So, last night was the fateful evening when Essin' Em and I finally got to hang out. We had a really great time. Of course, most of what we talked about was sex. (Shocking, I know.) After perhaps the most thorough sex-store outing I've yet had the pleasure of experiencing, we ended up at our mutual friend's house. (Yes, the boy I'm... whatever...ing.) Who, also, as we learned last night, reads Em's blog regularly, so, if and when he figures out that this is me - welcome! *waves*
Anyways, so we ended up at his house, since he was a mutual friend, and, more aptly, because he had a hot tub and I'm persuasive enough to convince him to let us come over and usurp it. After a few more phone calls (clearly, we weren't coming fast enough... *snicker*), we made our way over to his house, where we were also introduced to a friend of his who's staying with him. The friend seemed nice enough, but the boy (who needs a nickname... any suggestions? Can't use his initial cause it's too common in my life) and Em wasted no time in catching up, and I in inserting myself in their relationship dynamic. Which maybe, really, should have been more difficult.
But we had come for the hot tub, so that's where we headed after a drink (or, in my case, a mouthful and a half of Absynthe). Em and I hadn't brought swimsuits - yes, even though it had been our idea to go hot tubbing - and so we stripped to underwear and bras, and I cursed myself for not wearing cuter underwear. Before we'd sunk into the hot tub, Em pointed out that she was wearing a relatively nice bra that matched an outfit, and she didn't want to get it all chlorine-y. And I wasn't about to let my girl go solo, so I joined her in the toplessness. We didn't hear any complaints. We had several discussions about whose breasts were bigger - hers are by a little bit, but mine are...what did we decide, Em? Perkier? - and how amusing it was that tits float. Which, incidentally, makes them look kind of cool.
Within this new group dynamic we were forging, I emerged as (ready for the shocker, here?) the submissive. Which basically means I got ogled and fondled and complimented a lot and hit a few times. All consensually, of course - legit, with express verbal permission. It was a strange sensation, though, to be the object of attraction for these two people, both of whom I like and respect, and both of whom I think of as more confident than me sexually, and to have them sit across the hot tub from me and tell me I have near-perfect breasts. I think I got, for a moment, what it must feel like to be just one of those stunningly gorgeous people, who everyone in the world thinks is beautiful. I'm not throwing a pity party here in the least, but it was most definitely a new sensation for me to feel quite so sexy and wanted and valuable all at the same time. Yes, every once in a while I get the "hey, you're hot" comments from friends or random people, but this was like I was entirely under their gaze and couldn't move if I wanted to. We eventually moved downstairs to the sauna - yes, we were Zaunaing - where Em and boy sat on the upper bench while I stretched out (still naked, as all of us were) on the lower bench with my feet up next to boy. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the hot air, and as I opened my eyes, Em and boy were both staring at me, something almost like hunger in their eyes. Em looked me up and down and once more and said something to the effect of:
"I hope you don't mind, I'm totally objectifying all of you right now. Damn."
And boy smiled and rubbed his hand over my leg and just said "Yeah."
Thank god the sauna was warm and had flushed my skin already, although I'm sure color still rose to my cheeks regardless. There is something about these two, specifically, that makes me feel really comfortable with my body and myself and my life when I'm around them. And yes, of course the copious amounts of compliments obviously help, but even earlier, I was the first one to get completely naked, which is SO not my style.
Because I can be as sex-positive and kinky and queer as I want but the truth remains that I have some pretty substantial body issues. There are, without question, more parts of my body that I don't like than parts I do. Just for reference, the parts I like: my nose, my eyes when they're green, my tits, my calves, and my tattoos. Everything else, I would change if I could. And I know that's a very negative image to have, but I'm working on being more realistic and accepting of my body... it just takes some time. I've struggled with eating disorders and body image for a long time now. But nights like last night certainly help. Immensely. More than I can put into words.
So thank you to Em, and thank you to boy, for helping me feel a little better about myself, and like maybe I was worth some adoration. I don't know what I'd do without you guys.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
the music.
Music has always played a significant part in my life. Both my parents were singers (just in plays, choirs, that sort of thing), and I've grown up singing, although I never was able to really play an instrument. I preferred writing. But I've always appreciated it, and as I've gotten older and more technologically dependent, I now can't imagine a day without music. My iTunes library only boasts about 3500 songs, but I can assure you that I know every word to every one of those songs. Maybe that's why there's no room for other things like, oh, my times tables.
