Issue 2: Sex - The Bandit Zine

PRESENTS
When we don’t take accusations of assault seriously, which means dealing with the situation
when it arises to the fullest extent desired by the
survivor, this is rape culture.
When at a party someone tells a rape joke and
we don’t punch them in the face, this is rape
culture.
PRESENTS
Staying Safe: A Few Notes on Rape Culture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 03
Narcoleptic Lovejoy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 04
Why I Decided to Grow a Bush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 08
Touch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Inclined to Exercise, Illustration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Gender & Sexuality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
ASK FIRST!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
I Want You.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Thoughts from a Sexually Submissive Feminist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Masturbation: Go Fuck Yourself. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Herpes & Heartbreak. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Spank, illustration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Ode to Head Board. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Lovers, Painting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Morning Routine, Illustration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
I Count the First Orgamism I Gave Myself as My Virginity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Vaginas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
They Never Told Me, Illustration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Untitled, Photography/Mixed Media . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
*This zine is NSFW. 18+ only. **Cover artwork by Alison Christensen, orginally submitted to “The Lick”.
***A special shout out to Sarah Scott for combining her collection of submissions for “The Lick”.
2
What does it mean to live in a world where half
the population runs the risk of being assaulted
walking outside for nearly half of each day?
What does it mean when we are so weak that
we know something or someone is fucked up
but we don’t do anything about it because we
are afraid of breaking the social fabric or looking
like a ‘spaz’?
I’ll answer my own questions: it means that we
are all active participants in ‘rape culture.’
When people say ‘rape culture’ it sounds like
they’re talking about this abstract force hovering
above society tainted us all with its values. This
is bullshit. Rape culture is simply the tendency
of us humans to allow and tolerate rape to exist
in our world, specifically the spaces we inhabit.
We like to think that if we just practice good
consent in our own lives and post trendy antioppression memes on facebook then we are
fighting rape culture, but come on, you know
that’s not true. While rape is what it is*, CULTURE is the word we use to describe how rape
exists in and constructs our social mileu. More
pointedly: widespread rape can only exist within
an unspoken agreement between members of
society to tolerate both it and its social vices.
When the awkwardness and anxiety of modern
life leads to the majority of our sexual exploits
happening under the influence of drugs and alcohol, this is rape culture.
Finally, when we simply ALLOW all of the above
to happen we are reinforcing to those inhabiting
our spaces that these things are normal, that
they will be tolerated. This reinforcement, above
everything else, is rape culture.
If the point isn’t hammered in yet, I’ll put it simply: there are no innocent bystanders when it
comes to rape culture. When we don’t do anything about it, we are collaborating with rape.
Don’t get me wrong; destroying this patriarchal,
capitalist society which produces the atomization, alienation, and domination that fuels rape
is our only hope to permanently end rape culture. It is from this impulse to have power over
our lives and the environments in which we
reside RIGHT NOW that both this revolutionary
tendency and our desire to exist in safer spaces
comes from. We must kick out rapists and attack the system both, for our own sake and the
sake of those we care about.
From this we can gather that our capacity to
stop rape culture exists in the social realm just
as much as it does our intimate relationships.
Some examples: When an assaulter is allowed
in a space because we don’t want to confront
them, this is rape culture.
3
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Do what?”
“I just mean—that we’re going to…you know.”
“Well now that you put it that way…”
“You don’t have to. I’m not forcing you to.”
“Just shut up and kiss me.”
He threw his face into hers—pushed his tongue
down her throat. She felt her insides squirm,
but managed to not show it. Still, despite his
awkwardness and insistence on talking, talking,
talking, never letting a moment just be, he was
nice to have around: he made her feel valuable, and wasn’t that bad to look at, his plain
black hair combed conservatively to the side,
his pale chest now bare and exposed to a few
rays of sunlight stretching through the blinds of
her bedroom window. He moved his hand under her shirt, and she let him. He moved with
such urgency she wouldn’t have had time to
refuse. They kissed passionately, or something
like that.
Things weren’t all bad, she thought, you take
what you can get in the circumstances. She
kissed him back and tried to mean it, ran her soft
finger slowly over his knee. As he unbuttoned
her pants she did her best to make it easy for
him to remove them, twisting around and wriggling out of them, kicking her feet. Finally he was
ready, running his finger across her stomach—
this made her feel somewhat insecure, and was
4
also slightly ticklish, an annoyance—and sliding
his hand down. As his arched finger passed her
sensitive hairs, taking no time to begin working
away, she felt her spine twitch from an anxious
and unfulfilled pleasure. Then it all went black,
fading away into a single, goddamned, second.
He was unsure of what was expected of him
in the situation. He scanned her nude body:
she was meekly pretty, and he was lucky to
be in bed with her. Noticing his free hand still
clasped to hers, he kissed it gently and laid it
down over her chest. When she finally came
to, fifteen long minutes later, he brought her a
glass of water and nodded dumbly when she
told him she was no longer in the mood. They
held each other mechanically and stared at the
ceiling, saying few words.
After three days without contact she gave up
on this young intellectual, too caught up in
his personal tragedies to let someone else in,
except for sexual gratification, of course. This
didn’t bother her excessively, and she found
foundation in her blog dedicated to videos of
cats performing strange tasks, which had begun to gather mild attention if not for the fact
that it was one of many of its kind. She posted
three videos that day: two kittens wrestling in a
small cardboard box, a black cat running up a
wall after a laser light, and a small siamese feline
curiously pawing the lens of the camera, meowing and turning its head.
Her roommate partied her evenings into strangers’ beds — and it often caused much un-
spoken jealousy between the pair. The roommate, Sara, had long brown hair and twig legs.
Her smile was deceptively meek and she had
seemingly perfect eyes (in the aesthetic sense,
obviously—she did need those glasses to see).
It was almost off-putting; she was so pretty, the
type of self-aware beauty that makes you feel
guilty for staring, as if you were doing something
wrong. Her voice, a careless squeak, had few
reservations.
“So what happened with you and that guy you
were seeing? What was his name?”
“James. He hasn’t called me back. I’m not waiting up for it.”
“That’s too bad. He was…well I mean—he
wasn’t the worst guy I’ve seen you with.”
Sara’s ability to be crass and insensitive was
only worsened by the fact she knew nothing of
her roommate’s condition, a well-kept secret.
It didn’t need to be kept that well, given the
embarrassing nature of her sudden blackouts.
Sometimes at night, when she was unable to
sleep, she would gently caress her own breasts,
grate teeth against lips, close eyes and imagine
passionate hands wandering across her body,
her own hands acting out those thoughts, until,
in a rush of unknown pleasure, her fingers finally
having hit that right spot, she would enter into a
long slumber, too far gone to be woken up. For
the moment she only wanted to avoid this situation, keep Sara in the dark, if only for the truly
ignorant nature of her being. It wasn’t her roommate’s fault—blaming someone for not knowing
any better never seemed fair to her.
