X

Tagged personal life

Browsing all posts tagged with personal life

Putting down roots, pulling down walls, and trying to remember how to make friends

I got my two-year working visa for Germany last month, which means I have two years to establish myself as a working artist here. Which is actually the longest period of time ever that a country has given me to be in it and work as an artist. (I’m not counting the US, I only got by there because random dudes on the phone liked my MILFy voice.) Fuck the US anyway. I’m here, I have documentation, and I feel like I could maybe find my people.

Problem is, I can’t remember how.

Touring around for seven months out of the year has always been a problem, in terms of finding friends and connections. Add to that the fact that I’m actually only an extrovert when I can promote my work. When it comes to reaching out on my own behalf just to set coffee dates with people or show up and be part of the crowd at someone else’s show, I’m awkward as fuck.

Top that whole weird sundae off with the perfect bittersweet cherry of blended professional and personal lives: even when I’m out socializing, I’m always repping the brand. This seems to be the default for independent artists: everyday we’re hustling. So I wind up feeling stymied in terms of finding my space and making community. How can I get out of my promoter zone, my wheeling-and-dealing brain, and just find my people?

You may not be an indie artist or promoter, but you can just substitute whatever thoughts/obsessions/work shit are actively getting in your way and freezing you up: too much work, not enough work, worry about family (who can do fine without you), insecurities about schoolwork… what is getting in your way of connecting?

I know what is getting in my way, and even though as an artist I need to keep one ear trained to that ambition and hustle and fear of missing out, I still need undiluted social time, time with people that does not involve me promoting my show or otherwise worrying about my fantastic new two-year-plan creative lifestyle in Berlin.

I don’t always know how to talk with people in that non-work way, but I feel like maybe the first step is to just get out there and be with them, in spite of my anxieties. Being ever the bulldozer type, I decided to make myself get out there. So here is what I’m doing:

  • I set aside time for one acquaintance date per week, where we are not venting about touring and ticket sales, even if that would be mutual, and if we do end up talking about my next show, it is only in a sort of sharing of workplace grievances, not like a brainstorming session about living my best performer’s life.
  • I’ve got one night a week where I am going out to a place to not perform. Someplace with a sort of theme that I would enjoy experiencing anyway, but nowhere that I am supposed to be performing.
  • When I go to a place where I’m anxious about what I’m doing, I set a time limit for how long I have to stay there: just a half-hour, just an hour. I set my timer for that, and I check in with myself when the time is up

Most importantly, I don’t get mad at myself if I don’t manage to do these things every week. I'm trying to change some extremely whack-a-doodle thoughts. That takes time, and hell, I’ve got two years to work up to it.

*****

A little personal note from the middle of an arts-frenzy life. If you like what I'm doing, both in and out of the sex-aware performing arts, and you have a bit of extra cash, consider becoming a patron of mine on Patreon! If you're not sure about Patreon, you can also do a one-time donation to me via Paypal. There are lots of ways to show your support!

“I have no limits”: the understandable appeal of being the bottomless sub

When someone says they have no limits in their kink, I give them so much side eye.

I haven’t seen many other subs in action, because I don’t go out to play parties much, but when I was doing phone sex, I heard that sort of thing a lot. These greedy subs would phrase it as a tolerance for pain or humiliation—even though I could tell that they’d never done face-to-face, paddle-to-ass play ever—but really they just wanted to be forced to take a cock the width of the entire known universe into their hungry little butthole.

No shame in having a hungry butthole, but if that’s all you want, then just say it and admit that you do have limits after all.

I laughed at my phone-sex clients for their notion of being the perfect sub, the bottomless receptacle for whatever jizz and verbal abuse I could hurl at them during our few minutes together. They could just ask for whatever they wanted; they didn’t have to say “I have no limits.” They could actually have asked me to shove the entire universe into their ass, and without cracking a smile, I would have described the bumps of the asteroid belts and everything.

The human brain is built to play around with mad pangalactic fuckery, but that wasn’t enough: my clients wanted me to see them as being able to take anything and everything, and they had very specific words for that: "I have no limits."

I could write it off as sheer macho posturing in the face of often “effeminate” fantasies. There is also a compelling gonzo component, when you take “no limits” to logical extremes: you could die from four inches thick and not enough lube, but yes, LET’S GO FOR THE UNIVERSE IN YOUR BUTT.