Anyways, on to the point... I've always equated sex with music. And vice-versa. I don't mean this in the I've-seen-too-much-porn-where-every-sex-act-is-accompanied-by-the-bowchikawowow kind of way, but more like I think making sex (I really don't like the term making love... it makes me uncomfortable. Let's not go into what that says about me) is a little like making music. I always prefer to have sex with music in the background. It's like our bodies, and the breathing, and the sound of skin on skin adds a whole new element to the music. And there are definitely certain songs I associate with certain people. Let's run over a list of those. (In no particular order.)
Dirty Little Secret - All-American Rejects (oddly enough, this song never made me feel bad about the brief affair that this was. It still makes me smile)
Konstantine - Something Corporate (Anyone who knows me even the tiniest knows the story behind this song. Needless to say, I don't listen to it much anymore.)
Ruthless - Something Corporate (I know I already have a song by the band on here, but I very distinctly remember listening to this when I was deciding to go to college, which, for me, was in many ways a choice on who I was going to be with. That relationship didn't work out, but this person is still completely pivotal in my life to the point that I couldn't function without them. There's a line here that says "Cause by now/I know you better than yourself/and I know what you really need/or I need/but either way/this is where we should be...") Also, anything by Lacuna Coil reminds me of this person... But that one's obvious.
Narcissus/Hands Clean - Alanis Morisette (This was a long time ago, but the words still ring so true. Ha.)
Fix You - Coldplay (and this one, the memories aren't so pleasant. I mostly remember this song being used as a guilt-trip. On an almost-daily basis.) Also, for this relationship... Poor Little Rich Boy - Regina Spektor. This one's self-explantory. Oh, and Face Down - Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. (Yeah, this was a BAD relationship. Any time I need this much music that's all this depressing to get me through the day, it's no bueno.)
Almost anything by Dispatch (which is funny, because this isn't the person who introduced me to the band, but I distinctly remember driving back from the mountains the first time we kissed and as I was falling asleep in the passenger seat, he put on Dispatch for me. We still text each other whenever we hear it.)
Of All the Gin Joints in all the World - Fall Out Boy ("You only hold me up like this/Cause you don't know who I really am." 'Nuf said.)
Mindless Self Indulgence (I've sworn off this band because the memories attached to it are too strong and it's an incredible trigger for me. This is the downside to being so in tune with music. I remember him putting this on loud enough to drown out my cries for help.)
Say Goodnight and Go - Imogen Heap (for a good friend who I was just friends with for a long time, and we never seem to have feelings for one another at the same time. It's kind of funny, actually.)
Tears and Rain - James Blunt (all of his music reminds me of my time in Seattle, but this song specifically reminds me of something that never happened while I was there. A missed opportunity, we'll call it. That might have been something good.)
How You Remind Me - Nickelback (for my first-ever boyfriend when I was 14. We used to sneak off to the library and as we'd cuddle, we'd listen to this on his laptop. I don't know where he is now.)
And this one is in chronological order...
Bowlegged and Starving - Jay Brannan (for my current situation. Again, it's something that seems like it should make me feel dirty, but everytime I hear it, I can't help but smile. The line, in particular, that says "I'm bowlegged and starving/but walking home happy/let this mark the moment/when I felt freedom ring" strikes a chord. No pun intended.)
Wow. That was an interesting trip down memory lane. And I know that makes it look like all I listen to is Emo, and that I just have generally terrible taste in music (with a few notable exceptions, thank you), but it's the lyric-heavy music I tend to connect with situations. It makes it easier to draw parallels after the experience is over and starting to fade from memory.
And all this leads into something I was actually going to write about in another post: my "number." The person I'm with now asked me about my number the other night. I didn't tell him. I jokingly asked him his, and he told me it was 6. Which I was actually surprised at - I'd expected it to be higher. I've had him up on a pedestal for so long that I assumed everyone sees him like I do and has been as eager to jump into bed with him as I was. Which, maybe they were. If that's the case, then I feel even more special. Heh. I'm going to go ahead and believe that.
BUT. the point is, my number is higher than that. Like, a lot higher. I'm not going to publish it here... partially because I'd need to go back over and update the list. But I think, now knowing his number, I'm glad he doesn't know mine. It does lead me to wonder, though, how much sex is too much sex?
Hmm. Channeling Carrie Bradshaw there. Sorry about that. It's the shoe collection calling my name from the closet. :) OK. I apologize for the absolute randomness of this post. But to wrap it up in the same fashion, and try and tie it all together... here's the first poem I've written in almost a year. So I'm a little rusty. So forgive me.
The silence isn't so oppressive
when I'm with you.
Usually bearing down on me
Too heavy to think
or feel or act
It starts to lift the moment
your lips touch mine.
And as your arms envelop me,
The silence vanishes
Replaced by something unspoken
And bigger than either of us.