“He wasn’t a bad guy. Things don’t work out
sometimes.”
“I didn’t fuck him,” she finally sputtered out, and,
in defeat, walked into her room and closed the
door.
“You blew it in the bedroom? What, you didn’t
fuck him?”
The winter came as quickly as the year began,
and between roaring cheers for the holidays
5
from her family, she sat stirring eggnog into brandy beside a warm fireplace. Her grandfather took
his oxygen mask off to enjoy a cigarette in the
snow. Her mother walked from person to person
rambling about the animal planet, holiday sweaters, and her daughter’s unsuccessful love life.
She sipped slowly. Despite the depravity of it all,
these traditions couldn’t be missed, or the conversation would turn much darker, writhing over
questions of her well-being, musing cynicism.
She would receive calls for months asking if she
was ok, and if there was anything that needed
to be done to help her get along. They would
hint around coming home but would never say
it—they wouldn’t dare say it. Drink followed drink
until she fell down onto the arm of the couch,
drooling on a velvet pillow.
Her roommate had talked her into to going to
some unruly party at an apartment in the city.
The music sounded like beetles being cut with a
sharp knife, layered and put through plenty of reverb, and she winced as she poured beer down
her throat.
“This tastes like shit,” she told her friend, not trying to hide her dissatisfaction.
“You just need to talk to somebody. Try to have a
good time. You might surprise yourself.”
Her smile was snide and she walked away to
get another beer. A bottle of vodka was resting
on the floor across the room. She walked over
to it with her hands out like an eager child, or
Nosferatu or something like that. The bottle was
about a fourth of the way filled, and she swirled it
in her hand, trying to figure how much she could
take without making a scene, when someone
tapped her on the shoulder and asked her why
she was touching his booze.
“I didn’t think it would be a big deal—there are
bottles everywhere. I thought it was that kind of
party.”
6
He ran his hand over his cheek, feeling the scruff
that had not quite grown in yet.
“You know what. My bad. Take as much as you
want, girl. People get sticky fingers at these
kinds of things and I didn’t want anyone to run
off with this shit. Here. I’ll make us drinks.”
He grabbed the bottle from her hand and walked
back to the kitchen, taking two red plastic
cups from the large stack on the counter. He
filled them with vodka and orange juice; while
he did this Sara smiled obnoxiously and gave
her thumbs up. The roommate raised her nose
and stared at the ceiling as he walked back towards her, then burst into a nasally laughter. His
black shirt was tightly clutching to his chest, his
douchy jacket pulled up to his elbows, and he
walked cooly towards her, making stupid duck
faces. The drink went down quickly, and he
made her another. And two more after that. The
room became darker. It was a different room. He
kissed her. She leaned into blackness.
His hands continued to slide along her body.
They pulled off her shirt, her pants. His lips
pressed into her feet, her thighs, past her stomach and towards her lips. While he did this he
shook his hips from side to side anxiously, finally
ready to get what he came for. His whole torso
scrambled into her and he pushed and pushed
until he was too tired to go on, calling it a night
and leaving discreetly. She dreamed of when
she had to wear braces, what was now many
years in the past, and how they would press
up against her lips, giving her an awkward and
uneasy smile; sometimes she would slobber all
over her face trying to not tear her gums; looking out the window of the bus’s metal skeleton
brought a vague comfort, even as it shook over
cracked streets, and she would stare at the
words of books she couldn’t understand until
she fell asleep.
A large white banner was nailed into the wall
and had two large red A’s painted onto it; as
she stepped closer to the sign she read out the
words: Asexuals Anonymous. Damn the internet
for bringing me here, she thought, having heard
about the group in an online forum she lurked.
About ten chairs formed into a circle, and she
could imagine herself there, spilling it all out for
these strangers with the hope they could understand her condition, though at the moment
the chairs were empty. Beside the wall coffee
brewed in a steel cylinder and information pamphlets waited to be picked up; timid eyes passed
anxiously to and fro, or else hid behind cup or
page. She had arrived late. As she grabbed a
cup and walked toward the steel cylinder coffee someone wearing a cornflower blue v-neck
shuffled towards her. They reached the canister
at the same time as she did, and stopped moving, holding their styrofoam cup in front of them.
“You can go ahead.”
“No. Please.”
“Let’s not play this game.”
They smiled at her, their shaggy blonde hair
falling over angled shoulders, navy blue converse shoes loosely laced, pants tightly pressed
against skin. She poured herself coffee, staring
at them the whole time, almost filling the cup
past its brim. As she poured in cream and sugar
they made their own cup and glanced back with
a shy smile.
“Really it’s mostly for awareness. So many people feel like they’re not normal—for whatever
reason—and they need to be validated. They
shouldn’t have to feel ashamed.”
She felt a warmness in her blood as it ran
through her body. These words melted through
her (and also the coffee).
“So the whole thing is over?”
“You just missed Bill give a speech. His wife
thought he was inadequate—she would hit
him while yelling that she wanted to be fucked.
They’re divorced now.”
“That’s too bad. Or maybe not. Augh. Listen.
What are you doing right now?”
Their lips pursed, pupils dilated, though these
things were too subtle for her to notice. They
swayed as they talked.
“I don’t have anything going on. Why do you
ask?”
They had freckles that pressed together as they
smiled while saying this.
The two of them laid together between her
sheets, molding into the shape of each other’s
bodies, kissing gently and affectionately, smiling
dumb lovely smiles that made the other laugh.
She pulled her laptop from under her bed, and
the two of them watched videos of cats doing all
sorts of cute things.
“You weren’t here during the meeting.”
“This is my first one. I showed up late.”
“Bummer.”
“So everyone here is…”
“Yeah. That’s why we’re here.”
“Is it a group therapy kind of thing?”
7
I went completely bald when I was fourteen
years old, after my eighteen year old boyfriend
told me that I’d better shave because he didn’t
like to floss his teeth while orally pleasuring girls.
At the time, he was only going to be the second
boy that I’d have sexual contact with, so I remember feeling ashamed and repulsed by my
body when he said this. There were fluffy brown
curls between my legs, and it was not all right.
That night, I shaved them all away, and I have
kept it that way for the last twelve years. Coincidentally, the sexual relationships that I had with
men became commodity after that. I’d have sex
with men in exchange for love, affection, and
companionship, but never because I actually
enjoyed it.
Through two pregnancies, when it is impossible
to see or reach around your enormous belly, I
still managed to keep myself clean-shaven. My
husband once begged me to grow it out, just so
he could see what I looked like with pubic hair
and I laughed at him. Absolutely, not! He would
be just as disgusted as my ex from twelve years
ago had been and I’d end up humiliated again
for having fluffy brown curls between my legs.
