Maggie Mayhem Speaks » africa

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Maggie Mayhem — Sun, 29 May 2011 01:15:07 +0000

As an atheist, “mecca” has always been a metaphor for me. I do not believe there is a creator who graces just one place among all else that it has allegedly designed with a supreme intellect. Mecca has never been an answer to human prayers, it is a place for humans to pray. Makkah is the indisputable holy city of Islam. 13 million Muslims come to the city limits and several million will arrive specifically for the few days of the Hajj. People come with all sorts of motivations behind their pilgrimages not all of which are religious devotion. This past weekend, in spite of the rain, the world’s largest BDSM showcase was held once again in San Francisco. Kinky pilgrims from all over the world came out to buy things, meet their favorite fetish stars, see friends, find lovers, gawk, to fantasize, and most of all to hope.

The fact that Pride and the Folsom Street Fair exists is important. The fact that so many people come out despite the horrors of the “leather menace” which was depicted infinitely worse by the media than it is today (and let’s be honest, when you see someone kinky on TV they’re still usually linked to murder and violence) because it used to be damn near impossible for kinky people to gather together publicly. There are still raids on leather bars and the alcoholic beverage commission keeps a sharp eye on leather bars looking for any reason to pull a license.

In 1976, the LAPD used a 19th century anti-slavery statute as justification for raiding a gay bathhouse hosting a “slave auction.” The activity was consensual and the proceeds from the auction were going to gay charities. Nevertheless, the newspaper headlines read, “LAPD SAVES GAY SLAVES.” $100,000 of tax payer money went to pay for 65 officers, 2 helicopters, about a dozen cars, 2 known wiretaps, and surveillance of a gay magazine and its staff. There were 40 people in attendance at the party. After being arrested, party goers were left for hours without bathroom access, kept in handcuffs, and subjected to full strip searches. Today, the “slave auction” for charity has gone mainstream and the methods of negotiation designed and developed in dungeons is applied to ensure the spirit of fun and consensual nature of the activity.

We are still schluffing off the layers of stigma and internalized shame. We are still learning what justice means. My communities are made freak flag flyers and pleasure seekers. We may not agree on what this means and sometimes I even wonder if there’s any space for me but then I remember all of the people I met and all the things of done none of which would have been remotely possible without my community. I happen to be quite fond of the fact that I’ve been locked up behind bars or in an asylum on a permanent psychiatric hold just for liking kinky sex.

We can neither ignore the many problems in our midst nor can promote letting it all burn to the ground. I cannot take for granted the ground gained. I haven’t written about this before but in 2009 when I was in Tanzania, Africa working at a district hospital and a local NGO I had a needlestick accident. I’m not a good enough writer to tell you what it was like to feel the sharp prick in my palm at the base of my thumb, to see the blood filling my glove, and to slowly pull the needle out of my palm where it went in one side and came out on another.

So I started PEP which is post exposure prophylaxis. Twice a day I took a dose of AZT as a way to prevent an HIV infection after exposure. 28 days, 56 pills, and probably a good 15-20 lbs shed over the course of a few months. Although I grew up as a misfit kid who started being deliberately not invited to parties starting in the 3rd grade, I had no idea what lonliness felt like until the other American volunteers who had been friendly and outgoing with me until the news of the accident broke.

“Oh my God, Maggie, if I were you my parents would be airlifting me out of here right now. I can’t even imagine…I would just be, like, paralyzed on the bed with panic. Really, it’s probably best that it happened to you because no one speaks English here and you’re so smart about AIDS. I would hug you, but you know, the AIDS thing…”

People didn’t stopped all forms of physical contact. No handshakes, no hugs, and certainly none of me coming anywhere near their food. It happened all at once and worst of all people were trying to be “nice” about it.

For many years my work office was in a shelter for HIV+ youth 18-24 years old. Seasoned social workers used to tell me I was “brave” for working there because wasn’t I afraid that someone would spit on me and give me AIDS? Very calmly I would explain the 411 on HIV infection and then I would complain to my immediate HIV prevention team and we would all share that awkward laugh when something is fucked up beyond recognition. Confronting this misinformation was our job.