The heat between us
begins to buzz.
As out breathing quickens
Creating a frenetic baseline.
Our bodies, slick and sticky with desire
Move against in unison
And I am so lucidly aware
of every sensation in my body
I realize I can't feel the silence.
Instead I listen to the the
rhythm of our breath
The melody of our bodies
And the harmony of the lust
Searing between us
As we go harder faster longer
We've created a symphony
And the music is tangible
A soundtrack to us
Our lives, our passion.
And as it builds to a crescendo
It gets louder
harder, faster, more urgent
Until it reaches that moment
When every instrument plays
In some massive
harmonious
dischord
Where no single note is discernible
So like our bodies.
And then
The music slows
And the silence quietly
Makes its way back into the air
But it's lost some of its power
And the weight it had
to crush me
Is infinitely lighter
Unable to compare
to the music we make together.
(yeah, I've never been a strong writer when I'm happy. So it goes.)
Anyways, on to the point... I've always equated sex with music. And vice-versa. I don't mean this in the I've-seen-too-much-porn-where-every-sex-act-is-accompanied-by-the-bowchikawowow kind of way, but more like I think making sex (I really don't like the term making love... it makes me uncomfortable. Let's not go into what that says about me) is a little like making music. I always prefer to have sex with music in the background. It's like our bodies, and the breathing, and the sound of skin on skin adds a whole new element to the music. And there are definitely certain songs I associate with certain people. Let's run over a list of those. (In no particular order.)
Dirty Little Secret - All-American Rejects (oddly enough, this song never made me feel bad about the brief affair that this was. It still makes me smile)
Konstantine - Something Corporate (Anyone who knows me even the tiniest knows the story behind this song. Needless to say, I don't listen to it much anymore.)
Ruthless - Something Corporate (I know I already have a song by the band on here, but I very distinctly remember listening to this when I was deciding to go to college, which, for me, was in many ways a choice on who I was going to be with. That relationship didn't work out, but this person is still completely pivotal in my life to the point that I couldn't function without them. There's a line here that says "Cause by now/I know you better than yourself/and I know what you really need/or I need/but either way/this is where we should be...") Also, anything by Lacuna Coil reminds me of this person... But that one's obvious.
Narcissus/Hands Clean - Alanis Morisette (This was a long time ago, but the words still ring so true. Ha.)
Fix You - Coldplay (and this one, the memories aren't so pleasant. I mostly remember this song being used as a guilt-trip. On an almost-daily basis.) Also, for this relationship... Poor Little Rich Boy - Regina Spektor. This one's self-explantory. Oh, and Face Down - Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. (Yeah, this was a BAD relationship. Any time I need this much music that's all this depressing to get me through the day, it's no bueno.)
Almost anything by Dispatch (which is funny, because this isn't the person who introduced me to the band, but I distinctly remember driving back from the mountains the first time we kissed and as I was falling asleep in the passenger seat, he put on Dispatch for me. We still text each other whenever we hear it.)
Of All the Gin Joints in all the World - Fall Out Boy ("You only hold me up like this/Cause you don't know who I really am." 'Nuf said.)
Mindless Self Indulgence (I've sworn off this band because the memories attached to it are too strong and it's an incredible trigger for me. This is the downside to being so in tune with music. I remember him putting this on loud enough to drown out my cries for help.)
Say Goodnight and Go - Imogen Heap (for a good friend who I was just friends with for a long time, and we never seem to have feelings for one another at the same time. It's kind of funny, actually.)
Tears and Rain - James Blunt (all of his music reminds me of my time in Seattle, but this song specifically reminds me of something that never happened while I was there. A missed opportunity, we'll call it. That might have been something good.)
How You Remind Me - Nickelback (for my first-ever boyfriend when I was 14. We used to sneak off to the library and as we'd cuddle, we'd listen to this on his laptop. I don't know where he is now.)
And this one is in chronological order...
Bowlegged and Starving - Jay Brannan (for my current situation. Again, it's something that seems like it should make me feel dirty, but everytime I hear it, I can't help but smile. The line, in particular, that says "I'm bowlegged and starving/but walking home happy/let this mark the moment/when I felt freedom ring" strikes a chord. No pun intended.)
Wow. That was an interesting trip down memory lane. And I know that makes it look like all I listen to is Emo, and that I just have generally terrible taste in music (with a few notable exceptions, thank you), but it's the lyric-heavy music I tend to connect with situations. It makes it easier to draw parallels after the experience is over and starting to fade from memory.
