leave our house without being scrutinized and attacked by both strangers and acquaintances. It may seem like a small Freudian slip in conversation to the person who misgenders us, but in fact it is a reminder that the rest of our lives will be spent under fire, as second class citizens.
The next time you are in conversation with a trans person and you misgender them, don’t try to brush it off as inconsequential or become defensive when your error is pointed out. Simply apologize honestly for your mistake, and try to be more aware of what is coming out of your mouth in the future.
-Char C.
When someone is misgendered, I often get quite visibly angry. The thing is, I know that kind of strong reaction can take someone who has committed this offense off guard, especially if one has little experience with interacting with openly trans people. I can understand why someone who has made this mistake with a trans person might feel hurt and defensive in response to that person’s clear anger, when one is not sure why this is such a sensitive issue in the first place. So I was hoping to take just a moment to explain why we react this way.
People with trans history are not able to take their gender for granted, the way that people without that history do. We go through a long and really difficult process, almost all of which is invisible to anyone else. For example, I struggled with profound gender dysphoria for over a decade before deciding to take any steps to alleviate it. This struggle did not kill me, but it came close on countless occasions. At this point, I see my active transition process as the only alternative to suicide, a perspective shared by quite a few trans people.
We’re not ignorant of the consequences of being trans, after all. Our culture fears and hates us, openly and actively. It seems that every damn day I see another reporting of assault on a trans sibling of mine. We would not accept the clear day-to-day risks of living in such a trans-hostile environment if we were not convinced that the alternative to transition were worse. All of which is simply to illustrate the fact that gender is not something we take lightly, but is an aspect of our identity upon which we place great value and importance.
People who have misgendered anyone with trans history often take the defensive position that misgendering is not such a big deal. Often the argument is made that they, personally, would not take such offense if they had been misgendered. First, let me reiterate that gender is something people with no trans experience or history can take for granted. If you have never had to earn the right to be your gender from an unwelcoming physician, or fight for the right to exist as your gender while waiting for the bus or trying to use a public restroom, then you are probably a whole lot less invested in the way that people see you. Second, I have to disagree with the idea that trans people are the only people who are offended by misgendering. In my years in the service industry, I have seen firsthand countless reactions of people exploding in rage when offered an incorrect ma’am or sir. Gender is important to most people’s identity, regardless of trans history, and most find the egregious insult of misgendering pretty darn offensive.
Also important for myself and many like me is the question of sexual orientation. When my boyfriend or I have been misgendered, the message implied (despite any intent on the part of the person who misgendered us) is that he and I are engaged in a heterosexual relationship. The further implication is that we are playing the part of a queer couple, faux faggots, merrily appropriating the fashion of the gay community while actually living out a straight lifestyle.
The gaybashers on the street corners disagree. We are read as homos by people who don’t know us- a fact which highlights the interesting point that without exception, the people who misgender my boyfriend are those who know that he is trans. So we find ourselves stuck: attacked by homophobes for being gay, and snubbed by the gay community for being transgendered. Being misgendered brings up these frustrations and resentments, reminding us that it is impossible for us to leave our house without being scrutinized and attacked by both strangers and acquaintances. It may seem like a small Freudian slip in conversation to the person who misgenders us, but in fact it is a reminder that the rest of our lives will be spent under fire, as second class citizens.
The next time you are in conversation with a trans person and you misgender them, don’t try to brush it off as inconsequential or become defensive when your error is pointed out. Simply apologize honestly for your mistake, and try to be more aware of what is coming out of your mouth in the future.
-Char C.
I’ve started remembering my dreams again. Not the actual content, thank goodness. Just the fact that I’ve been dreaming at all.
This is usually an indicator that I’ve been getting too much sleep. Keep it up, and I may begin to actually remember what I do in my dreams, and that would be unpleasant indeed. Clearly I need to cut back.
But I’m so tired. It bothers me to have the symptoms of over-sleeping while still being so fatigued. I can barely drag myself along from the moment I wake up until I collapse at the end of the day. Eating seems to put me to sleep. After dinner, I can barely keep my head upright or my eyes even half open. Sex puts the lights right out as well. I think I ought to cut back on food and sex, and simply stay awake late into the dawn, before getting an hour or so of shuteye before heading back off to work. Sure. I could grind the night away, hacking at the keyboard, eyes bloodshot from the glare of the screen; milling the hours down into a fine powder that clings to the hair on the back of my hands and the trenches below my eyes and piles in brown crescents under my fingernails.
Coffee helps. I measure my consumption by the carafe. It lends a rhythm to the night- up from the desk, a brief respite from my monitor as I stumble unsteadily over to take a piss. Over and over, an organic clockwork.
By morning the caffeine will begin to exact a more severe toll. Five ragged nails raise a chalkdust cloud of dried saliva from my blackboard lips. My lungs feel like porcelain, cold and hard and brittle. I’m afraid to breathe, but at least I won’t spend the day cowering under the threat of the memory of my dreams. Entirely, utterly, indisputably worth the effort.