I felt like utter shit to be on the receiving end because even as I worried, I knew it was statistically unlikely that I would seroconvert from this single exposure. Still, I worried. I could also feel the distinct sting of falling right onto my privileged ass. Some people go through that kind of ostracization every single motherfucking day of their lives. Part of my work in Tanzania was to dig a latrine for an HIV+ woman exactly my age. She had likely contracted the virus from her husband who told people that she was possessed by demons. Her parents would not let her into the house for any reason. She was sleeping in the chicken coop. At the very least, the goal was to build a hygienic place for her to use the bathroom.

A lot of people laugh at the part about the demons without understanding that maybe there is no other word for the effects of hateful bias. Even in the states, the stigma against people with HIV is real. I knew it was real and I called it out when I saw it. Being on the butt end of it, even for just 28 days, made me realize all the times I didn’t see it at all. Moreover, I had no idea how to contend with my privilege as an American. Those of us who put our clothes in a closet, sleep in a bed, have indoor plumbing, and live with a roof over our heads are richer than 75% of the world. It’s all well and good for me to learn life lessons in Tanzania over two months of work but really they are nothing more than a tourist’s musings. I had the privilege to hop on a plane and go to another country to not be paid for any work I did and then to hop on a plane and go home. I hurt because I was lonely and I hurt because the extent of that pain told me just how much I totally took for granted. I hated myself and I hated my home country for 28 days in Tanzania.

I remember emailing a small group of my kinky friends. At several dollars a minute, phone calls were way out of my budget. I reached out as best I could: I explained the situation and I was honest about my fear. I asked them to write back with memories of home so that I could feel less scared by myself. It was one of the hardest emails I’ve ever written in my life because I was convinced it wasn’t acceptable for me to do anything of this and be afraid. I felt like I was letting people down by having the accident at all. What kind of a fucking professional was I? I had been handling HIV+ blood in vials for years without any incident or exposure. I was ashamed of myself. It was a difficult email to send.

One response came back quickly and understood the intention of my note completely. It came from a friend who identifies as a 24/7 slave and is going to be a mom very soon now. She sent kind words about what people were up to and sent many pictures both kinky and vanilla. I read it so many times because it was like the spritz of juice from peeling open an orange with your bare hands. Most of the messages back were fumbled making it clear that the person on the other end felt just as afraid if not more than I did about the whole situation. Although I was comfortable talking about these issues, I’ve also had years of training. HIV is a chronic illness from my perspective but for the kinky and sex positive communities it can still be a boogeyman.

Part of my homecoming was finding out that some kind of horrible version of game of telephone had transpired. There was a rumor in the community that I had gotten AIDS in Africa, that my extreme weight loss was from “white guilt anorexia,” and different versions of “what did Maggie expect? I mean, she did go to Africa. Duh.” Most of it was just dumb, some of it was infused with racism, a lot of it was just confusion. Some people, even with years of monthly state of the art testing confirming my negative status still worry that they might still somehow contract HIV from my exposure. Ignorance was the thread holding it all together and while ability to calmly respond to misinformation about the virus was gone. I didn’t have it in me to explain it all again to someone who just let something spiteful fall out of their mouths without thinking.

I felt distant to my community but closer to people who reached out to just let me hurt for awhile with them. Sometimes it was even sexual. One of my friends that I met at a BDSM conference made it a point to take me to a restaurant that served souffle and only souffle. He made it a point to say that it was his treat for the sacrifices I made over the months. He wined and dined me and I was thrilled to consume so freely. Then, back at my place, we scened throughout the night seamless switching between dominant and submissive roles.

He would pin me to the bed, slap my face and my chest, yank my hair, and make me get vocal. Then after awhile I would flip him over and use my fists on his muscles and reach my fingers into his ass until I was reduced to sobbing. He dug his fingers in his cunt like he was looking for me in there. I couldn’t come. I couldn’t come. I wound up sobbing some more.

I was coming back, though. There was no need to have an orgasm that go around because that wasn’t why we were fucking. It was love in a strong beautiful sense of the word. He was there as a friend when I needed it the most. We met at a leather conference.

And even though my letters had some unintended consequences, I got one that understood. We met at a kinky venue as well. The best thing about community is its potential to reduce loneliness in the world. Loneliness isn’t being alone because I often like to be alone. Loneliness is a dank sense of isolation and the keyhole into human despair. I got reconnected with my communities because I want to leave a legacy of less loneliness in the world. I don’t want to become so jaded I tell myself that something is hopeless because I think we tell ourselves that to lift the burden of responsibility to create change off of our shoulders. It is a lie that there is nothing to be done.