But hell, I have been known to say “I can take anything” to my partner, and I know damn well that’s not true. So why do I say it? What is that fantasy about? What is it that I’m trying to say?

For me, at least, I’m an overachiever. I want to do better than anyone else. I also imagine that I know what my partner is getting out of topping or dominating me, and I want to be the best target for topping that they’ve ever had. I want to show off, I guess. My ego is there in my submission in a hundred different ways, in the internal tasks that I set for myself: not to move, not to flinch, not to cry at all or not too loud. I want to show to my partner what a good girl I am, that I won’t jump.

But it is not only ego, not by a long shot. With my partner, as with no one else, there is a strange cyclical alchemy of pain and love. I love him so much that I want to give him the gift of my utter submission, to take everything he can dish out. When I endure it, and he sees that endurance and praises me for it, my love expands more and I want to give him even more of that, show him that. And so on, around and around and back and forth.

Thankfully, he knows when to stop, even if I haven’t said my safe word. I am that in love with him that it feels like I could go on forever there, and he knows it, and he also knows that someone gets to put down limits when I am that far gone in my love/pain spiral, and he is that someone. He understands, I think, the space I want to go with my submission.

My body has limits, but my heart does not. I have to balance between the two, and he will catch me, either way.

*****

My heart has no limits, and neither does my artistic imagination. My budget does, though, and that's where my patrons come in. By pledging a little bit of money on Patreon per blog post I create, you help create sustainability for my work in sex-aware theatre, storytelling, and writing. Do that thing, if you've got the money. It goes a long, long way.

Learning to play well with others

I would like to play well with others.

I used to. Growing up, I had to; with seven kids in the family, you share your toys or someone is going to get an actual piece of leftover two-by-four in the face. Plus we were all sporty, so we could do a pickup game of soccer just on our own and to be honest, big sprawling board games like Risk and Monopoly were pretty epic.

But at school, I was a bit of an outcast—for my family’s poverty, for my incipient nerdiness, my weight—so I wasn’t in demand for a lot of teams. When there were artificial collectives for academic projects or student associations, I was rarely in a position of power, and yet in those same groups, I frequently ended up carrying the lion’s share of the work. I just wanted to make The Thing happen—hi, super keen nerd girl here!—and other people coasted on my labor.

Many of the projects I have taken on in my adult years have followed the same pattern: solo because I want to get shit done. And the groups that I worked with, for performance purposes, frequently wound up with conflicts, if not outright implosions, because I wanted to get shit done, sometimes at the expense of group process and consistent ethics and people’s feelings.

I stopped trying to do those things and decided to focus on my solo work. As my touring schedule got more intense, it was easy to pretend like wanting to work by myself was ENTIRELY my artistic choice, that it wasn’t some flaw or trauma of my own that I couldn’t work through.

What? I was touring! I was never in the same place for more than five months at a time, and usually I was passing through places for just a week or two at a time. How was I supposed to meet anyone to play with? How could I set regular writing dates with other performers? How could I go to networking events or other people’s shows when I wasn’t in any one town long enough to do it? I convinced myself of the futility of such endeavours, and accepted my lonely lot.

For a time. Except I kept seeing what other people were doing in collaboration with each other, great shows and writing, really interesting cross-disciplinary happenings and zines and videos. Here in Berlin the potential is real and exciting, so really feel it, this tiny, almost infinitesimal nudge…

You could do that, it says. You could get in there and play. You’re in Berlin for a while, go on, try it out, ask people, get involved. If not here, where else is it going to happen?

These are all very reasonable words that my subconscious tries to whisper in my ear. I shrink a little inside and shake my head, or puff up in self-importance at my loner status, I’m a rebel, I do things on my own, nobody else is going to do it the way I want things done, I play by my own rules.

But to be honest, I’m tired of worrying about everything on my own. Some art is better in collaboration. I want to play with others, which I think means I’m going to have to figure out some new rules soon.

*****

Always looking for interesting opportunities and new performing connections, but the core of my vision remains true: making space for those awkward conversations around authentic sex, sexuality, and relationships. If you also think those conversations are important to have, then consider becoming a patron of mine on Patreon. 

FROM THE FUCKBUCKET: “What was your hottest epiphany?”