I’m going out of my way, here, I suppose. Desperation drives me. It seems like anything can set me off, recently. I certainly can’t seem to discern a pattern. Smells will do the trick. Sometimes it’s something I hear. Quite often it’s visual stimuli. A person. A face. A piece of furniture. A corner of a building. A texture of a wall. The din of a grocery store or the cacophony of a downtown sidewalk. Any damned thing, apparently. I notice it and I realize that it is exactly, impossibly identically precisely the very same experience that I remember from my dreams. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember my dreams when I first wake up; they resurface upon recognition and I suddenly become utterly, helplessly lost between recollection and reality. I try to recall what happened next in my dreaming of what is happening right now, and what happened just at the present moment, and somewhere between remembering what is happening right now and working to keep my attention focused not on memory but in the moment, I get tangled and often just have to stop, and no, it doesn’t the fuck matter just where I am right then, at the counter or crossing the street or for the love of shit driving my car, I just have to take a moment and think- THINK, goddamnit, not remember- about exactly when and where I really am at. I sit and stay very still and put my head between my knees because that seems to help the nausea, and try to control my breathing and do my best to ignore my racing heart and just concentrate on the now. I force my mind empty, maybe chew on a knuckle to distract myself from my thoughts, and just try not to move too much until I am only running one timeline, one chain of causality. I can just about handle living one life at a time. Two simultaneously is way beyond my capacity.
This is usually an indicator that I’ve been getting too much sleep. Keep it up, and I may begin to actually remember what I do in my dreams, and that would be unpleasant indeed. Clearly I need to cut back.
But I’m so tired. It bothers me to have the symptoms of over-sleeping while still being so fatigued. I can barely drag myself along from the moment I wake up until I collapse at the end of the day. Eating seems to put me to sleep. After dinner, I can barely keep my head upright or my eyes even half open. Sex puts the lights right out as well. I think I ought to cut back on food and sex, and simply stay awake late into the dawn, before getting an hour or so of shuteye before heading back off to work. Sure. I could grind the night away, hacking at the keyboard, eyes bloodshot from the glare of the screen; milling the hours down into a fine powder that clings to the hair on the back of my hands and the trenches below my eyes and piles in brown crescents under my fingernails.
Coffee helps. I measure my consumption by the carafe. It lends a rhythm to the night- up from the desk, a brief respite from my monitor as I stumble unsteadily over to take a piss. Over and over, an organic clockwork.
By morning the caffeine will begin to exact a more severe toll. Five ragged nails raise a chalkdust cloud of dried saliva from my blackboard lips. My lungs feel like porcelain, cold and hard and brittle. I’m afraid to breathe, but at least I won’t spend the day cowering under the threat of the memory of my dreams. Entirely, utterly, indisputably worth the effort.
I’m going out of my way, here, I suppose. Desperation drives me. It seems like anything can set me off, recently. I certainly can’t seem to discern a pattern. Smells will do the trick. Sometimes it’s something I hear. Quite often it’s visual stimuli. A person. A face. A piece of furniture. A corner of a building. A texture of a wall. The din of a grocery store or the cacophony of a downtown sidewalk. Any damned thing, apparently. I notice it and I realize that it is exactly, impossibly identically precisely the very same experience that I remember from my dreams. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember my dreams when I first wake up; they resurface upon recognition and I suddenly become utterly, helplessly lost between recollection and reality. I try to recall what happened next in my dreaming of what is happening right now, and what happened just at the present moment, and somewhere between remembering what is happening right now and working to keep my attention focused not on memory but in the moment, I get tangled and often just have to stop, and no, it doesn’t the fuck matter just where I am right then, at the counter or crossing the street or for the love of shit driving my car, I just have to take a moment and think- THINK, goddamnit, not remember- about exactly when and where I really am at. I sit and stay very still and put my head between my knees because that seems to help the nausea, and try to control my breathing and do my best to ignore my racing heart and just concentrate on the now. I force my mind empty, maybe chew on a knuckle to distract myself from my thoughts, and just try not to move too much until I am only running one timeline, one chain of causality. I can just about handle living one life at a time. Two simultaneously is way beyond my capacity.
I am a sadomasochist. I am not submissive.
When you hurt me, you are not disciplining me or punishing me or frightening me or showing me my place. You are serving me.
As my body is tortured I am delighted. Tear me open and drink my blood. I have more than enough to spare. Bring me to the edge of consciousness, nauseate me with pain, rip me apart with your brutality, and in response I feel Godlike. Your vicious ministrations are those of the supplicant, honoring my immortality.
And, when you are exhausted, I will step down from my cross and smash you across your cheek.
When you hurt me, you are not disciplining me or punishing me or frightening me or showing me my place. You are serving me.
As my body is tortured I am delighted. Tear me open and drink my blood. I have more than enough to spare. Bring me to the edge of consciousness, nauseate me with pain, rip me apart with your brutality, and in response I feel Godlike. Your vicious ministrations are those of the supplicant, honoring my immortality.
And, when you are exhausted, I will step down from my cross and smash you across your cheek.
this is for TDoR.
Die cis scum.
It’s not ironic. It’s not cute. It is a threat.
How many people are murdered because they are cis? How many people are denied employment, housing, health services, turned away from shelters, refused aid, and are subjected to constant ridicule and abuse because they are cis?
If you are cis, do my tattoo and jacket make you feel uncomfortable? I can only hope so.
Right now, when I see a cis person in public, I worry. I tense and hold my breath and get ready to sprint away. You frighten me. This fear is entirely justified. I’ve already been sent to the hospital for the crime of walking down the sidewalk towards my home while visibly gender variant. I fully expect to be attacked again, severely. (The less severe attacks, the screams and threats and disapproval and hatred and thrust elbows and shoves, these are the givens. These are part of the cost I know I will be forced to pay if I wish to leave my house.)
Die cis scum. It is hostile. It’s aggression, on my part. It is a whisper of personal agency. When the cissexism and transphobia of this culture crush in, overwhelming and unstoppable, these three words are how I push back.
Would that I could push harder.
Referencing an old URL and their responses upon being asked if they're a neo-nazi.
Proceeds to try to defend said name by claiming oppression fetish.
So I guess today is just totally “Wow super personal stuff” day here on my tumblr.