And all this leads into something I was actually going to write about in another post: my "number." The person I'm with now asked me about my number the other night. I didn't tell him. I jokingly asked him his, and he told me it was 6. Which I was actually surprised at - I'd expected it to be higher. I've had him up on a pedestal for so long that I assumed everyone sees him like I do and has been as eager to jump into bed with him as I was. Which, maybe they were. If that's the case, then I feel even more special. Heh. I'm going to go ahead and believe that.
BUT. the point is, my number is higher than that. Like, a lot higher. I'm not going to publish it here... partially because I'd need to go back over and update the list. But I think, now knowing his number, I'm glad he doesn't know mine. It does lead me to wonder, though, how much sex is too much sex?
Hmm. Channeling Carrie Bradshaw there. Sorry about that. It's the shoe collection calling my name from the closet. :) OK. I apologize for the absolute randomness of this post. But to wrap it up in the same fashion, and try and tie it all together... here's the first poem I've written in almost a year. So I'm a little rusty. So forgive me.
The silence isn't so oppressive
when I'm with you.
Usually bearing down on me
Too heavy to think
or feel or act
It starts to lift the moment
your lips touch mine.
And as your arms envelop me,
The silence vanishes
Replaced by something unspoken
And bigger than either of us.
The heat between us
begins to buzz.
As out breathing quickens
Creating a frenetic baseline.
Our bodies, slick and sticky with desire
Move against in unison
And I am so lucidly aware
of every sensation in my body
I realize I can't feel the silence.
Instead I listen to the the
rhythm of our breath
The melody of our bodies
And the harmony of the lust
Searing between us
As we go harder faster longer
We've created a symphony
And the music is tangible
A soundtrack to us
Our lives, our passion.
And as it builds to a crescendo
It gets louder
harder, faster, more urgent
Until it reaches that moment
When every instrument plays
In some massive
harmonious
dischord
Where no single note is discernible
So like our bodies.
And then
The music slows
And the silence quietly
Makes its way back into the air
But it's lost some of its power
And the weight it had
to crush me
Is infinitely lighter
Unable to compare
to the music we make together.
(yeah, I've never been a strong writer when I'm happy. So it goes.)
Monday, June 23, 2008
exactly what I wanted....
It's funny. I was thinking about being happy. And the fact that right now I'm in... well, we'll call it a relationship, although it isn't in the traditional sense. But really, we all know how I feel about labels. Anyway, the point is, I'm REALLY happy in this relationship. It doesn't look at all like I thought a new relationship would look like, but it is, really, exactly what I was looking for. To the point that I'd told people this is what I was looking for.
Something not terribly serious. Lighthearted - doesn't need to be exclusive. I've spent so long in serious relationships, and for the past several years, those were relationships I wasn't happy in. So I thought if I went looking for something completely different, maybe the result would be equally distant. I just didn't think I would find it.
I do wonder if it says anything about me, though. I get stupidly excited when my phone rings - it's like I'm 15, and I get these butterflies in my stomach. And we don't really go anywhere. We call each other when we need one another, and we've both made an effort to be available to the other. And I have someone to sleep next to when I want. But what I love most is the way he looks at me. It's been a long time since someone looked at me like that. He'll just look at me, and a smile will spread across his face, and he'll run his fingers through my hair and pull me in to kiss him. And he's a really good kisser.
And the way he talks to me. We have a hell of a lot in common, and he's so smart. And creative. And talented. And I'm gushing, I know. But we're so straightforward with each other - about what he and I are or aren't, and about what's good, how we're feeling. And he does these adorable little things - like making sure I'm comfortable when I spend the night. The other night he went into the guest room to bring me more pillows, and now they're there whenever I spend the night. He sleeps with one pillow. He'll look at me, and just ask if I'm happy. Telling me he just wants to check. The honesty is really a key part of why I like him. Well, that and he's hot. Has fabulous lips. And I mentioned he's a great kisser, right?
Oh, yeah, and the sex is fantastic. And kinky. And all-around awesome. Jesus, I've never come so hard. And there's something really wonderful about being with someone who can be dirty and indulge me, and then just as easily cuddle with me or ask me to come join him in the shower. Or do little things like make sure I have a toothbrush at his house. I know a lot of these probably sound like standard fare, but it's been so long since I've been with someone like this (if I ever have... which is debatable), that I'm really enjoying it.
So I apologize for the gushing. Oddly enough, there aren't a whole lot of people I can talk to about this, and, well, you all are a captive audience. So, HA.
Something not terribly serious. Lighthearted - doesn't need to be exclusive. I've spent so long in serious relationships, and for the past several years, those were relationships I wasn't happy in. So I thought if I went looking for something completely different, maybe the result would be equally distant. I just didn't think I would find it.