Actually, I should go further back, to about
1990. My mother was unable to take care of
me after I was born, so my grandparents raised
me until I was five years old and she could take
over again. My grandfather sexually molested
me until his death when I was six. There is
unresolved trauma that affects my daily life in
dramatic ways, and has since I was about four
years old, but it causes the most trouble while I
am in bed with someone.
8
With my husband, I will sometimes panic or
have flashbacks and completely shut down.
I will dissociate and end up somewhere else.
I will end up weeping on our bed or hiding in
our bathroom. This is difficult for us to deal with,
but my husband is amazing through it all and
takes such good care of me, with such great
patience. I’m very lucky to have him in my life.
Now, what does this have to do with pubic hair?
I’m getting there. Hold on.
I have been attending weekly trauma therapy
sessions for months now, in hopes of learning
healthy ways to cope with my flashbacks and
the emotions they bring. I am hoping to continue to remember and process some memories that have been hiding from me for a while.
Therefore, I am usually thinking about my trauma, and wondering how it may have shaped
me as an adult. How much of me is influenced
or molded by the long-term abuse I survived?
been doing so for the duration of my sexual life
span. The light bulb above my head clicked on
and I decided I would try to grow a bush.
It’s been a few weeks of good growing, and
now when I’m with my husband in bed and I
feel myself begin to slip or dissociate, I reach
my hand down and tug on my fluffy brown curls
between my legs to remind myself that I am an
adult now. My grandfather cannot hurt me anymore. I am old enough to enjoy what I am doing
with my husband and should not be ashamed
of myself. Oh! In addition, my husband thinks
the fluffy brown curls between my legs are sexy.
So, in conclusion, my reasons for why I decided
to grow a bush:
1. I grew a bush as a “fuck you” to my abuser.
2. I grew a bush as a “fuck you” to the boy
who shamed me into getting rid of it in the
first place.
3. I grew a bush as an “I love you” and “I trust
you” to my husband.
4. I grew a bush as a coping mechanism for
Complex PTSD (and it works incredibly
well).
5. I grew a bush because I can do whatever I
please with my body.
6. I grew a bush because having fluffy brown
curls between my legs is all right.
7. «It is the best decision I’ve made in years.
My friend and I were folding her laundry recently
while discussing our personal preferences of
pubic hair on other women.
“I don’t like it when there isn’t any hair,” She
said. “It just, reminds me of a five year old or
something.”
I was mortified. I instantly thought of my hairlessness down there and it threw me into a flashback. I covered my face as she apologized and
I immediately realized that what she had said
was right. Not having pubic hair had been reminding me of my sexual abuse as a prepubescent child. Not having pubic hair was triggering
for me, it took me to ‘The Bad Place,’ and had
9
For someone with Asperger’s Syndrome (AS), a
form of autism affecting social skills and ability,
touch and other social experiences are sometimes bewildering. As a child, I could not predict
or understand my world the way other children
could. New, unfamiliar experiences or changes
could disrupt my sense of balance and control.
In extreme situations, touch was a language I
didn’t understand. Confused, overstimulated,
overwhelmed, I did not understand how to interpret the physical messages into something my
senses could acknowledge.
My mom told me once of a woman whose case
was similar to my own. Like me, this woman had
AS, only whereas I qualified as “high-functioning”,
10
her manifestation of the disorder was extreme.
She was far more hypersensitive than I was
and never liked to be touched by anyone. One
day, this woman visited the zoo, and one of the
gorillas reached out from its cage and touched
her—for a moment, held her hand. And at that
moment, her hand in the grip of an animal, the
woman experienced something she had never
known before. The gorilla holding that woman’s
hand was not a human being; its hand did not
carry with it the significance and complexity of
myriad possible meanings and suggestions in
the vast, intricate matrix of human communication. The woman did not have to process and
then interpret the action, search for additional
social cues and recognize a particular social situation and environment to develop a particular understanding of the event which may or may not
be correct. She did not have to worry herself with
how to formulate a response to the action, nor
concern herself with what responses may or may
not be appropriate. The gorilla’s hand demanded nothing of the woman. It was touch—plain,
simple, and comprehensible—as neurotypical
people must have the privilege of knowing it to
be with each other. “So this,” the woman thought
to herself, “is what touch is supposed to feel like!”
After years of confusion, discomfort, and frustration at the hands of human beings, she finally
understood touch.
In my personal experiences with touch, sexual
activity has proven the most problematic. I took
years to understand touch of this nature, and I
am still learning what all of this sex stuff is about
(with people, not gorillas). The way I discovered
masturbation, for example, was not a joyous
landmark of self-discovery. I had to follow a tutorial. At the age of thirteen, touching myself was a
strange, new concept, yet it was made simple
through step-by-step instructions. I removed my
clothes. I climbed into bed. I touched. It happened. Yet because it was strange feeling, because it was new feeling, it was not much of a
feeling.
Eventually I got used to masturbation, and over
time, I’ve learned how to love the experience.
Yet for a long while, sexual activity with another
person provided less pleasure than sex with myself. With another person involved in practically
any type of setting, social anxieties arise along
with inhibitions which are otherwise absent. Relaxing is difficult, if not impossible. Also added
to the mix of course is touch—not just casual
touch, but intimate, new, powerful touch, with a
weight of meaning which disoriented me rather
than helped me “lose myself”. As I understand
it, most people experience these sensations
as some kind of magical, ecstatic bliss. In my
case, however, my autism confounded my understanding of these touches, often making it
difficult to feel anything at all.
It wasn’t until two years ago that I was able to
actually make sense of—and finally enjoy—the
experience of receiving a blowjob (I’m 25). This
particular encounter differed from previous experiences owing mostly to the fact that the person who went down on me was a friend. Given
this relationship, he was someone I felt comfortable with, which greatly reduced the potential
for anxiety. He also sprang the act upon me
somewhat spontaneously—that is, our meeting wasn’t a craigslist-style “hook up” with plans
and arrangements about which I would inevitably stress out. Prior to the event with my friend,
oral sex went something like this:
“Does that feel good?” he asks, pausing to take
my penis out of his mouth.
“Yeah,” I lie. What I think is: I don’t know. Um,
it feels… wet? Maybe a little warm? It doesn’t
feel much like anything, probably because I
don’t have anything to compare this feeling to,
and because the man at the end of my dick is
another human being prone to human behavior
and human emotion—complicated, perplexing
things. In the dark of my bedroom (or his), and
in the strangeness of someone else’s hands (or
mouth), I just feel a little wet and maybe warm. I
feel confused. This is something I should enjoy.
I should be able to enjoy sex. But it just feels
weird. What’s wrong with me?
And then oh shit slow down I’m gonna cum. Out
of nowhere. And it still just feels weird.