I was having a Talk with my dad. He was saying:
“I’ve been thinking about what it was like to raise you. About how you were born with cerebral palsy, and how the doctors told us that they’d be able to treat you by slashing your tendons and giving you crutches. And how your mother and I each did what we thought was right. She built you the corner chair and organized people to come in shifts and hold your hyperextended limbs close. I brought you to alternative treatments and managed your special diet. And gradually, over time, your symptoms vanished.
“And, you know, I thought that would be the pattern for my interactions with you. The troubles of the world would come down on your head and I would protect you from all harm. So when you were diagnosed with Type 1 when you were six, I wasn’t even all that concerned. I thought your mother and I would simply perform another miracle on you. We certainly tried. The attempts at a pork pancreas diet… yeah, sorry about that. Nothing we did worked, though. We couldn’t fix you.”
There was a bit of a pause, while I stared at him, disbelieving.
“Dad, are you apologizing to me for not curing my diabetes?”
At which point he threw up his hands, a very cute gesture he makes from time to time.
“I’m talking about FEELINGS, Char! Not reality! Come on!”
I have a great deal of fondness for my dad.
I was having a Talk with my dad. He was saying:
“I’ve been thinking about what it was like to raise you. About how you were born with cerebral palsy, and how the doctors told us that they’d be able to treat you by slashing your tendons and giving you crutches. And how your mother and I each did what we thought was right. She built you the corner chair and organized people to come in shifts and hold your hyperextended limbs close. I brought you to alternative treatments and managed your special diet. And gradually, over time, your symptoms vanished.
“And, you know, I thought that would be the pattern for my interactions with you. The troubles of the world would come down on your head and I would protect you from all harm. So when you were diagnosed with Type 1 when you were six, I wasn’t even all that concerned. I thought your mother and I would simply perform another miracle on you. We certainly tried. The attempts at a pork pancreas diet… yeah, sorry about that. Nothing we did worked, though. We couldn’t fix you.”
There was a bit of a pause, while I stared at him, disbelieving.
“Dad, are you apologizing to me for not curing my diabetes?”
At which point he threw up his hands, a very cute gesture he makes from time to time.
“I’m talking about FEELINGS, Char! Not reality! Come on!”
I have a great deal of fondness for my dad.
I was dreaming that I was visiting at my parent’s house, and Samuel L. Jackson was there (I guess he was a friend of the family or something) and he and I were straight-up making out there in the hallway, and I was kind of thinking “Is this totally appropriate? I mean, he’s a friend of the family and all.” But honestly, when you’re in the middle of a make-out session with Samuel L. Jackson, thoughts of propriety seem irrelevant.
I never have dreams like that but I guess now I do.
I never have dreams like that but I guess now I do.
I was talking with someone (male, trans, mostly straight) about blood donations and that whole weird system and its protocols. He was telling me that on the questionnaire he’d answered that he’d had sex with a guy, because he had, and that was enough to disqualify him from being a blood donor. We can’t have the blood of men who have sex with men in our donation pool!
I realized that if, hypothetically, I wanted to donate my blood (I’m not going to), I had NO IDEA what lies I would need to tell. Who am I not supposed to have sex with? Is there any sex I could have with any gender that would be green-lighted by the relevant authorities as “oh, yeah, that’s a-ok heteronormative, congratulations”? Or would I just have to tell them that I practice strict celibacy?
I thought a little bit about what they would say if I did not lie to them. It was a toss up between “I’m sorry, we can’t use your blood at the moment,” and “HOLY FUCK GET OUT OF OUR FACILITY NOW YOU’RE CONTAMINATING EVERYTHING NO DON’T BREATHE ON ME STOP BREATHING JUST LEAVE.”
I suppose if I were to make a list of the things I’ve done that I would call sex and examine it away from the context of negotiated and sober interaction it might look fairly shocking. Sort of “my goodness, Char, do you realize that you really do have a death wish?” type of shocking. But honestly I take a huge amount of precautions with my lovers, do extensive negotiation and constant communication and check-ins, and always play only when everyone is sober. I get tested frequently and feel confident in what I do.
I guess I’ll get a little more specific about my STI history now so I’m going to put this under a cut. I invite you to not read it if you don’t want to.
I’ve played with people poz for Hep C and HIV. I’ve done needleplay with a guy who was HIV+ and on separate occasions with another guy who I knew was in D/s relationship with someone who had seroconverted. I know that all the protection and precaution in the world cannot eliminate all risk.
What’s the alternative, though? To deny physical affection to someone based on the fact that they have a debilitating condition with huge amounts of social stigma?
I do have HSV 1. A huge fucking amount of people have some form of herpes. In no way does it diminish my quality of life. It’s something I’m open about, and something I am sure to bring up with people when we’re discussing fucking each other. It’s been my experience, though, that if someone wants to fuck a heavily sadomasochistic agender fiend in the first place, the news that there are some things we cannot do and other things we might do instead is not much of a deterrent.
I realized that if, hypothetically, I wanted to donate my blood (I’m not going to), I had NO IDEA what lies I would need to tell. Who am I not supposed to have sex with? Is there any sex I could have with any gender that would be green-lighted by the relevant authorities as “oh, yeah, that’s a-ok heteronormative, congratulations”? Or would I just have to tell them that I practice strict celibacy?
I thought a little bit about what they would say if I did not lie to them. It was a toss up between “I’m sorry, we can’t use your blood at the moment,” and “HOLY FUCK GET OUT OF OUR FACILITY NOW YOU’RE CONTAMINATING EVERYTHING NO DON’T BREATHE ON ME STOP BREATHING JUST LEAVE.”