I do wonder if it says anything about me, though. I get stupidly excited when my phone rings - it's like I'm 15, and I get these butterflies in my stomach. And we don't really go anywhere. We call each other when we need one another, and we've both made an effort to be available to the other. And I have someone to sleep next to when I want. But what I love most is the way he looks at me. It's been a long time since someone looked at me like that. He'll just look at me, and a smile will spread across his face, and he'll run his fingers through my hair and pull me in to kiss him. And he's a really good kisser.
And the way he talks to me. We have a hell of a lot in common, and he's so smart. And creative. And talented. And I'm gushing, I know. But we're so straightforward with each other - about what he and I are or aren't, and about what's good, how we're feeling. And he does these adorable little things - like making sure I'm comfortable when I spend the night. The other night he went into the guest room to bring me more pillows, and now they're there whenever I spend the night. He sleeps with one pillow. He'll look at me, and just ask if I'm happy. Telling me he just wants to check. The honesty is really a key part of why I like him. Well, that and he's hot. Has fabulous lips. And I mentioned he's a great kisser, right?
Oh, yeah, and the sex is fantastic. And kinky. And all-around awesome. Jesus, I've never come so hard. And there's something really wonderful about being with someone who can be dirty and indulge me, and then just as easily cuddle with me or ask me to come join him in the shower. Or do little things like make sure I have a toothbrush at his house. I know a lot of these probably sound like standard fare, but it's been so long since I've been with someone like this (if I ever have... which is debatable), that I'm really enjoying it.
So I apologize for the gushing. Oddly enough, there aren't a whole lot of people I can talk to about this, and, well, you all are a captive audience. So, HA.
Still not queer enough
This weekend was Pride. I work for the state's largest and oldest GLBT publication, which also happens to be a key sponsor of the festival. It's an unpaid internship, but I definitely work my tail off for this job. I'm out to come of my coworkers, but for the most part, I just let people assume I'm a lesbian. (Which, actually, is a nice change from being automatically considered straight.) I was in the parade on Sunday, and on Saturday, went down to festival decked out in rainbow from head to toe. (Literally, nails were painted rainbow and everything.) I met up with a friend on Saturday, and we wandered around, revelling in the queerness. I generally love Pride. I love the atmosphere, and that myself, and everyone around me, doesn't have to feel self-conscious or nervous about being outed. Everyone's already out, and everyone's OK with it. Also, this was my first Pride being out.
But oddly enough, I found myself still so terribly aware of the belief that I'm not queer enough. I've written about it before. It's no secret that a lot of people (I'd argue a majority) don't believe that bisexuality really exists - that it's just a phase, that we're greedy, or unfaithful, or just don't belong in the community. Personally, I think that's all a load of shit. But I can't change how people think... It's starting to get to me, though. As I was walking around the festival with my friend, I was mentioning that it seemed ironic that I was bringing a guy I'm sleeping with to the official Pride afterparty. She laughed and told me that I shouldn't be ashamed - it was Pride, and I'm allowed to be proud of my bisexuality. The argument made sense. Why was I so nervous on this of all weekends when everyone else is so focused on being out and proud? My fears were satiated for the rest of the day. (Although it didn't hurt that I ended the night with a really hot girl's phone number.)
My date didn't end up being able to come to the Party with me. Which was fine, since I had a blast anyways. I do so enjoy being in queer spaces. And everyone was happy, looking hot... it was a good night. As part of the paper's staff, I had VIP access, meaning a separate area with seating, and bottle service. The whole vibe was relatively casual, and it was really hot out, so I was in a denim skirt with a cute (pink!) top that had a keyhole opening to show off the cleavage. I was chatting with some of the people in our booth - who I didn't know beforehand - and this one woman asked me if I was gay. I smiled and said, "Well, I'm bi. So kinda." And she looks at me and goes "yeah, I didn't think you were gay. You have a perfect nose though."
OK. Compliment aside (I do have a cute nose), her tone was very... exclusionary? Like she was discounting me because I didn't fit her definition of gay. And yes, I know I'm not gay because I also sleep with men, but her reaction to me being open about who I am (and we're at PRIDE, where that's EXACTLY what you're supposed to do), was so negative that I clammed up for almost the rest of the night. Just, her dismissing me like that "yeah, well, OBVIOUSLY you're not gay..." What the hell?
So much for embracing queer spaces.
(in other news, I'm officially moving on. I'm done dealing with this crap and I'm working on cutting out parts of my life that don't make me happy. It's LONG overdue.)