My hottest epiphany was, in itself, not hot. It was the opposite of hot. It was the coldest that I had felt in my life up until that point, and it happened in my counselor’s office when I was rocking back and forth in a chair that was not designed for rocking, sobbing and doubled over from the psychic pain. But eventually it led to the best sex I've ever had.

Let me explain.

I had gone into counseling because I had cheated on my longtime partner, a woman, with a man. Although my awareness of my bisexuality had been sneaking up on me, to the point where I was starting to feel a little weird at office parties (I had a crush on my male editor at the newspaper), I thought I had it “under control.” When I subsequently went to a newspaper convention, drank two margaritas the size of my head, and rather aggressively pursued a male advertising sales rep from Sacramento… I realized I had nothing under control and sought out counseling.

There in the comfortably bland office, I dissected and discussed my craving for "male company," after nearly nine years of avoiding that shit like the plague. That was not the epiphany. I knew that I wanted cisgendered men back in my life, at least for the bouncy fun bits. The hard part was weighing that desire against everything else in my life.

Because I was still with my partner, and I still loved her, and I knew that pursuing my sexual desires was going to throw everything into chaos. She was already hurting, and I didn’t know how to make that stop. My new-found mantra for that period was You can’t unknow what you know, but saying it didn’t really help.

I felt guilt for what I had already done, and guilt for what I hadn’t even done yet, and deep, deep shame for all of it. It took me months and months to drill down to the core of it, something leftover from growing up in a large religious family with scarce resources and scarce love and sex being a perversion anyway: I felt that I wanted too much. I wanted more than I “deserved.”

Of course this goes back to always being a little bit hungry, and never being able to ask for more because there wasn’t more. But the current-day psychological upshot was that I felt that my wants, of any sort, were excessive. I was "greedy" for wanting what I wanted, and my happiness was nowhere worth near as much as other people’s. I could feel the desire—so profound that it transcended mere tingly bits—and at the same time I could feel my horrified recoil at my own selfishness, so I had been going around and around like a gyroscope, balanced in this endless push of lust and self-loathing.

I don’t know how exactly I broke that cycle. My counselor coaxed me down the path multiple times, as I made little baby steps and then waited for God to strike me down. I had to brace myself against the sure knowledge that yes, my choices would affect my partner, and try and fail and try again to be ethical, to be caring. I had to weigh, over and over, the risks and potential outcomes. I had to be at peace with the nature of my sexual self, and with the knowledge that it shifts and changes.

This is a process more than an epiphany. I still don’t always know how to proceed with my passionate pursuits. I still definitely worry about how those pursuits affect others. But at least I know that I must pay attention to my desires. I can’t always fulfill them right away or at all, because the world is not that kind of place, but my desires are valid and important, and they are definitely not too much.

*****

Better living through self-awareness and authenticity? AMAZING. That's one of the things I aim for with my performances and writing, and it's one of the things you help bring to the world when you become a patron of mine over on Patreon. Go on: your per-blog post pledge (I post 7-10 a month) adds fuel this machine!

The shifting shape of home

I have written about the concept of “home” frequently and at length. As a touring artist, I am understandably a little obsessed, while at the same time trying to be chill about it. I’ve tried to be all, you know, I’m tough, I only need a couple of suitcases to get around. If I can make theatre out of a toaster oven and a cordless phone handset, surely I can make home out of my old Pike Place Market apron and a mini-screwdriver in my makeup bag.

This has worked. For the past seven years this has worked. Less well over time, I mean, I regularly have to fight off the undeniable appeal of knowing where one’s container of flour is, but mostly, I have been able to stay light on my feet, and have felt that to be an important part of my M.O., if not to say my actual identity.

Home was always the hardest thing to shake when I needed to travel: boxing the stuff, transferring the utilities, packing up the room, arranging the sublet, forwarding the mail, finding a foster home for my cat… it was all a source of additional gravity, holding me down, pulling me back. In many ways it was a relief to let those things go, bit by bit.

But all of this was predicated on being a solo agent, a person who, of necessity, had to move through the world and launch myself in various directions on my own. I talked like I wanted to, but the reality was, I had to, or so I thought. I had to hold my relationships lightly because I was never going to be there. What kind of lover would want to sign up for that? I had to learn how to be strong on my own, because no one would ever be there for me in the bad times. Yes, I found support among friends and a few lovers, both on- and offline, but for the deep-down core moments of both pain and joy, I did not think I could not expect anything more than that.