I suppose if I were to make a list of the things I’ve done that I would call sex and examine it away from the context of negotiated and sober interaction it might look fairly shocking. Sort of “my goodness, Char, do you realize that you really do have a death wish?” type of shocking. But honestly I take a huge amount of precautions with my lovers, do extensive negotiation and constant communication and check-ins, and always play only when everyone is sober. I get tested frequently and feel confident in what I do.
I guess I’ll get a little more specific about my STI history now so I’m going to put this under a cut. I invite you to not read it if you don’t want to.
I’ve played with people poz for Hep C and HIV. I’ve done needleplay with a guy who was HIV+ and on separate occasions with another guy who I knew was in D/s relationship with someone who had seroconverted. I know that all the protection and precaution in the world cannot eliminate all risk.
What’s the alternative, though? To deny physical affection to someone based on the fact that they have a debilitating condition with huge amounts of social stigma?
I do have HSV 1. A huge fucking amount of people have some form of herpes. In no way does it diminish my quality of life. It’s something I’m open about, and something I am sure to bring up with people when we’re discussing fucking each other. It’s been my experience, though, that if someone wants to fuck a heavily sadomasochistic agender fiend in the first place, the news that there are some things we cannot do and other things we might do instead is not much of a deterrent.
I want to tell a story but first I have to explain a little bit about how I make my barbed wire scourges.
Part of the process involves using a small bolt-cutter to snip the barbs off the portion of the scourge that will become the handle. The barbs tend to fly away randomly. Our backyard is not the best place to be barefoot. I’m sorry, housemates!
In any case, so. I was getting my boots blacked by this cute guy at Wicked Grounds a while back. I was enjoying the service- he definitely knew what the fuck he was doing. He’s the kind of bootblack who gets REALLY into it, tracing the seams, massaging the leather, working the polish in with his bare hands. Super fucking sensual.
He’s got me unlaced, and he’s running his finger down the inside crease along the tongue of my boot, when suddenly he gives a little yelp and jumps a bit in surprised pain. I’m all concerned, asking him if he’s ok and what the hell happened. Instead of answering, he reaches back to my boot and slides his hand into it again, carefully this time, and after fishing around for a moment pulls out a small piece of metal. He examines it for a moment, then tilts his head to one side and looks at me.
“Is this… a barb? From your barbed wire?”
I lean down and, holy shit, he’s fucking right. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. That must have fallen in there the last time I was snipping scourges. Aw, hun, are you ok?”
He looks from me to the barb in his polish-stained hand to my boot. He’s trembling a little, I notice. After a moment, he looks back up, not quite meeting my gaze.
“I’m ok…” he says. “I. I think I just came in my pants.”
So that was fun.
Later on I would notarize his domestic partnership, but that’s another story for another day.
Part of the process involves using a small bolt-cutter to snip the barbs off the portion of the scourge that will become the handle. The barbs tend to fly away randomly. Our backyard is not the best place to be barefoot. I’m sorry, housemates!
In any case, so. I was getting my boots blacked by this cute guy at Wicked Grounds a while back. I was enjoying the service- he definitely knew what the fuck he was doing. He’s the kind of bootblack who gets REALLY into it, tracing the seams, massaging the leather, working the polish in with his bare hands. Super fucking sensual.
He’s got me unlaced, and he’s running his finger down the inside crease along the tongue of my boot, when suddenly he gives a little yelp and jumps a bit in surprised pain. I’m all concerned, asking him if he’s ok and what the hell happened. Instead of answering, he reaches back to my boot and slides his hand into it again, carefully this time, and after fishing around for a moment pulls out a small piece of metal. He examines it for a moment, then tilts his head to one side and looks at me.
“Is this… a barb? From your barbed wire?”
I lean down and, holy shit, he’s fucking right. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. That must have fallen in there the last time I was snipping scourges. Aw, hun, are you ok?”
He looks from me to the barb in his polish-stained hand to my boot. He’s trembling a little, I notice. After a moment, he looks back up, not quite meeting my gaze.
“I’m ok…” he says. “I. I think I just came in my pants.”
So that was fun.
Later on I would notarize his domestic partnership, but that’s another story for another day.
I think that the identity of agender Is similar to the identity of queer, in that there are a wide range of meanings depending on who is using the label at what point in their lives. I thought I’d take a moment to describe what agender means to me and why I use it to describe myself, but I want to make it clear that I am really not trying to define the term for everyone or speak for anyone else who may use this identity for themselves.
I often introduce people to my idea of what it means to be agender by making the obvious parallel with atheism. Atheism is not a belief in no god, but instead a lack of belief. Likewise, agender is not a belief in no gender, but simply a lack of gender. I do not think that gender is unimportant or nonexistent. I just do not feel comfortable with any gender identity for myself. I feel very comfortable with not having a gender identity.
Having the traits of being agender all my life actually made my transition more difficult. While I quite clearly did not identify as the gender that I was assigned, I did not identify as the other commonly acknowledged gender, either. In my teenage research into trans* topics and in correspondence with “real” trans people, this was always seen as a major issue. Identifying as the gender you are was seen at the time (the late ‘90s) as the most important requirement for being trans.
It took me an agonizingly long time to come to the startling realization that being trans did not have to mean fitting into the monolithic stereotypes perpetuated by so many aspects of our culture- from mainstream news media and Hollywood sensationalism to the queer and trans communities themselves. There is no rubric for being trans. There is no graded test. There Is no required formula for what to do and how to proceed and which options to take once you become honest with yourself about your relationship with your gender and your body.
(Of course, the sad truth is that many organizations that provide services feel differently. I was initially afraid that I would have to lie through my teeth to fit some Harry Benjamin Standards of Care protocol. I was fortunate enough to find a clinic which would offer care without prejudice, but I realize that many of us do not have that privilege.)