But oddly enough, I found myself still so terribly aware of the belief that I'm not queer enough. I've written about it before. It's no secret that a lot of people (I'd argue a majority) don't believe that bisexuality really exists - that it's just a phase, that we're greedy, or unfaithful, or just don't belong in the community. Personally, I think that's all a load of shit. But I can't change how people think... It's starting to get to me, though. As I was walking around the festival with my friend, I was mentioning that it seemed ironic that I was bringing a guy I'm sleeping with to the official Pride afterparty. She laughed and told me that I shouldn't be ashamed - it was Pride, and I'm allowed to be proud of my bisexuality. The argument made sense. Why was I so nervous on this of all weekends when everyone else is so focused on being out and proud? My fears were satiated for the rest of the day. (Although it didn't hurt that I ended the night with a really hot girl's phone number.)
My date didn't end up being able to come to the Party with me. Which was fine, since I had a blast anyways. I do so enjoy being in queer spaces. And everyone was happy, looking hot... it was a good night. As part of the paper's staff, I had VIP access, meaning a separate area with seating, and bottle service. The whole vibe was relatively casual, and it was really hot out, so I was in a denim skirt with a cute (pink!) top that had a keyhole opening to show off the cleavage. I was chatting with some of the people in our booth - who I didn't know beforehand - and this one woman asked me if I was gay. I smiled and said, "Well, I'm bi. So kinda." And she looks at me and goes "yeah, I didn't think you were gay. You have a perfect nose though."
OK. Compliment aside (I do have a cute nose), her tone was very... exclusionary? Like she was discounting me because I didn't fit her definition of gay. And yes, I know I'm not gay because I also sleep with men, but her reaction to me being open about who I am (and we're at PRIDE, where that's EXACTLY what you're supposed to do), was so negative that I clammed up for almost the rest of the night. Just, her dismissing me like that "yeah, well, OBVIOUSLY you're not gay..." What the hell?
So much for embracing queer spaces.
(in other news, I'm officially moving on. I'm done dealing with this crap and I'm working on cutting out parts of my life that don't make me happy. It's LONG overdue.)
Sunday, June 8, 2008
well, you know I'd be lying if I told you anything but that I knew, deep down, that we'd end up together. Which I write like we already have. And we haven't. We have a lot of growing up to do before then. But you'll see it someday.
And I will have known it all along. Because the way you treat me can't be anything but love. you know you love me. And so do I.
Just so you know we're on the same page.
And I will have known it all along. Because the way you treat me can't be anything but love. you know you love me. And so do I.
Just so you know we're on the same page.
Friday, June 6, 2008
trust, abuse, and pleasure.
I was reading Essin Em’s post on trust and her personal issues surrounding it, and I couldn’t help but apply it to my own life. She was working through some thoughts about a recent encounter she had where her limits (sexually, physically, emotionally and mentally) were pushed. She didn’t know the person overly well, but, from her postings, it seems it was one of her favorite sexual experiences to date.
And I started thinking about how I’ve been learning my limits lately, and who’s been teaching me those things. I’ve been exploring my limits – we’ll just deal with those regarding sex and sexuality, since that’s what this blog is supposed to be about. I’ve discovered a few things, like my sincere enjoyment of bondage and domination. I’ve found out how much I like being submissive sexually, which is funny, because I’m not submissive in my personal relationships or in life itself very much. (Which, on a side note, reminds me of that stereotype of the power-hungry executive who’s a total asshole, but sexually wants nothing more than to be dominated.) But the way I’ve been learning these things about myself hasn’t been with people I especially trust. They aren’t people I necessarily distrust, but they aren’t the people who I’ve been with for years, or even people who know me especially well. And here’s the kicker – and the part where my liberal-minded-socially-conscious-feminist brain screams at me that I know better – all of those limits that have been pushed, none of them have been discussed before. Which seems like I’m really putting myself in dangerous situation. But is that part of the rush? Do I get off on that? And if I do, what does that say about me? (Does that even matter?)It all started with someone who I have known for quite a while, but still have no reason to trust. Actually, I make it a point not to trust him… He deserves it, trust me. But we went out on a really surprisingly pleasant date last year, that ended up back at my house, where I was pretty quickly stripped naked (which is fine with me). He put his hands in my hair, and pulled my head down on his cock. He absolutely took control, physically and verbally, and I ate it up (figuratively and literally, heh). We hadn’t spoken about it earlier, there had been no discussion of my burgeoning interest in being dommed, let alone discussion of a safeword. (Granted, the situation probably didn’t really require one, as it wasn’t a long encounter and, all things considered, was pretty tame.) Nevertheless, I loved it. And perhaps it seems silly or unimportant that basically hair-pulling started my interest in getting my ass kicked in the bedroom, but that’s how it went. And maybe I do trust him more than I think I do, if nothing else because we’ve known each other for more than 10 years. I guess there HAS to be some kind of trust that builds there.