Yet the evidence suggests I’m not doing it entirely wrong; a number of guys I fucked came back
asking for more—some quite persistently. For
me, however, anal is still weird, and that makes
it hard to stay hard, in turn making the whole
experience difficult to enjoy. Maybe I just need
the right “friend”. I don’t know.
While I am now slightly more used to oral, I still
prefer to keep my cock in my own hands, because that’s where it feels most at home. When
I engage in sexual activity with someone else, it
usually consists of physical closeness, kissing,
and touching—sensations that still feel good but
that are not too unfamiliar to risk overwhelming
me and “breaking” my boner. In this way I (and
the guy I’m with at the time) can reach a very satisfying orgasm. In some cases I’ve even come
twice. Yet I still wonder whether the things that
remain “weird” to me are merely things I must
familiarize myself with until pleasure emerges. I
shouldn’t have to force myself to like something,
but my awareness of how much other people
love sex makes me think I’m stillmissing out.
11
2:47am she calls me. It’s late but unsparingly I am
still awake, given the nap I took earlier that day. I
had been reading. What exactly, I can’t remember.
“Can I ask for a favor?” Her voice through the phone
I’ve already said yes in my head but I reply, “Depends”.
2:58 am I unlock the front door. My bedroom floor
becomes somewhat visible as I hustle to clear away
3 days of outfits. Clutter. I am throwing t-shirts in my closet,
When I hear the distant sound of my front door closing
And footsteps
3:17 am we greet with a kiss. I sigh and stride closer to her.
“You are warm” she says. Her mouth is cool. The temperature must have dropped a bit outside. Not that it makes
any difference in my oven like bedroom. The thermostat
read 87 degrees. At least the floor is somewhat clean.
3:24 am “My roommate went out to the bar. Called 3 times
and still no answer. I don’t have a key yet.” When she had
ask could she stay the night I couldn’t say no. Even though
generally I don’t like for people to sleep in my bed, even if
we are lovers. Their absence is too strongly felt when gone.
3:42 am when had her mouth become this hot? Lights off.
Her kisses. The awkward second of “You don’t have on any panties?”
Of course I don’t, I was naked before she arrived. Courtesy was the
only reason I put on a night gown. The thigh high fabric
stuck to my sweaty skin. I let her touch me and my body ignites.
4:35 am I have work in 3 hours. But we are too far down the rabbit hole
to stop.
5:01 am The sun is coming up. It’s not supposed to be
this easy to be comfortable wrapped around her. I am
distracted by her revealed skin. Smile into her lips and
fill her belly with my laughter. Natural light shines in
soft orange wispy clouds and pink water colors.
6:00 am the alarm go off.
6:01 am Snooze
6:11 am Snooze, again.
6:25 am Calls in sick.
12
13
Hello! I’m pangender, pansexual, polyamorous,
and terminally kinky. Most of these terms are
pretty new to me, but I’ve never been quite the
same as everyone else. While I try to reject binary notions, I’ve always identified with both traditionally feminine and masculine traits. Though I’m
not sure how, I feel that the history of my gender
identity was the primary driver behind the development of my sexuality (and vice versa).
I knew for certain that I was kinky far earlier than
I pinned down other aspects of my self. Early on
I realized I had a diaper fetish, and even before
having a sexual relationship with my first girlfriend
I knew I was submissive. Now I’m happily engaged to another submissive, and I realize a new
kink almost every other week. I’ve encountered
very few hard limits, the major one being needles. Other than that, I love everything from roleplay to bondage to impact play to humiliation.
As this was the first part of my identity I figured
out, it is also one of the parts I most identify with.
In other words, the fact that I’m submissive is a
bigger part of my identity (in my mind) than my
gender or orientation.
Part of me thinks that being raised by parents
in traditional gender roles helped to decide my
gender identity. Traditional American culture
teaches that submissiveness is a female trait. I
knew I was submissive. And this led me to discover the “female” facet of my gender identity,
after which I started identifying (informally) as bigender. However, I’ve since rejected the binary
and realized pangender is a more accurate term
for how I think about myself. Lately I’ve been
working on mentally dismissing the idea that
14
character traits are either feminine or masculine,
which has proven tough. This topic is particularly interesting to me because my fiancée, who
also rejects the gender binary, is really turned on
by “traditional roleplay,” including scenarios like
daddy/daughter and 1950s domestic play. It
doesn’t seem to me like these sexual interests
and progressive (feminist and non-binary) thinking should be exclusive, but they are extremely
difficult to paint in compatible light.
Another topic I find fascinating is the relationship
between my sexuality and identity. Everyone
seems to emphasize how wrong it is to fetishize
people’s identities, but I enjoy being reduced to
an object. It is inherent in my submissiveness
that I enjoy being objectified. However, I am also
pretty active in advocating for equal rights for all
genders, identities, races, etc. In other words,
I don’t want my desire to be objectified to spill
over into culture or law. Similar to my fiancée’s
fetishes, this seems contradictory, but it feels like
it shouldn’t be.
lot. Relatively recently I brought up the topic of
polyamory, fearful that she might think I just want
to mess around with other people. After finally
broaching the subject, she revealed that she
thinks she might by polyamorous too! We’re
both interested in finding a third person to be in
a relationship with both of us, but I’m afraid we
might never find someone… As I explained to my
girlfriend, I feel like I have a boundless heart and
I want to share my love (and pain) with another
person. I wish I could voice this feeling better.
Monogamy also feels like an unnatural state of
things to me. As Valerie Page said, “I hope most
of all that you understand that even though I will
never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or
kiss you, I love you. With all my heart, I love you.”
I just love my fiancée so much and I feel like we
would both benefit from being in a relationship
with a third person, and in turn that person would
have a wonderful life and feel equally loved. Now
I just wish I could figure out how to comfortably
communicate the topic of specific individuals I
would be interested in us being in a relationship
with.
Thanks for reading about my life, sorry if I’ve offended anyone.
I’ve known for a while that I’m attracted to everyone, though I didn’t really discover the diversity
of identities until college. However, I tend to shy
away from relationships with overly-assertive
personalities. While I find some traditionally male
traits extremely attractive, male-identifying people often make me feel simultaneously intimidated, challenged, and fearful of humiliation. This
means that I tend to pursue female-identifying
and queer folks more often than male-identifying
people.
My fiancée and I talk about our relationship a
15
Following being dumped and feeling down about
it for an unreal amount of time, I pulled myself up
by the same boot straps that got me through
those nightmarish prank calls in middle school,
and ventured out into the world of punk.