I am agender. The way I look each day is a little like Schrödinger’s presentation: from day to day I have no idea how I will look until I go through my clothes and perhaps try on a few things and, you know, collapse the possibilities into the actual. As far as I am able to tell, I am read most often by strangers as a woman, and frequently as a woman with a trans history. (The fact that I do not identify as female does not shelter me from misogyny and sexism.)
I tend to avoid gendered spaces as much as possible. I remember where the gender-neutral public restrooms are in the neighborhoods I spend a lot of time in. I avoid events geared towards certain genders. Sadly, this cuts me out of the vast majority of queer events, which are usually “men only” or “women only” or “women & trans only”- and what the fuck does that even mean? I feel profoundly uncomfortable about being in a space where I will have to defend or justify my presence based on my gender, because the fact is that I don’t have a gender identity at all. A large part of the reason that the SF Citadel is so important to me is the fact that it is not inherently a gendered space. There are a few events there geared toward specific genders, which I do not attend, but the default Open Events are just that- open to everyone. The trans* specific party is focused on people who have a trans* history and our friends, period. No grouping or exclusion based on assigned gender or current gender identity. For me it is fucking amazing to be able to be in a place like that without having to constantly lie about basic, foundational aspects of my self to avoid being kicked out.
This feels to me like a longish, navel-gazing bit of self-indulgent introspection taking up space on the internet (where space is at such a premium, har-har). I’ve been told, though, that when people open up about their experiences and perspectives, often that is not taking up space but instead creating new space. A lack of agender or even non-binary role models in my adolescence is what kept me from pursuing active transition for a decade longer than necessary. I hope that more voices and visibility will help prevent that kind of needless struggle for others in the future.
I often introduce people to my idea of what it means to be agender by making the obvious parallel with atheism. Atheism is not a belief in no god, but instead a lack of belief. Likewise, agender is not a belief in no gender, but simply a lack of gender. I do not think that gender is unimportant or nonexistent. I just do not feel comfortable with any gender identity for myself. I feel very comfortable with not having a gender identity.
Having the traits of being agender all my life actually made my transition more difficult. While I quite clearly did not identify as the gender that I was assigned, I did not identify as the other commonly acknowledged gender, either. In my teenage research into trans* topics and in correspondence with “real” trans people, this was always seen as a major issue. Identifying as the gender you are was seen at the time (the late ‘90s) as the most important requirement for being trans.
It took me an agonizingly long time to come to the startling realization that being trans did not have to mean fitting into the monolithic stereotypes perpetuated by so many aspects of our culture- from mainstream news media and Hollywood sensationalism to the queer and trans communities themselves. There is no rubric for being trans. There is no graded test. There Is no required formula for what to do and how to proceed and which options to take once you become honest with yourself about your relationship with your gender and your body.
(Of course, the sad truth is that many organizations that provide services feel differently. I was initially afraid that I would have to lie through my teeth to fit some Harry Benjamin Standards of Care protocol. I was fortunate enough to find a clinic which would offer care without prejudice, but I realize that many of us do not have that privilege.)
I am agender. The way I look each day is a little like Schrödinger’s presentation: from day to day I have no idea how I will look until I go through my clothes and perhaps try on a few things and, you know, collapse the possibilities into the actual. As far as I am able to tell, I am read most often by strangers as a woman, and frequently as a woman with a trans history. (The fact that I do not identify as female does not shelter me from misogyny and sexism.)
I tend to avoid gendered spaces as much as possible. I remember where the gender-neutral public restrooms are in the neighborhoods I spend a lot of time in. I avoid events geared towards certain genders. Sadly, this cuts me out of the vast majority of queer events, which are usually “men only” or “women only” or “women & trans only”- and what the fuck does that even mean? I feel profoundly uncomfortable about being in a space where I will have to defend or justify my presence based on my gender, because the fact is that I don’t have a gender identity at all. A large part of the reason that the SF Citadel is so important to me is the fact that it is not inherently a gendered space. There are a few events there geared toward specific genders, which I do not attend, but the default Open Events are just that- open to everyone. The trans* specific party is focused on people who have a trans* history and our friends, period. No grouping or exclusion based on assigned gender or current gender identity. For me it is fucking amazing to be able to be in a place like that without having to constantly lie about basic, foundational aspects of my self to avoid being kicked out.
This feels to me like a longish, navel-gazing bit of self-indulgent introspection taking up space on the internet (where space is at such a premium, har-har). I’ve been told, though, that when people open up about their experiences and perspectives, often that is not taking up space but instead creating new space. A lack of agender or even non-binary role models in my adolescence is what kept me from pursuing active transition for a decade longer than necessary. I hope that more voices and visibility will help prevent that kind of needless struggle for others in the future.
If you know me or have read this tumblr for a while, you may know that I have a condition. I see an endocrinologist for my condition, and I take as medication a synthetic copy of a natural human chemical that I do not naturally produce very well.
Without taking injections of insulin, as a type 1 diabetic I would be dead. Without modern medical science and my artificial enzymes, I would be dead. Interestingly enough, people do not refer to me as “genetically dead.” People do not refer to themselves as “genetically alive” in opposition to me or others with a life-threatening condition which requires medicine to treat.
The parallel which seems clear to me is the bizarre phenomenon of people referring to trans* folks as “genetically…” whatever gender they’re not, and referring to cis people as “genetically…” whatever gender they are. There is no difference to me between this practice and the concept of someone referring to a type 1 diabetic as “genetically dead.” I’m not fucking dead. I’m not fucking cis. Do not use this language.