Right before I went to Haiti, I was promised by a porn company I worked for that they would host a fundraiser. I had meetings, I spoke about live on camera with the people in charge, and it was smiles all around until the ball got dropped and the promise was forgotten entirely. “Here we go again,” I thought. The cynicism was starting to overwhelm me. I only had a few weeks before my departure date and I was prepared to clench my bitter jaw and figure it out on my own.

Then something strange happened. One of the people who worked for that same company made the decision that the fundraiser had to go on whether or not it was being officially sponsored by his employer. He went to work, he got a venue, a DJ, and started getting in touch with other people who could help. Kinksters, queers, pervs, and porn whores all came out to a fundraiser to get me and my partner down to Haiti.

My community came through for me because this time there were people who knew what to do. I was amazed by the support I received and I came to a better understanding that we humans are pretty paralyzed by things we don’t understand and also scare us. That fear prevents us from getting up close to something and figuring out just what it is that is scaring us so badly. This quality we have of stepping back from those moments is one of the reasons we survived long enough on earth to build up a civilization and the remnants of which turn into our horrible -isms. This is why we prepare for emergencies, this is why we train for our jobs, this is why we have to keep on learning throughout the entirety of our lives.

Communities are made of humans all trying to figure this mess out. It takes a lot of work and it’s all too easy for us to be derailed by our own egos and to believe we have some sort of right to revenge. Nothing gets better with more hate piled on top of it. It only makes for a longer night.

This is why we must light a candle when it is dark and let that light shine. One candle alone won’t do the job but it lets the others in the darkness come near so that we aren’t all alone in the shadows. I want to keep shining as brightly as I can and I want to be a lighthouse when I grow up, a giant candle on the stormy waters. I want people to find their way to safe harbor even if it is just for a short rest on their way to other adventures. I guess this is because I am also a sailor who has been lost at sea during nights without any stars to guide me and it was the people on the shoreline, my community, who maintained a flickering light in the distance and helped me find my way home.

My time as a Mzungu II: The Hospital

Maggie Mayhem — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 08:19:00 +0000

BAGAMOYO HOSPITAL (Fetishes discussed below)

In America and most of the West, biohazard sharps containers are made out of plastic that is almost impossible to break into. Here, they are cardboard and subject to mildew, water, and the easy ability to break down. In other words, they aren’t quite as safe. If you’re looking for a good charity, sending plastic biohazard bins to the hospitals is a great place to start from home. It’s a project I’m working on myself but I have some personal reasons I’ll get into later.

My Mzungu status allowed me into the surgery theater and I was even asked to assist. Although I have some medical training, I certainly lack surgical skills. I was able to help hand out instruments and observe what it meant to ‘scrub in.’ Scrubs are all washed in the same bucket with basic soap rather than an antibiotic and then left in the sun to dry. Oddly enough, the sun probably kills more germs than a high quality soap.

Shoes are left outside and surgical ‘crocs’ are worn during procedures. The most expensive procedure at the hospital was 15,000TSH. To assist with the exchange rate, $1 USD is equivalent to 1,320TSH. This means the most expensive surgery in the hospital cost $11.36 in USD. That says quite a bit about the poverty level of the country, especially given how few people can afford a C-section, a tumor removal, or an appendectomy.

This pile of pills is medication. It was expired upon arrival, but this is the case for much if not most of the meds in Tanzania. Although this may sound barbaric, many meds are effective for much longer than the bottle says. However in this case, this pile has sat in its position for 3 years in the sun and the rain waiting for the government to give permission to use it or dispose of it. And so it sits, as it has, for years. It could have helped people at one point, but for now, it just waits in a bureaucracy that makes the DMV seem like it was designed by God and staffed by the seraphim of heaven.

This is a standard bed on a ward. There are no clean sheets (unless the UN is sending in a photographer) and you will often see blood, urine, or other bodily stains on the beds. They are not changed between patients. Mosquito nets often have holes in them and instead of IV stands, gauze hangs from the ceiling holding medication or saline drips.