I grew up in a suburb of Maryland, sheltered from
a lot of things. I was surrounded constantly by
“perfect” families, in a neighborhood with a serious lack of ethnic diversity. In school, you were
Christian or Jewish or the scum of the earth. If you
didn’t spend your afternoons with MTV’s TRL you
were shunned and if you weren’t tall, blonde and
skinny, no one ever asked you to school dances
(I was always going stag). I went to prom alone
and graduated high school without ever having
kissed anyone – though not for lack of trying. I
have stuffed my share of love notes through the
grates in school lockers and held the hand of
many a person before they realized that it was too
un-cool to be seen with me. And kids are mean,
so when the lunch break hangouts went sour, the
fat jokes ensued, and I spent a great deal of my
adolescence getting phone calls from blocked
numbers calling me “dyke,” and suggesting that
no one would ever love me. Where do middle
school kids even come up with this garbage?
But I digress: I got my diploma and ran away from
those people as fast as my boots would take me.
I ended up about thirty minutes around the beltway from where I grew up, ultimately scared to
stray all too far from home. Where did that land
me? Art school.
What I failed to detect is that my institution of
choice would be a repeat pool of privileged jerks;
but armed with a fresh perspective on the insecurities that I had learned in my upbringing, I
was determined to do better for myself. Second
semester of my freshman year, a blonde haired,
blue eyed hockey-playing super-graphic designer
came and swept me up.
16
He took me on my first date and would become
my first boyfriend. We went on picnics in graveyards and our song was “Saturday Night” by the
Misfits. Punk rock dream? Hardly. We were together for a brief four months, and in the first two
weeks of that I had my first real kiss as well as lost
my virginity. Two birds, one stone, or whatever.
That latter fact is where the issue lies. If I may be
so graphic, orgasms were never mutual. Although
he came every time we were together, I never
did. In three and a half months of colloquial visits vaguely disguised as “dates,” I heard on more
than one occasion that us having sex was “for
him, not me.” He would request that I go down
on him when there wasn’t the time or place for us
to have sex, and not reciprocate. He went down
on me all of two times and always complained of
being too tired to continue until I finished. I quickly
started to believe that there was just something
wrong with my body, and once he realized how
hard he would have to work to even the pleasure
playing field, he gave up on it entirely.
Of course hindsight is 20/20 and all, so looking
back I realize that I was never too keen on sleeping with him. It just seemed to be the only way to
keep us coming back to each other, and the issue in this was that consent was never requested
for anything that we did. I repeatedly ended up
in situations where I didn’t have any interest in or
felt uncomfortable having sex but was pressured
into the act regardless. To say that I was being
used would be a grave understatement. I realize
now that there were a handful of times we would
never have had sex if he’d asked me if I wanted
to. While I don’t regret any of this, I’ve certainly
learned from my mistakes.
I had been to a handful of shows my freshman
year, but was too blinded by my new (very unsupportive) art school community to see what was
lying in front of me. Fast forward a year and I was
going to three or four shows a week, meeting as
many people as I could and learning as much
as I could about the community I was integrating myself with. I started going to Zinefests and
infoshops, and learned how to use the internet
for its good powers. I’ve realized through all of this
reading and experience that running in circles with
wealthy, white, heterosexual males from typically
“good” families interested in supporting patriarchy
and learned homophobia and racism is not the
way to fulfilling relationships for me. Since my first
relationship, I have learned a great deal about
what I want out of a romantic partner, and how
to ask and get those things. In retrospect, my ex
would have hit three strikes the first time I’d met
him if I knew then what I know now.
While doing all of this learning (and un-learning)
in the last year and change, I have actively been
keeping those interested in me romantically at an
arm’s length. I was too apprehensive about all of
the things that had gone wrong with my first partner, half-assuming that I would run into the same
patriarchal, non-consenting issues with any other
partner. I had residual feelings that something, or,
many things really, were wrong with my body and
how I felt about sex and was perpetually shy even
in so modest an outfit as a sleeveless shirt. And
while those insecurities are valid feelings, reading so much about body and sex positivity has
changed my outlook on things quite drastically.
Jump ahead to very recent times, and I am now
pursuing romantic interest in someone who has
been involved in similar communities in support of
radical ideas about the body and sex for several
years. It has been dumbfounding to discover the
wildly positive difference between sleeping with
someone with a cultural background like that of
my former partner and this new person in my life
who is actively practicing what our communities
preach: equality, consent, honesty and openness.
It goes without saying that scumbags exist everywhere, and come in all shapes and sizes. They
may be women, men, trans, et cetera – we are
all capable of being horrible to one another. But
it goes a long way to enter into relationships with
people who are perhaps better educated and
more understanding of others than those who
maybe have never heard the word “consent” as
applied to their sexual endeavors or have been
taught that sex is over when the male-bodied person finishes.
In summation, I’m awful glad that I’ve met the people I’ve met and had the privilege to enjoy such
open and honest conversations on these topics.
These interactions have allowed me to restore my
confidence in myself, my body and my capacity to be intimate with and trust another person.
Conversation is the most important exchange we
can have. Talking, and more importantly asking
is the foundation to all healthy and supportive relationships, be they romantic or platonic. Always
ask first.
17
I want you. I want you naked and covered in
sweat, shivering in the shadows of my bedroom.
I want you blindfolded with a silk scarf and I want
you to bite your lip when you feel my hot breath
on your skin. I want the anticipation to grow,
become more demanding, as I disappear once
more into the shade of your blindness. I want
your body to grow tense. I want you to become
impatient. I want the muscles in your entire body
to twitch as my skin makes contact with yours, a
pinpoint of warmth in the dark, quiet night.
I want you. I want you on your knees, leather collar creaking as I pull you down to the floor. I want
to hear the chain links of your leash click against
the ground as you stoop to kiss my feet. I want
to feel your desperation as you kiss each toe
and I want to know that you would do anything
to please me. I want to pull you up by your chain
and allow you to cherish every square inch of my
body from the ground up. I want to slow you until
you inevitably will feel the need to grow hasty
and when you do, I want to punish you with the
snap of a leather riding crop.
I want you. I want you bound to a bed frame
with black silk ropes, hands and ankles splayed
to each corner. I want you hard and lustful and I
want you to be in pain from an overabundance
of pleasure. I want to tease you with feathers and
ice and I want you to beg me to give you relief. I
want you inside my mouth and I want to hear you
moaning. I want you to strain against your binds
as I pull you inside me, but not enough to satisfy,
and I want to see your muscles ripple with frus-
18
As time went on, I dove more and more into the
world of sexuality studies and sexology. I took
my first Human Sexuality college course during
high school. That class sealed my fate as a regular member in the vast world of sexology, sexual freedom and advocating for comprehensive
sex education. I officially learned what BDSM
was, what fetishes were, and the ridiculous
laws across the state that prohibited “sodomy.”
Armed with a legitimate context, I knew I wanted
to divulge into the world of BDSM and powerexchange sex: the only problem was finding a
partner who felt the same as I.
tration. I want you helpless, and then I want you
for myself. I want to take you inside and satisfy
myself with your body and I want to ascend with
you, spiraling, into ultimate pleasure.