Without taking injections of insulin, as a type 1 diabetic I would be dead. Without modern medical science and my artificial enzymes, I would be dead. Interestingly enough, people do not refer to me as “genetically dead.” People do not refer to themselves as “genetically alive” in opposition to me or others with a life-threatening condition which requires medicine to treat.
The parallel which seems clear to me is the bizarre phenomenon of people referring to trans* folks as “genetically…” whatever gender they’re not, and referring to cis people as “genetically…” whatever gender they are. There is no difference to me between this practice and the concept of someone referring to a type 1 diabetic as “genetically dead.” I’m not fucking dead. I’m not fucking cis. Do not use this language.
My sexuality is sadomasochistic. This is important to me.
Gender-based sexual attraction is incredibly prevalent in our culture. The myth goes: you are of a certain gender, and you are sexually attracted to a certain gender or set of genders, and you have sex with people who fall into the proper gender category for you and that’s all there is to it. That’s sexual orientation.
I tried to fit this mold. I tried to have sex with people based on things like their gender or their appearance or their taste in music and clothing or (yes) how good they looked in their Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence getup, and each time was a disaster. In my last long-term vanilla relationship, for example, I would do my best to please my partner, then fake an orgasm and head home and feel inhuman and cry and wonder why I was so worthless and false and wrong.
The problem was that I was dating people who were not into kink. I was dating people with whom I was not sexually compatible, regardless of their gender.
I am a sadomasochist. I am sexually interested in people who are, specifically, unequivocally sadomasochistic. Can you throw a singletail? Needle top? Run an interrogation scene? Take a metal paddle to the fronts of your thighs? That’s the sort of thing I look for in potential lovers. Gender is wonderful if it’s your cup of tea, and I will help you celebrate it if you are into that sort of thing, but it’s not really on my checklist.
Gender-based sexual attraction is incredibly prevalent in our culture. The myth goes: you are of a certain gender, and you are sexually attracted to a certain gender or set of genders, and you have sex with people who fall into the proper gender category for you and that’s all there is to it. That’s sexual orientation.
I tried to fit this mold. I tried to have sex with people based on things like their gender or their appearance or their taste in music and clothing or (yes) how good they looked in their Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence getup, and each time was a disaster. In my last long-term vanilla relationship, for example, I would do my best to please my partner, then fake an orgasm and head home and feel inhuman and cry and wonder why I was so worthless and false and wrong.
The problem was that I was dating people who were not into kink. I was dating people with whom I was not sexually compatible, regardless of their gender.
I am a sadomasochist. I am sexually interested in people who are, specifically, unequivocally sadomasochistic. Can you throw a singletail? Needle top? Run an interrogation scene? Take a metal paddle to the fronts of your thighs? That’s the sort of thing I look for in potential lovers. Gender is wonderful if it’s your cup of tea, and I will help you celebrate it if you are into that sort of thing, but it’s not really on my checklist.
Every time I see that post that’s been going around tumblr- you know, the one that talks about how to throw a punch, how to end a fight quickly- I kind of make a little bit of a face and scroll past.
It’s a good thought. It’s a fuck of a lot better than telling someone, for example, to simply avoid getting into fights. No. That’s not helpful. The fact is that if one is visibly something other than white, cis, male, able, etc, the fight will come to you and you will have to deal with it. Preparing for that is the rational thing to do.
But in my experience knowing how to hold my fist or whatever was not what I needed to know. Personally, my big thing was to learn to stop worrying about whether or not I’d just lost a tooth whenever I got hit in the face, or especially the jaw. I would always stop and try to feel my mouth and check that everything was still there, and then just get hit again even worse. After a few incidents I made a real effort to come to terms with the fact that even if I did get a tooth knocked loose, checking to make sure right at that moment wasn’t going to help anything, and I should really just pay attention to the person beating the crap out of me.
And I guess it could be that everyone has a difficulty of some sort or another, and you can’t really know for certain until you’re in the thick of it, in which case it may be too fucking late.
I feel like I have some sort of militant-type reputation here because, I guess, there is the whole dcs tattoo thing, but I think it also has to do with the fact that I am someone who is capable of being physically intimidating, in addition to my particular attitude towards pain and, frankly, some unpleasant behaviors and attitudes I engaged in before I got sober but which have a tendency to echo in my actions to this day. These sorts of aggro attitudes are given a lot of space and respect and I’m afraid that may lead to people harboring unreasonable expectations.
So here’s what I want to tell you all. The past few times where I have been assaulted, I have not stood my ground or whatever. I didn’t roll my hand into a perfect fist and strike back. I fucking ran. I turned and ran until I couldn’t run anymore, and only then did I turn to check if I was being followed. And yes, there are times when running away isn’t an option, and in that situation absolutely do whatever it takes. But the goal here is to end the fight as quickly as possible. Sometimes that means trying to stop your assailant, but more often than not breaking away and running is seriously the best option.
Beating up your oppressor and bashing back and all of that is grand if it’s possible but I just want to remind people that the most important thing is to stay alive.
It’s a good thought. It’s a fuck of a lot better than telling someone, for example, to simply avoid getting into fights. No. That’s not helpful. The fact is that if one is visibly something other than white, cis, male, able, etc, the fight will come to you and you will have to deal with it. Preparing for that is the rational thing to do.
But in my experience knowing how to hold my fist or whatever was not what I needed to know. Personally, my big thing was to learn to stop worrying about whether or not I’d just lost a tooth whenever I got hit in the face, or especially the jaw. I would always stop and try to feel my mouth and check that everything was still there, and then just get hit again even worse. After a few incidents I made a real effort to come to terms with the fact that even if I did get a tooth knocked loose, checking to make sure right at that moment wasn’t going to help anything, and I should really just pay attention to the person beating the crap out of me.