This is where babies come from. I did get to see a birth and I could say it’s a miracle, but most births take place at home. A birth here is high risk for disease, multiples, or from an HIV+ mother. There is no love or patience. At one point I saw a doctor slap a woman in labor for not spreading her legs enough.

This is the surgery theater when there is no action. I use it as a close to remind you that in a surgery, your body is literally torn open and the potential for infection can be higher from your surroundings than your disease. Germs, bugs coming in from torn screens, dirt…all of these can be deadly when your organs are devoid of their typical barrier of skin which is far tougher than we imagine. Our skin protects us from deadly diseases every single day and when you are stripped of it you are quite vulnerable.

A pair of volunteers set up a fabulous project about handwashing. They researched the stats on infection in hospitals from doctors, nurses, and other health care professionals passing on illness simply from not washing their hands. My small contribution was to “accidentally leave 20 bottle of hand sanitizer” at the hospital. Donations were not allowed, you see, and my bottles were intended for the other volunteers. It just so happened they all wound up under the signs and by sinks and surgical care stations. I can be soooo forgetful sometimes. Really.

*******

On Medical Fetishism

I’ve had a growing medical fetish that has appeared out of the blue for me. I work at a climic daily, my colleagues wear scrubs, I have scrubs, I wear gloves every day, and I spend my time in a small clinic room with a bed, stirrups, and the whole nine yards. Again, I face ambivalence with my sexuality. To see the dark side of something is to confront a whole portion of your turn ons that are easier not to think about.

Does this mean I’ll never play doctor/nurse/patient ever again? Hardly. But I will also have the notion that I am blessed to have grown up in country where this can be a fetish. I doubt that there are medical fetishists where I am. Patients don’t eat unless their families bring them food. There is no such thing as palliative care. There is no time for compassion. To be in the hospital means that you are suffering from AIDS complications (50% of all the beds in all the wards are reserved for HIV+ patients), severe Malaria, serious complications from STD’s that are close to eradication in the US, typhoid fever, the need for surgery, severe injury, the need for surgery, or a complicated birth.

I had one day where I broke down in tears looking at a young man of 25 who was suffering from so many opportunistic infections from AIDS that his body had thinned to the point where I could see his heart beat through his chest. No need for a stethoscope, despite the fact I had one. I could look at the clock and count his slow beats. He looked at me and said, “Salaama” which is a Swahili greeting. Patients never spoke to Mzungu volunteers. I took his hand in mine and I replied in the same way as is common. Salaama means peace and as I looked into his eyes I knew that he was dying. I myself am 24. Our ages were so similar, but I had the fortune of being born in a place where this would not happen to me.

ARV’s (anti retro-viral) drug therapies came to Bagmoyo 3 years ago. They have been in the West since the early 1990s. Entire generations have been lost simply because of the place of their birth. How do you put the sexual fun back into something like that? How can I get my charge out of wearing my very sexy scrubs as I “check the vitals” of a “patient” in my care when I have scrubbed gangrene, I have dodged the TB ward, and I have held the hands of the dying?

But I don’t believe that something leaves forever. I think it takes breaks. I know that as I reacclimate to my life here I will find my growing medical fetish once again.

But at the least, you all deserve a photoshoot of me in my scrubs because Sleek Images sent me off with the very finest and I am entirely grateful to them for that. So I’ll put on my stethoscope, I’ll put on my scrubs, and I’ll climb back into the saddle of a fetish that never really told me where it was headed. All I knew was that seeing it turned me on and I wanted to learn more about it. That is a part of me that never changes. I follow roads, intrepid, with a sense of adventure. I want to know where life will take me next.

Life as a Mzungu

Maggie Mayhem — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 09:37:00 +0000

I am just home to the land of hot showers, espresso, clean water, and hot showers. To be honest, I would return to my village in a heartbeat. If you would like to sponsor $7000 for my travel and accommodations, kindly let me know. Otherwise I will be grant searching.

The first thing I can say is that cognitively you can understand the notion of poverty. To see it in real life, however, is another thing entirely. In fact, I’m having a few issues with my ideas of corporal punishment. For me, it used to be sexy play. Then there was the day when I saw a 3 year old girl misbehave in a typical way and her teacher twisted her cheek as a punishment. But the girl didn’t cry or react and it was perhaps in this way that I related. As a result, her teacher close fisted punched her in the face leaving her with a bloody nose. I watched late students take a switch to the back of their palm for being 3 minutes late to class.