I want you. I want you sighing and smiling, laying
beside me as moonlight filters through blinds. I
want your exhaustion and I want your satisfaction. I want to gaze into your eyes and feel the
link between us grow stronger; I want to trust
you with my heart. I want to be able to trust you
with mine. I want to love you. I want you.
I still remember the first time I was exposed to
sexual power dynamics in 6th grade. I was reading through Inuyasha fan-fictions on the Internet
with my favorite character pairings: Sesshoumaru/Kagome and Naraku/Kagome. This was
after a friend of mine, who was the same age,
introduced me to the world of porn, and later
masturbated for the first time. After that momentous moment, I became hooked on this thing
called “sex.” So I did what any other kid did who
didn’t receive helpful sex education did: found it
on the web. I read numerous fan fictions, but my
favorites by far were the ones that had the male
characters (Sesshoumaru/Naraku) dominate the
female character (Kagome). I don’t know what it
was about the slave/master power dynamic, but
it fascinated me more than I would or could understand until my high school and college years.
Since I, like many other teens in America, came
to the conclusion that females were always
sexually passive and submissive, while males
were always sexually active and dominant. I took
these sexual scripts as truth and dreamed of the
day when I would find my own “Master.” Until
then, I continued to read, fantasize, and masturbate.’
I am 20 now, and after years of learning about
Rape Culture, theories of sexuality, Queer Theory, and Feminism, I became a self-identified
feminist who advocates for enthusiastic consent, women’s rights, sexual rights, and sexual
health promotion. However, my love of BDSM
was recently challenged by a close best friend
of mine who is a pretty aggressive, frank, fortified feminist in her own way and has known me
since before my grand entrance into the world of
sexuality. My friend confronted me one day and
asked “How can you even like BDSM if you’re
a Feminist?!” This question took me off guard.
I had already been grappling with how BDSM
works with Feminism and Rape Culture. As a
rape survivor and a victim of constant street sexual harassment, I knew rape was not something
that I neither condoned nor wanted for myself or
any other female. I knew that consensual BDSM
was different from rape and rape culture, which
seeks to demean and demoralize women, but
I did not know how to explain adequately that
let alone place it in the context of Feminism. I
struggled to answer her question, but I was
not clear enough within myself to convince her
BDSM was not a form of rape or sexism against
females.
19
I lacked the education to answer my friend’s
question- that is, until I read Stacy May Fowles’
essay, “The Fantasy of Acceptable “Non-Consent”: Why the Female Sexual Submissive
Scares Us (and Why She Shouldn’t).” This essay
was just what I needed: Fowles’ experience perfectly matched what I was going through. Fowles’
described her experience as an empowered
“sexual submissive feminist,” even though the
concept of female submission makes feminist
really uncomfortable understandably. However,
Fowles asserts that safe, sane, and consensual
BDSM exists as a polar opposite of a reality in
which women constantly face the threat of sexual violence. I agree. There is a world of difference between nonconsensual sexual violence
against women and a woman who consciously
desires to be dominated by her partner. A sexual
submissive is not pathological, damaged victim
choosing submission as a way of healing from
or processing past trauma and abuse, or a victim of a culture that seeks to demean, humiliate,
and violate women. Moreover, as Fowles puts
it, just because “two people consent to fabricate a scene of non-consent in the privacy of
their own erotic lives,” does NOT mean they are
consenting to perpetuate the violation of women
everywhere.
I hope that one day, through scholarly works
like Fowles’, feminism and society at large will
embrace and acknowledge consensual BDSM
as a sexual practice that can also lead to the
empowerment of women. To me, Feminism
is all about choice above of else. Therefore, if
I consciously choose to be a sexual submissive, then my Feminism or sanity should not be
questioned. This won’t be easy, but I think that,
through education and story sharing, BDSM will
become an accepted form of sexual choice and
lifestyle. Until then, I will remain a proud sexually
submissive feminist who hopes to find her proud
sexually dominant partner someday.
“I can talk to you about anything, can’t I?”
“I’m so glad. I just wanted to know... do you masturbate? Have you ever made yourself come? I
just wanted some ad-Oh.. no, I was just – it was
just a question. I’m sorry! Maybe it was a little
forward. Jane! Stop. It was just a question. We
don’t have to talk about it.”
No. I guess we don’t have to talk about the
guilty snatches of pleasure we hide beneath the
bed sheets. That stays within the privacy of four
walls, right? We don’t need to talk about the secret minutes we all seem to yearn for, yet beg
time forget about. I guess we also don’t need to
talk about the vibrators and bottles of lube hidden in plain boxes beneath the bed, or the fact
that - why is your internet history deleted? Oh
wait, no. Sorry. I forgot.
You don’t masturbate and you’re not willing to
talk about it.
Jane is an archetypical 2012 woman. She lives
in an incredibly oversexed society, where huge
emphasis is placed on the value of sex and
gratification. As a by-product of driving past billboards that use semi-naked women to sell anything from microwaved meals to holidays, she is
happy with being revered – and even, at times,
objectified. But she is not happy to indulge in
self-pleasure. She won’t even speak about it.
20
It is 2012, and even in the most progressive
parts of the world, female masturbation is still
taboo. Unsurprisingly, male masturbation seems
to have overcome that particular stifling hurdle;
they have won gold in the Fuck Yourself Olympics. And us ladies? Well. We didn’t even qualify.
Instead we live in a depressing time in which the
ability to discuss and enjoy one’s sexuality is increasingly sold to men and men alone. Soft sex
has infiltrated every part of their lives, and they
are celebrating. Semi-naked, beautiful winged
girls sell them deodorant on the TV. Their local shop has a row of magazines targeted solely
towards their nether regions. Their desire to
masturbate has created a multi-billion dollar industry, 90% of which is performed by women,
but manufactured for men.
And what do we have? No culture of acceptance, no education, no discussion - not even
within the ‘sisterhood’ – and no protest. Women
can’t buy magazines in the corner shop that has
sexual content specially created for them, nor
can we regularly enjoy porn for women made by
women. Our porn is made for us by men, and
through this we allow them to make assumptions on our behalf and dictate to us what we
should be enjoying sexually. This isn’t the fault
of porn directors, some of whom are excellent; it
is just a regrettable truth. Women, on the whole,
do not make porn, because society tells them it
is not a job they can have. It is absolutely bizarre
21
that we willingly pose for men, submit to men,
and create content that helps them get their
rocks off, yet we don’t demand the acceptance,
control and material to do so ourselves.
Masturbation is a crucial part of sexual development and it should not be forbidden territory; it
needs to be spoken about, celebrated, taught
and explored.
For many, it is a very real way to discover likes
and dislikes; what feels good, what feels bad,
and what feels fucking incredible. It is also one
of the safest forms of sex, physically and emotionally.
So why deny yourself that pleasure? Because
someone else does not deem it appropriate?