Sometimes I wondered if I was afraid to ask for anything more than that, if I was afraid that my new life was just too full of drama and complications for anyone else to really want to share it. I didn’t have much luggage, but I had a lot of baggage around my desire for home.

And now that all is changing again. I still have the baggage, but I’ve found someone to share it with. I still have the touring, but I am in a long-term, core-deep relationship with a man who thinks I’m a joy, not an inconvenient weirdo. I have met my match and my muse, who proofreads my posts and asks if I am drinking enough water and knows exactly when I am going on stage without having to ask more than once.

More of my stuff is in storage near him than is with me in Berlin. What if I need to get at that stuff, I asked when we moved it there. “I’ll figure out a way to get it to you,” he said, and I exhaled a sigh that felt like it had been held in for years.

What I call home of course includes logistics: it’s the boxes and the insurance source and whatever visa I posses that gives me access to being in a place. But “home” is so much more than stuff. It is where I want to come back to, at the end of a late-night, exhausting show, or a far-traveling tour. It is the cup of tea he will make for me. It is the joy in his eyes to hear my triumphs, and the strength in his hand holding mine when he listens to my frustrations and fears, and knowing that I can do the same for him. Home is, in short, everything that I already know how to do for myself, but I don’t have to do it by myself anymore.

The only shadow is we don’t have our physical home space yet. But the feeling is already here; that, at least, doesn’t take up any room in a suitcase at all.

*****

You know who else helps me feel a little more secure? My patrons over at Patreon. Their per-piece pledges help stabilize my artist's income and boost me toward making even more, and more accessible, sex-aware work. If you have some money to spare, consider becoming a patron today!

 

FROM THE FUCKBUCKET: “were you always so open about sex, or did that come about over time?”

Were you always so open about sex and sexual experiences, or was it something you became more open about over time? If it was over time, why?

At this point I really am pretty upfront about most of it.

Neither our ability nor our desire to communicate about sex are things that come pre-installed at the factory. As kids we may be touching ourselves all over the house, or playing doctor back behind the shed, but actually talking about it?... Nah. We tend to absorb whatever our family does, for better or for worse.

With that in mind, I would have to say that I probably was more open and exploratory about sex stuff at an earlier age than anyone had a right to expect, given my background. Despite having been raised in the Mormon church, I still managed to find plenty of books with dirty bits by the time I was 10 or 11, and went looking for ways to experience dirty bits by the age of 14 or so. (Or maybe there was every right to expect that, because of that fighting spirit of opposition, but how come none of my siblings or cousins broke free?)

For a while in junior high school, I had one friend who was willing to share with me a lot of the details about her sex life. We would stare up at the Duran Duran posters on the walls and ceiling of her room, and she would tell me what she did with her boyfriend on those nights where she told her mother she was with me. (Yeah, I was the Alibi Friend.) At the age of 13, that definitely felt like a sort of open-sharing sex-ed outlet, but then I got bigger, both in tits and body, and crossed the line into plus-sized and focused more on school and our other friends turned on me, so I lost that. I was on my own.

From that point forward, my approach seems to have been:

  • fumble toward “bliss”
  • fuck up, sometimes hardcore
  • learn and integrate that learning OR take a huge reactionary swing in another direction
  • repeat

Eventually, over time, I got better with the various steps of this process. I started sitting down and thinking a little more in advance about what constitutes “bliss” for me. Additionally and where possible/necessary, I learned to think about other ways to get that bliss, some of which may be better for me and other people than just being led on a wild goose chase by my cunt.

I got better at dipping my toe in. Paradoxically, I also got better at plunging into the deep end, keeping my eyes open and committing to the dive. Sometimes that’s the thing that fucks you up.

And so, as I got better and more confident at following my (sexual) bliss, the learning curve became less harsh, less steep, considerably less fraught with explosive arguments and confused tears and occasionally lab tests and actual danger. (I should say that the curve has only really gotten shallower in the last seven years. I'm a late bloomer in so many things!) My mistakes aren’t so big now that I’ll feel the urge to run screaming in the opposite direction. And I am managing to find people who can walk and talk with me through the learning.

Now, as back when I was 13, my path seems to unfold right out in public view; I have never been very good at hiding my explorations for long. I don’t know if it’s because I’m stubborn or an exhibitionist or what, but no matter how difficult or weird it gets, wanting to be up front about sex stuff seems to be part of my personality.