As bad as this could be, I also had to realize that a beating at the school was the least of their problems. Starvation is a major problem. I saw tiny watoto (babies) with large distended bellies and navels the size of a spigot-a clear sign of parasites and malnutrition. How do you help them all? How do you solve the problems of the world?

At the same time, how do I reconcile my own feelings? An NGO I worked with was thrilled that I would go to secondary schools to talk about HIV/AIDS, relationships, and sexuality. The leader was a local native and loaded me with condoms to distribute to the students who internationally think a condom demo on a banana is hilarious and are afraid to go buy condoms from a store. The average age of intercourse there is 12. In America it is 17. The students loved the presentation. I spent an hour later answering questions and handing out my email for any follow questions.

Then I had to meet with the headmaster. This is where the story is supposed to get sexy, right? A spanking or a caning for teaching the sordid subject if sex to secondary students whose ages range from 15-23 (primary students are taught really basic English, much the way I learned to count to 10 in Spanish and say, ”Hola! Me llama Maggie Mayhem. Soy de Los Estados Unidos.”) Secondary students are taught entirely in English and the dropout rate is astronomical. Imagine leaning chemistry or physics in a language you barely understand. At aby rate, despite the encouragement of my boss I had severely violated a taboo. I was sent to the headmaster’s office. As he screamed at me in English and Swahili I realized that if I were his wife, his student, or his daughter (all of which I am of the appropriate age for Tanzania) that he would have beaten the crap out of me. I could see he was on the verge of it. His fists were bound. It was my mzungu status that saved me, For the first time, I was afraid.

When you think of corporal punishment in a fetish context it is an 18+ age school girl. It isn’t a 2-3 year old child. It isn’t a wife. It isn’t a daughter. I have enough fetish knowledge to know the pain of a switch on the palm. I know the pain of a beating. I know the vital need for aftercare. All of this leaves me with unresolved questions about what my life means.

But not all was bad! I realized that I didn’t need many of the things I brought. Some other volunteers left things behind as well. One girl was so tiny her pants fit a young boy thrilled to wear some camo pants. I had purchased a brand new set of socks for my trip that I never used. What was the point of bringing home my soap, my shampoo, my razors, my shirts, or my sneakers? I had also purchased a coscto sized container or bandages of all sizes, neosporin, 3 bottles of Pepto, and a ton a multivitamins. I could get all of these things in the US so I left them behind. As it is, I want to send more, but there is a lot of government corruption and these items are stolen. Then only way to be sure they reach the people who need them is to give it to them in person. I repeat, if you have cash on hand and want to send me back with backpacks for school children , clothes, or medicine please let me know.

I also got to visit a crocodile farm. For anyone who has ever purchased crocodile shoes or purses, this is where they come from. They are bred in captivity for these purposes. I saw about 200 in concrete cage like things. They ever had trees for the birds that clean crocodile teeth for the meat. If you feel bad, think about where you get your leather. It comes from a farm where cows are raised for their leather. At least these guys aren’t hunted in the wild and they lead a good life.

And I was the only one brave enough to hold a baby croc. That’s because I’m hardcore like that.

The life of a rasta is the punk rock of Tanzania. They are school dropouts who make art for a living. Some of these guys dyed their chicks blue so that they would not be confused with others.

The Indian Ocean is warm and has a huge fishing industry. I ate a lot of fish while I was there, although I sent a private thank you to the priests who gave me the blessing of St. Blaise, the patron saint of throat ailments (choking) because of all the tiny bones. This is a picture of an old Dhow which used to make the trek out to Zanzibar which can just barely be seen on the horizon. Some tourists try to use them, but they tend to die. They aren’t too reliable.

Oh, and we had fun at the bars. With a beer costing maybe $0.70 it was easy to get drunk. This is me with a local Rasta dancing. I got a nice tan everywhere but my legs. Muslim regulations require that everything above the knees be covered. I look a little misplaced.

Expect more from me about the sexuality of the culture I lived in. I’m still on Tanzania time and here it is 4:00AM. I always write.