Do not allow anyone else to define your sexual
parameters or what you feel comfortable with,
nor sell you views that you do not want to be
compatible with.
Masturbation is not for everyone, but it should always be an option. Respect your body and your
sexuality. Learn how to please yourself, because
shit – if anyone needs to know how that thing
works, you do.
Consider this: your vagina, your anus, your
nipples – whatever you want to get going - is
your IKEA flat pack. You’re the only one with the
instruction manual, so you’re the only one who
knows how to put it together and if it feels right;
everyone else is just blindly guessing. Don’t let
them tell you how to do it. If that screw doesn’t
go there, it doesn’t fucking go there - don’t settle
for it. Learn what you like, and don’t let your partners or anyone else tell you who you are or what
you should be doing.
It’s about time you told them.
So. Read those fucking instructions and put that
shit together. You don’t need a man to show you
a good time, and equally you don’t need anyone’s approval. Accept your sexuality and your
right to explore it, in a solo setting or otherwise.
Fight back. Fuck everything you knew. In fact,
go fuck yourself and tell your best friend about
it afterwards. You’ll have a hell of a good time.
Until tonight, I hadn’t cried about the fact that I
have herpes in a very long time. Years, in fact. It
just isn’t a big deal to me. I’ve accepted it. Herpes is a nonfatal disease that, at worst, gives
me uncomfortable sores and burning piss once
in a long while -- thus far the trend is once every year and a half. Compared to the number of
injustices and atrocities in the world, the thousands of people starving in third-world countries
or being slaughtered for political/religious/sexual
positions, herpes is nothing to cry about. Even
compared to the political and economic strife in
our own country, herpes cannot be seen at the
top of my concerns list. Especially with the advance of modern medicine and the fact that my
health insurance covers the majority of costs for
treatment, the herpes simplex virus has become
a mere annoyance in my life. Kind of like my period, only less frequent.
I contracted HSV-2 about a week after my sixteenth birthday, from a boy I haven’t seen since
about the same time. My reception of the virus
was the result of an incredibly stupid 48-hour
love affair, during a time in my life when stupid
decisions were pretty regular as a result of low
self-esteem, typical adolescent awkwardness,
and a cancerous sexual history that began two
years prior. When I reminisce on those years -all of the booze, the black-out drunks, the exorbitant amount of meaningless sex, the cold
mornings waking up naked and alone on some
22
guy’s basement floor with a rug-burn the size
of Texas on my lower back -- I am thankful that
herpes is all that I contracted, besides a bit of
emotional scarring. I used condoms then about
as much as the average college student uses
them now; if they were on hand, awesome, but if
I was wasted and had some guy pressuring me,
when really I was just hoping for a good cuddle,
I’d simply close my eyes and wait for them to roll
over. It was a bad habit, one I’ve worked hard to
break. Sexual stuntedness aside, my behaviour
then wasn’t original. People go home with others
they don’t know on a daily basis, and are usually
thankful the next morning that someone remembered a condom; otherwise, they let it slip their
mind. You’ve gotta live in the moment, right? If
they say they’re clean, most people won’t demand a medical note. I was simply dealt a nasty
card from a dealer who wasn’t entirely honest,
and will spend the rest of my life paying off that
debt.
When I speak of the woes of herpes, however, it isn’t in regards to the annual blisters or
sixteen dollar down-payment. Genital herpes
isn’t so much a biological virus as it is a social
disease. For some reason, despite the overall
sexual promiscuity apparent in our culture, herpes is like the mark of the uberslut. I’m still trying
to piece together why. Gonorrhea, chlamydia,
and the number of other curable STDs don’t
tend to count as much. They are more like a
bad hangover that you can laugh about once it’s
over, the whole “those were the days...” routine.
Even oral herpes doesn’t get much more than a
batted eye, despite it also being incurable and
even easier to transmit to a partner. “Those are
like canker sores, though; I mean, everyone has
that, right? It’s just a bad case of acne.” That’s
typically what I hear when I try to make people
compare their feelings for oral and genital herpes
23
(which is great conversation starter, by the way).
But genital herpes -- that’s the worst of them,
next to HIV. Not only is it incurable, but you can
pass it on even without symptoms by way of viral
shedding. And the symptoms do tend to suck;
painful, burning blisters around your genitals are
never fun. Please don’t take my slightly sarcastic and embittered tone the wrong way; I would
never wish herpes on anyone and I do everything in my power to ensure that I am practicing the safest sex possible. But for how much
I have researched and personally experienced
in regards to this issue, and knowing that one in
five Americans has genital herpes, it blows my
mind that the other four-fifths of the population
remain so ignorant. Rather than laughing about
a stupid decision made years ago, people seem
to judge you continually for it, as if the reason
you still have HPV-2 is because you continue to
make that poor decision on a daily basis. And
the condemnation isn’t dealt by prospective
sexual partners alone, who, honestly, have every
right to be somewhat concerned.
self-respect, and knowing that you don’t need to
hook up with the first person who will take you,
despite your defects. Because with the amount
of information, latex, and wonderful prescription drugs in the world, you can take control of
this virus and ensure that, with proper care, it is
not transmitted. There will always be those who
cannot get over the possible risk, but that’s their
problem. They live in a different world than those
of us who have it, and we need to worry about
our own well-being first. From my position, my
own feelings of self-worth are a hell of lot more
important than your ignorance, and if I need to
ride my life of fearful, closed-minded assholes,
I will.
I find myself marked by people who I’ve never
spoken with before, labelled a slut because I
am not afraid to be honest about the taboo that
pervades my life. But being socially bastardized
by something that occurred years ago when I
didn’t have much control in the first place hurts
far more than herpes does.
Honestly, the worst part about the virus is trying
to reclaim your self-worth in a world that looks
down on you for having been a sexual creature,
like everyone else. It’s realizing that, despite
everything you read with big scary words like
“incurable” and “contaminated,” you are still every bit as worthy of love as the next person. It’s
learning to balance the line between caution and
24
But sometimes I forget that.
Sometimes, I get kicked so far out of my sphere
of acceptance that I find myself online scouring
the internet for any new information, possible
cures, new treatments, and methods for even
safer sex than I already practice, and I consider everything I find short of wrapping the entire
body in three layers of shrink wrap. None of this
is a problem in itself -- it’s always a good idea for
me to stay on top of medical journals in regards
to herpes -- but when I go on these rampages, I
am not really looking for safe sex tips. What I am
looking for is something to put on my resume
to prove that despite having herpes, I am still a
valid candidate as a romantic partner. If I am a
self-esteem junky, this is my desperate search
to obtain my fix.
I will admit that these past few days have been
a little rough for more than one reason, but the
one reducing me to tears has revolved around
sex, and, specifically, the complications that
genital herpes brings to the table. Tonight I found
myself frantically searching the internet for hope.