And I guess it could be that everyone has a difficulty of some sort or another, and you can’t really know for certain until you’re in the thick of it, in which case it may be too fucking late.
I feel like I have some sort of militant-type reputation here because, I guess, there is the whole dcs tattoo thing, but I think it also has to do with the fact that I am someone who is capable of being physically intimidating, in addition to my particular attitude towards pain and, frankly, some unpleasant behaviors and attitudes I engaged in before I got sober but which have a tendency to echo in my actions to this day. These sorts of aggro attitudes are given a lot of space and respect and I’m afraid that may lead to people harboring unreasonable expectations.
So here’s what I want to tell you all. The past few times where I have been assaulted, I have not stood my ground or whatever. I didn’t roll my hand into a perfect fist and strike back. I fucking ran. I turned and ran until I couldn’t run anymore, and only then did I turn to check if I was being followed. And yes, there are times when running away isn’t an option, and in that situation absolutely do whatever it takes. But the goal here is to end the fight as quickly as possible. Sometimes that means trying to stop your assailant, but more often than not breaking away and running is seriously the best option.
Beating up your oppressor and bashing back and all of that is grand if it’s possible but I just want to remind people that the most important thing is to stay alive.
The sex education I received as a student in the California public school system was massively inadequate.
Of course it was massively inadequate. That’s not a shock at all. I think it’s tragic how unsurprising that is. Public sex ed- most sex ed, really- is a fucking joke at best.
I engaged in a lot of painful and risky behavior as a teenager out of pure ignorance. (Heads up- you may find this next bit to be horrible. Or tragic. Probably both.) I had no idea whatsoever how to engage in anal masturbation. So I made it up. I got a lot of things wrong. Shampoo, for example, really REALLY should not be used as lube. There are toys that are anal-safe. I did not have any. I had objects I found around the house, used as insertables, and quickly threw away. There were no disposable latex gloves just lying around so instead I pillaged yellow dishwashing gloves from under the sink. They were the kind with the friction bumps on the fingers. I would not recommend that to anyone who is not specifically looking for that kind of experience. I had a few close calls and I am shocked to this day that I did not seriously injure or infect myself.
I have a lot of stories like that. I’ve always been into urethral sounding, but did not have a proper sound, proper sterilization equipment, or any idea of how to do it safely at all. My advice, earned from experience, is that one should really avoid using pencils as sounds. Again, to this day I am amazed that I did not suffer a serious injury or infection
So the point I’m getting to is that I’m really glad the internet exists. Yes, there is a lot of fucked shit online and it’s generally acknowledged to be a pretty creepy place, but it is possible with a bit of effort to find really good information. I feel like we are doing our best to fill the massive gaps in education left by public policy.
For example, there is the trick you can do with cotton balls and latex gloves so that you can be a safe and considerate fisting top even when you have long amazing fingernails.
And there you have in a nutshell my plan for this evening.
Of course it was massively inadequate. That’s not a shock at all. I think it’s tragic how unsurprising that is. Public sex ed- most sex ed, really- is a fucking joke at best.
I engaged in a lot of painful and risky behavior as a teenager out of pure ignorance. (Heads up- you may find this next bit to be horrible. Or tragic. Probably both.) I had no idea whatsoever how to engage in anal masturbation. So I made it up. I got a lot of things wrong. Shampoo, for example, really REALLY should not be used as lube. There are toys that are anal-safe. I did not have any. I had objects I found around the house, used as insertables, and quickly threw away. There were no disposable latex gloves just lying around so instead I pillaged yellow dishwashing gloves from under the sink. They were the kind with the friction bumps on the fingers. I would not recommend that to anyone who is not specifically looking for that kind of experience. I had a few close calls and I am shocked to this day that I did not seriously injure or infect myself.
I have a lot of stories like that. I’ve always been into urethral sounding, but did not have a proper sound, proper sterilization equipment, or any idea of how to do it safely at all. My advice, earned from experience, is that one should really avoid using pencils as sounds. Again, to this day I am amazed that I did not suffer a serious injury or infection
So the point I’m getting to is that I’m really glad the internet exists. Yes, there is a lot of fucked shit online and it’s generally acknowledged to be a pretty creepy place, but it is possible with a bit of effort to find really good information. I feel like we are doing our best to fill the massive gaps in education left by public policy.
For example, there is the trick you can do with cotton balls and latex gloves so that you can be a safe and considerate fisting top even when you have long amazing fingernails.
And there you have in a nutshell my plan for this evening.
This is a post about drugs.
Obviously I would never admit on the internet to doing illegal things, so I want to make it clear that the following is all totally fictional.
(Does that work? Can I just say that?)
For me there was a lot going on but a big part of the appeal of the chemicals I put into my body was how they cured me of the belief that I was worthless.
Cocaine was really good at that. I would fly down the sidewalk with a caine high, feeling utterly Godlike. I could devour your soul, right out through your eyes, with my eyes: your hopes and ambitions and drives and desires, your passion and fear and heart and will, all would be sucked out of you by my vacuum stare, torn apart with the ragged jaws of my eyelids, and incinerated by my contempt. Your empty husk would continue walking, but by then that motion would be the thoughtless shuffle of an automaton, devoid of true life.
I guess that drug just kind of made me crazier than I already was. I guess that’s what that drug does. I thought it served my need at the time.
I spent a little time this evening telling war stories with friends and that particular period of time came up on the way home. These days I still have the same issues I did back then- the insecurity, the certainty of worthlessness, the inclination for isolation, etc. The difference is that I have learned ways to manage these aspects of myself. Interestingly, my new coping skills work a lot better and last a lot longer than cocaine ever did.