Eventually, that led me to creating various shows around sex and sexuality because that’s what interests me. In performing around the world, I started to see that whatever attitude I have seems to be good for other people to witness. Authenticity in sex, especially in areas that don’t have societal support like kink or queerness or alternative relationship approaches or even as basic to me as asking for what I want… most people want more of it, but they don’t know how to get it.

I don’t know that I do either, but I’ve been trying to for a while, so it seems worthwhile to share my experiences with others. It feels like a way that I can make a difference.

*****

If you're reading this, you probably also think that I can make a difference. Please do share my blog posts with others in your online networks who you think would appreciate it, and if you have the spare money, consider becoming a patron of mine on Patreon.

I want to sell out

“Sold out” is supposedly a neutral term, in a box-office sense: your performance venue has sold all the possible seating it has available that doesn’t violate fire code. Some festivals have different and more precise parameters for this; for example, I think in Edinburgh Fringe if you sell 95% capacity, the show qualifies as “sold out” for slapping the designation on your marketing materials. Either way, these are easy enough to define.

Hang out with any group of Fringe performers long enough, though, especially when they have had a few and they’re talking about their Fringe run, and you will quickly sense the second meaning of “selling out/sold out,“ which is quick to plant itself in the conversation. Selling out your venue is a good thing, but underneath that is the faint echo of “sold out”: made artistic or ethical compromises, greased the wheels with an unseemly amount of money or networking or something other than artistic input, committed to working with other folks who are not interested in the art but only making money or some other tradable commodity.

I don't think that this is an actual, inevitable part of selling lots of seats, and making lots of money. But I think many artists are afraid that it is. I know that I’ve been carrying that second meaning around as the primary meaning for a while. It’s certainly a less humiliating view on the problem of not making enough money on one’s art, if one posits that the art that does make money is less artful in some way.

But this year at Edinburgh Fringe has pulled me up short around this subject, when what I think is my best work to date, nerdfucker, has been a serious box office underperformer. I’ve been wrestling with this, and my urgent need to make money, for weeks, months, maybe a couple of years now, and it kinda came to a head last night after Smut Slam, when I was hanging out with a couple of artist friends and I half-jokingly said that next year at Edinburgh Fringe I wanted to sell out. I think I made a smile or a wink that indicated clearly I meant making money and probably doing something that was not a purely artistic effort.

One of those artists, who had been nose-deep in a pint of beer, sat up and set the glass down on the table with a snap. “I’m tired of that phrase, ‘selling out,’” she said. “It makes it sound like there is something wrong with making money, with creating works with an eye toward making money. Artists need to eat.”

You’re right, I said, of course you’re right. I guess I mean commercially viable.

“Okay,” she said, settling back down into the hotel lobby chair. “That’s fine.”

Theatre companies of a certain size have followed this pattern for a long time: produced guaranteed money makers—usually around Christmas, like A Christmas Carol—as well as more surefire productions (what I would consider conservative offerings), then occasionally something that is a little more groundbreaking or confrontational for their audience.

Solo performers and tiny companies maybe don’t do that so well. Not as a matter of course. And I'm going to change that for myself.

Previously I had written works that “felt like they needed to be written”; none of these works have yet gone on to more than moderate festival success, even including Phone Whore, which is the most visible and “popular” of my plays. So, next year I am going to turn my hand to a work that “needs to make money.”

I don’t know how this is going to go yet; I’ve never approached this issue from the start of a project before. It will be fine, eventually. I am just not quite sure, right now, how to do it. I’m already finding myself second-guessing working titles and content and outreach. But I’m hoping I can push beyond that quickly and get to the nitty-gritty of the work, which is writing what I want to write and what I feel the world needs to know, while giving it to people in a way that they can handle. When selling out, the second part of that equation has to take precedence.

I’ll be honest, gentle readers: I don’t know what to do otherwise. As my friend said, artists need to eat. That is to say, I want to feel comfortable in my life, be able to plan ahead, not always scramble and fight to keep the wolf away from the door. Just as importantly, I want to be able to give myself room to create the less financially viable stuff and not have to worry about whether those will survive.

Because nerdfucker and Phone Whore and Hearthcore (my next non-commercially viable serious play, don’t worry, you didn’t miss it) are good plays. In my mind, these plays do need to be done. But I don't have family money; I never had a great job. So until such time as I get the commissions and grants and government subsidies, I need to learn how to subsidize myself, with things like Smut Slam and Sidewalk Smut and next year’s sell-out commercially viable comedy show (announcement coming shortly).