And it’s a really hard thing to wrap my head around how much I enjoyed all of it. For one, random hookups are usually just awkward as you try and figure each other out in the inevitably drunken stooper. But more than anything, the fact that I could trust a relative stranger to treat me like that and still respect my limits (which he did – oddly enough, I never once felt unsafe or pressured, as ironic as that sounds) seems so counterintuitive to everything I’ve been taught, everything I advocate in terms of ending sexual violence. How could I get enjoyment out of that, out of giving up control like that, especially when I’ve been raped? I can’t wrap my head around it, I really can’t. And what’s maybe one of the weirdest parts of all, is that a few nights ago, I hooked up with an old friend, and I just flipped my shit. He wasn’t mistreating me, we weren’t even playing a dom/sub scenario (although I have with him before… see here) but I just freaked out. Like ended up naked crying on the floor kind of flipped out. So what was the difference? Why didn’t anything like that happen with this person I’d known for a few hours, but instead with someone I’ve known for years?
Monday, June 2, 2008
the repair!
It came from an unlikely place. And maybe it only happened because I'd given up on it. But let's say, I am now confident that I'm no longer broken.
As some of you might (or might not remember), I've had a problem in that for the past year, I haven't been able to climax with a partner. It wasn't due to any partner's lack of trying or lack of skill, and so I was left with nothing to conclude but that it was something wrong with me. I wrote about it here. Recently, I'd given up entirely, thinking perhaps it just wasn't going to happen again. Which I felt was unfortunate, because I used to be one of those women who could have three or four orgasms in a given encounter, where each one was better than the last. It was one of the primary reasons I enjoyed sex so much. But I was trying to teach myself how to enjoy sex again without it, trying to convince myself that orgasm-centric sex is actually terribly heteronormative and maybe even a little chauvinist. I was succeeding for the most part.
And then I bit the bullet and went to go see an old friend... Who I was angry at for a long time because he stood me up, meaning I drove 120 miles for absolutely no good reason. Anyways... I called him, and very simply said "convince me to come see you tonight. go." And he started rambling but I wasn't really listening because my mind was already made up. I ran home to pick up condoms and put gas in the car, and took off. At 11:30 p.m.
In a little less than an hour, I was there, and he was climbing into my car. We didn't bother exchanging pleasantries. His hands were all over me, obviously annoyed at the amount of clothing I was wearing. Nevermind that it was just a short skirt and a tank top with an open back. I pulled him off me just long enough to take a breath and ask where I should be driving us to. He directed me to a campsite off a main road. I laughed to myself, because when we had talked, he'd always said he wanted to take me into the woods. And I laughed because I was in 4" heels. Nevertheless, I drove on.
We didn't make it out of the car. Before I knew what had happened, I was on top of him, panting as he bit my neck and shoulder and pulled my shirt over my head. There was something very adolescent about having sex in the back seat of a car on a side road buried in the woods. Somehow, though, I couldn't manage to give a damn.
He never once said he was going to get me off. He didn't make a big deal of it. He was obviously devoted to the task at hand, but we were both enjoying ourselves and there was a shockingly small amount of pressure. I forgot how skilled he was with his tongue ring (and yes, I know that's cliche, but in this case, it was true), and he was just as good with his hands. But neither of those did it. Which was fine with me.
I climbed on top of him, and he grabbed my hips to set a pace. I matched it. He started sighing, moaning, and I started breathing harder. I felt my pace quickening, and that numb-hypersensitivity sensation building at the base of my spine. I didn't give it much thought, but did start grinding into him harder. Subconsciously, really. That feeling started moving up my spine, each thrust sending another ripple of sensation through my body. I was breathing heavy, panting, whimpering, frantically biting at his neck and collarbone as by nails dug into the seatback behind him that I was using for leverage. Then, suddenly, and without his hands anywhere near my clit, I came. HARD. I felt it through my entire body - this familiar (and yet at the same time all too foreign) feeling of every muscle simultaneously tightening and releasing in the most glorious of pains where I had no control over my body, what I was saying, and all that mattered was this sensation ripping through me.
As the feeling subsided, I sat back to try and catch my breath. He was beaming in a disgustingly arrogant way. I wished I hadn't told him how long it had been since I'd gotten off, because now I knew he'd be gloating for the next year. But somehow I didn't care. I was still feeling tiny aftershocks, which resonated through my body and his.