Obviously I would never admit on the internet to doing illegal things, so I want to make it clear that the following is all totally fictional.
(Does that work? Can I just say that?)
For me there was a lot going on but a big part of the appeal of the chemicals I put into my body was how they cured me of the belief that I was worthless.
Cocaine was really good at that. I would fly down the sidewalk with a caine high, feeling utterly Godlike. I could devour your soul, right out through your eyes, with my eyes: your hopes and ambitions and drives and desires, your passion and fear and heart and will, all would be sucked out of you by my vacuum stare, torn apart with the ragged jaws of my eyelids, and incinerated by my contempt. Your empty husk would continue walking, but by then that motion would be the thoughtless shuffle of an automaton, devoid of true life.
I guess that drug just kind of made me crazier than I already was. I guess that’s what that drug does. I thought it served my need at the time.
I spent a little time this evening telling war stories with friends and that particular period of time came up on the way home. These days I still have the same issues I did back then- the insecurity, the certainty of worthlessness, the inclination for isolation, etc. The difference is that I have learned ways to manage these aspects of myself. Interestingly, my new coping skills work a lot better and last a lot longer than cocaine ever did.
Before the scene: apply CaviCide to your scourge. Leave on for at least three minutes before wiping it away.
During the scene: use rubbing alcohol to clean off the areas you will be using the barbed wire on.
After the scene: use bleach to clean off your scourge before returning it to the carrying case.
A barbed wire scourge is a one person toy. Once someone has bottomed to it, the scourge cannot be used on anyone else.
Barbed wire looks fairly intimidating to many people, but the actual barbs are short & narrow enough that the puncture wounds it inflicts tend to clot quickly and heal in a matter of days.
It is good for the top to have a basic understanding of the difference between venal and arterial blood. Venal blood is darker and will flow in a steady stream, while arterial blood is brighter and will come in a pulse. If the bottom is gushing arterial blood, the top ought to stop hitting them with the scourge for just a moment and apply pressure to the puncture wound. Wait until the bleeding has settled down before continuing with your scene.
Avoid using the scourge on areas of the body with arteries close to the surface. Places to avoid: neck, armpits, inner elbows, groin, backs of knees. Probably the face, too. Places that are typically ok to hit: backs and fronts of thighs, back and shoulder blades, calves. Please use good judgment when using your scourge.
The scourge can be used to hit someone directly, for more of a piercing sensation and more chance of bleeding, or be used as a sensation toy by dragging it over the skin. If you hit someone with your scourge at an angle, your chance of a more serious injury will increase and the marks left by the scourge will last longer, because the barbs will not just pierce the skin cleanly down but will instead pierce and tear the skin.
As with any type of blood play, good barrier protection ought to be practiced by anyone not fluid bonded with the bottom. Be aware that it is quite easy for the top to fling blood around when swinging the scourge. If you are doing a scourging scene in a public dungeon, ask permission first! If you are given permission, tarp off enough of an area to catch stray blood, be mindful of where the blood is going, and be diligent about cleanup after your scene.
Please feel free to comment here or message me if you have any questions.
During the scene: use rubbing alcohol to clean off the areas you will be using the barbed wire on.
After the scene: use bleach to clean off your scourge before returning it to the carrying case.
A barbed wire scourge is a one person toy. Once someone has bottomed to it, the scourge cannot be used on anyone else.
Barbed wire looks fairly intimidating to many people, but the actual barbs are short & narrow enough that the puncture wounds it inflicts tend to clot quickly and heal in a matter of days.
It is good for the top to have a basic understanding of the difference between venal and arterial blood. Venal blood is darker and will flow in a steady stream, while arterial blood is brighter and will come in a pulse. If the bottom is gushing arterial blood, the top ought to stop hitting them with the scourge for just a moment and apply pressure to the puncture wound. Wait until the bleeding has settled down before continuing with your scene.
Avoid using the scourge on areas of the body with arteries close to the surface. Places to avoid: neck, armpits, inner elbows, groin, backs of knees. Probably the face, too. Places that are typically ok to hit: backs and fronts of thighs, back and shoulder blades, calves. Please use good judgment when using your scourge.
The scourge can be used to hit someone directly, for more of a piercing sensation and more chance of bleeding, or be used as a sensation toy by dragging it over the skin. If you hit someone with your scourge at an angle, your chance of a more serious injury will increase and the marks left by the scourge will last longer, because the barbs will not just pierce the skin cleanly down but will instead pierce and tear the skin.
As with any type of blood play, good barrier protection ought to be practiced by anyone not fluid bonded with the bottom. Be aware that it is quite easy for the top to fling blood around when swinging the scourge. If you are doing a scourging scene in a public dungeon, ask permission first! If you are given permission, tarp off enough of an area to catch stray blood, be mindful of where the blood is going, and be diligent about cleanup after your scene.
Please feel free to comment here or message me if you have any questions.
If you were in chat when I brought Char up, you already know about him eating strips of his flesh.
Bon appetite.
In case there was any denial:
Bon appetite.
In case there was any denial:
To be added later
Facebook: char.the.defiler (Archive)
Mother: Nancy Crawford (Archive)
Father: Robin C. Crawford (Archive) (also an attorney) (Archive)
Uncle: Phil Crawford(Archive)
Address: 646 19th Ave, San Francisco, CA 94121
Mother: Nancy Crawford (Archive)
Father: Robin C. Crawford (Archive) (also an attorney) (Archive)
Uncle: Phil Crawford(Archive)
Address: 646 19th Ave, San Francisco, CA 94121
PDFs attached.