I have to reassure you, and also myself: my sell-out work will still be my stuff. It’ll still be about opening up space to talk about sex and other awkward shit in a really authentic way. It just won’t have a title that has to be censored just about everywhere; it’ll be a little more accessible to more mainstream audiences.

Selling out can mean lots of people are seeing what I want to share, and paying money for that privilege. Lemme see if I can wrap my head around that for a while.

*****

My Patreon patrons are part of this work too: their support helps me move my work in front of way more people. Please consider becoming a patron, throw a bit of money in my direction on a monthly basis, and together we can thrive and also change the world, one smutty show at a time.

writing characters other than myself

My first fictional-character play, The Pretty One, hasn’t gotten many reviews because I haven’t shown it in many places, but the ones that it received were pretty fucking glowing AND audience response has been good. Both kinds of audiences mentioned that they found the characters to be authentic and relatable. They also frequently noted how restrained the characters were—one reviewer said, in our face-to-face chat after the show, that “they were almost British-like in their reserve”—and how they weren’t really expecting that from me.

This makes me laugh, right before I stop laughing and go huh, because to be honest, I wasn’t really expecting that kind of writing from me either.

Thanks to the previous successes or at least notoriety for my autobiographical shows, and maybe also Sidewalk Smut, and perhaps how I am in social media and just, you know, walking around on the street with cowboy boots and big tits and a big voice and unblushingly saying the rather rude names of my shows while promoting them to strangers… thanks to all of that, I have developed a reputation, for just being blunt and open and saying everything as it is.

I have to say, my education and work experience in human-interest and arts journalism brought me that far. Give me the facts: where, when, why. I had pursued a particular type of food writing, too, in which I rummaged through my life in food to write a column a week about, say, cookbook collecting or homemade jam or holiday foods. I was used to plumbing my own depths, such as they are, and excavating some pretty raw material for public display and consumption. Dig, write, polish, repeat. It was not a major leap from that to one-woman plays based on my sex life.

But when I turned my hand to writing fictional characters and their stories, instead of transcribing myself to the page and stage, I had to stop and re-think just about everything I knew about creating and performing solo theatre.

The thing is, right, I had never really learned how to find a back story. Journalism was facts, either someone else’s or my own. I just had to pull them out and write them down in a meaningful way. And as for performing the role of Me in my first three three shows, I had instant, instinctual access to all the shadow and motivation and emotion that I ever needed. People praise that as authentic and open and raw, and I guess, yes, in comparison to much of what is out there, but in my insecure performer’s heart, I was always a little, like, well, okay, but how much talent does it take just to tell it as it is?

I know, I know. Articulating our insides does take work, and wordsmithing is a talent, whatever the content, and being present with the audience, even through the tough stuff, is hard. But I wasn’t creating that inside-the-character from scratch.

And then, with The Pretty One, suddenly I was. Six separate times, creating a character from the ground up. I had to sit and sit with those people in my head, waiting for the stories to become clear, writing things down, reading them out loud and both the character and I saying, no, actually, not that, that is not actually true. That would never be true.

These people I made, they are not me with my loud mouth and stubborn nature and fuck-you attitude, all of which was born from my own history. They had their own histories and personalities, and like most people in the world, they maybe aren’t that open to people they don’t know; even to their dearest loved ones they might not tell everything. Most people hesitate when they are telling truths. They stumble and go down wrong paths, in their minds, with their words. And they probably don’t use exposition when a simple eye-roll or grimace or loud laugh can fill in where their words leave off. For sure, these characters of mine are more reserved than I am about sex stuff.

Even after writing nerdfucker, which is just one fictional character for the entire play, I still can’t believe how challenging it is to not just insert myself into everything this person says or does. But that is essentially what I’ve had to learn to do: hold my own self back and leave enough quiet, still space for the character to come in, find their own boundaries, and say what they need to say.

(Yes, I know this is all still me. Shhh. Don’t tell them that. I don’t want them to get scared away. The process is working pretty well so far.)

*****

Theatre is just one of the ways that I delve into the hard stuff: sex, love, relationships, self. If you like what I do and want to help make it possible to keep doing it, considering becoming a patron of mine on Patreon!

1 2 3 4 5