Then it happened twice more.
Yes, my first orgasm in a year came as three. By the end, I was absolutely intoxicated. He thought it was funny. And true to form, his commentary on the entire situation (aside from the obligatory "i TOLD you so"), was "wow, you're so much less of a bitch now."
I reminded him that he was just as much of an ass as he's always been, and told him if he'd like to see me again, he can drive himself to me. Then I drove home.
(Nevertheless, it's good to know that I'm not broken, and the release of knowing that it's still possible has renewed my excitement about having sex. I'm especially looking forward to it with A, who I actually have feelings for. It's going to be a good summer. And on the upside, at least now I know I CAN be non-orgasm-centric. Which is good, too.)
As some of you might (or might not remember), I've had a problem in that for the past year, I haven't been able to climax with a partner. It wasn't due to any partner's lack of trying or lack of skill, and so I was left with nothing to conclude but that it was something wrong with me. I wrote about it here. Recently, I'd given up entirely, thinking perhaps it just wasn't going to happen again. Which I felt was unfortunate, because I used to be one of those women who could have three or four orgasms in a given encounter, where each one was better than the last. It was one of the primary reasons I enjoyed sex so much. But I was trying to teach myself how to enjoy sex again without it, trying to convince myself that orgasm-centric sex is actually terribly heteronormative and maybe even a little chauvinist. I was succeeding for the most part.
And then I bit the bullet and went to go see an old friend... Who I was angry at for a long time because he stood me up, meaning I drove 120 miles for absolutely no good reason. Anyways... I called him, and very simply said "convince me to come see you tonight. go." And he started rambling but I wasn't really listening because my mind was already made up. I ran home to pick up condoms and put gas in the car, and took off. At 11:30 p.m.
In a little less than an hour, I was there, and he was climbing into my car. We didn't bother exchanging pleasantries. His hands were all over me, obviously annoyed at the amount of clothing I was wearing. Nevermind that it was just a short skirt and a tank top with an open back. I pulled him off me just long enough to take a breath and ask where I should be driving us to. He directed me to a campsite off a main road. I laughed to myself, because when we had talked, he'd always said he wanted to take me into the woods. And I laughed because I was in 4" heels. Nevertheless, I drove on.
We didn't make it out of the car. Before I knew what had happened, I was on top of him, panting as he bit my neck and shoulder and pulled my shirt over my head. There was something very adolescent about having sex in the back seat of a car on a side road buried in the woods. Somehow, though, I couldn't manage to give a damn.
He never once said he was going to get me off. He didn't make a big deal of it. He was obviously devoted to the task at hand, but we were both enjoying ourselves and there was a shockingly small amount of pressure. I forgot how skilled he was with his tongue ring (and yes, I know that's cliche, but in this case, it was true), and he was just as good with his hands. But neither of those did it. Which was fine with me.
I climbed on top of him, and he grabbed my hips to set a pace. I matched it. He started sighing, moaning, and I started breathing harder. I felt my pace quickening, and that numb-hypersensitivity sensation building at the base of my spine. I didn't give it much thought, but did start grinding into him harder. Subconsciously, really. That feeling started moving up my spine, each thrust sending another ripple of sensation through my body. I was breathing heavy, panting, whimpering, frantically biting at his neck and collarbone as by nails dug into the seatback behind him that I was using for leverage. Then, suddenly, and without his hands anywhere near my clit, I came. HARD. I felt it through my entire body - this familiar (and yet at the same time all too foreign) feeling of every muscle simultaneously tightening and releasing in the most glorious of pains where I had no control over my body, what I was saying, and all that mattered was this sensation ripping through me.
As the feeling subsided, I sat back to try and catch my breath. He was beaming in a disgustingly arrogant way. I wished I hadn't told him how long it had been since I'd gotten off, because now I knew he'd be gloating for the next year. But somehow I didn't care. I was still feeling tiny aftershocks, which resonated through my body and his.
Then it happened twice more.
Yes, my first orgasm in a year came as three. By the end, I was absolutely intoxicated. He thought it was funny. And true to form, his commentary on the entire situation (aside from the obligatory "i TOLD you so"), was "wow, you're so much less of a bitch now."
I reminded him that he was just as much of an ass as he's always been, and told him if he'd like to see me again, he can drive himself to me. Then I drove home.
(Nevertheless, it's good to know that I'm not broken, and the release of knowing that it's still possible has renewed my excitement about having sex. I'm especially looking forward to it with A, who I actually have feelings for. It's going to be a good summer. And on the upside, at least now I know I CAN be non-orgasm-centric. Which is good, too.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