I found it in a product called Lectroject, something which supposedly “eliminates the herpes
virus in the body” thus effectively curing it. My
friends, hope is a dangerous weapon. I spent a
good two hours online researching this, following up on forums and herpes blogs, and getting
very attached to the faceless writers who, years
ago, blogged this miracle cure every step of the
way. It only just occurred to me that I could have
saved myself the heartache by skipping to the
end of each blog, when each of the people who
tried Lectroject all admitted that the $300 cure
was a crock of shit. But I didn’t. Instead, I followed each entry on the edge of my chair, sharing the excitement and anticipation that each of
the followers from years previous had felt when
going through the 15-day process. The first blog
wasn’t promising, but they said on the website it
was only effective in 85% of participants.
Maybe the next one. Then the next one. Each
seemed optimistic at first, every participant just
as hopeful and desperate as myself. The turning point always came about halfway through the
posts when the participants, somewhat wary,
but hanging in there for science, admitted that
they were loosing faith. I finally gave up when the
scientific evidence outweighed my own neediness. After so much anticipation, the thought
that I could finally get rid of the social disease
once and for all -- no more awkward conversations, no more feeling that I need to prove my
worth, no more inner conflict because the man I
love more than anything cannot allow himself to
relax with me out of fear of my disease -- I cried
like a little girl. I balled my eyes out for a good
ten minutes, not because it changed anything
about the way I thought of herpes, not because
Lectroject’s sham made me any less safe than
the day I started taking a daily dose of Valtrex,
but because for the first time in a very long time,
I felt that this virus made me unlovable. I had
put my faith in a product, then fell apart with the
realization that there is no instant cure for low
self-worth.
But I’ll keep working on it anyway. After drying my
eyes and making myself a steaming cup of tea, I
sat down and began this entry.
I suppose one of my problems with relating to
people who are terrified of herpes
is that I don’t associate the virus with sexual intercourse. I understand that it is an STD; sex is
the number one cause of transmitting herpes.
But logically, I have done everything in my power
to ensure I never pass the virus on to anyone.
Apart from that, I cannot be concerned. There
isnothing more that I can do. Sex is an incredibly powerful, intimate act, one I only partake in
now out of love. Herpes, on the other hand, is
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something that happened to me a long time ago
in an act of drunken confusion; it is a condition
that I have. The two simply aren’t equatable in
my mind. Beyond safety precautions (which
ought to be present even when there isn’t an
STD directly involved), there is only pure, sweet,
lovemaking. With condoms, Valtrex, and a hot
shower in preparation, it would be easier for me
to give someone a cold than herpes. There is always a risk, but one takes the same chances of
impregnating a girl when using condoms, which
can also -- under circumstances -- become a
lifelong disease. That is a poor way of phrasing
it, I know, but it is the essence of my conclusion
about herpes transmission.
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When I enter a sexual relationship, it always
seems at the mercy of the other person. As if
only by their sympathy am I allowed to feel the
same closeness and shared ecstasy, or, as a
friend once stated, the feeling of being negative
six inches away from my loved one, that those
without an STD take for granted. Sure, there is
risk involved, and because I have herpes I of
course cannot speak for those who do not when
I state that a true connection with someone is
worth the risk. Given the number of times I have
been knocked flat on my ass in pursuit of love,
however, I relate similar feelings with my belief
that love is always worth the possible heartache.
And I will not allow anyone to take my appreciation for the intimacy of lovemaking away from
me, nor tell me that I am undeserving of it.
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dark-stained bed frame
you have survived the fight
that is my nightlife
with only sore thighs and
tender scrapes of pleasure
your voice squeaks when
you and I come together
wood cracks but
your tense muscles tell me
you can take the pressure
we become tangled
into the morning
sheets stuck to sweaty backbones and
blankets lost in tumble
in the day time, i am deprived
wanting, missing
your sweet chestnut lullaby
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The first time
I did anything
sexual with
someone
besides making
out I was 13. I
lost my virginity at 15. I had
my first orgasm
when I was 18.
That’s right, FIVE
YEARS after
someone first
put their hands
down my pants,
I had an orgasm.
Part of it was
my fault, I was
embarrassed
that it didn’t
just happen the
moment someone reached down there. I felt
broken, strange, even ashamed, so I never told
anyone that I fooled around with that I wasn’t
even close to cumming. Another part of it is
obviously society’s fault, the boys that I was
fooling around with had no idea how to make
me cum, all that was on their mind was them
getting off. When they did “try” to get me off,
they just assumed it happened, they never
asked if it actually did. This is because of how
sex is conditioned in all of us, it is taught with
the main lesson being that women are passive,
men are powerful, and that sex is a man taking
something from a woman, not mutual pleasure
and respect. Women’s orgasms are seen as an
after-thought, a bonus if it happens, but hardly
ever a priority.
coached me on masturbation, or how to tell the
people I was intimate with how to make me cum.
I decided it was something I had to do on my
own. I bought a giant pink vibrating dildo with
a tiny little knob for clitoral stimulation. Holy shit
did I have it wrong. When I finally figured out that
my glorious little clit needed a little more then a
little pink piece of plastic on a dildo, I found my
orgasm. But not after countless nights, many of
which ended with me being sexually frustrated
and irritated. Then one night, it happened. I remembered my friends telling me you feel it build
up inside you, and after about 30 minutes of exhausting handiwork, I started to feel a hum inside
me, that grew into a buzz, and then eventually
my first orgasm. I immediately started crying,
and called all of friends to tell them the news,
still sobbing. That night, I cuddled myself in bed,
tears still in my eyes. I had never felt closer to
my body, or myself sexually, and I felt an intense
love and pride for what my body was able to
do. That night was far more significant than the
day I lost my virginity, because it began my life
as a sexual, orgasm having woman. After that
night I was able to work up the courage to tell
my partners what I liked and what would make
me cum. It was the night that sex started being
about my body and my pleasure too, not just the
other person’s.
Most girls figure out how their body works at a
young age, and if they feel comfortable enough,
they relay this knowledge to their partners. But
I had no fucking clue. Luckily my friends all
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I have to remind myself constantly that I am not
a bad person for having sexual desires. I feel like
there are so many people and groups telling me
that it is wrong and bad to do these things that
come very naturally and should make me feel
good. I find myself feeling ashamed and embarrassed when I should be relaxed and happy, and
I have to repeatedly reason with myself in an attempt to quell my inner guilt.
To begin with, I was raised in a Catholic family and attended a Catholic elementary school. I
was not educated about sex, and the whispers
and jokes from the back of the school bus left
me confused and ill informed. All I could piece together from my teachers and peers was that sex
was something secretive that I was supposed to
be ashamed and afraid of.
Television and movies were no help either. Sitcoms did nothing but make light of the situation and when sex showed up in a movie I was
watching the scene was either fast forwarded by
my mother or would fall quite short of explaining things. As far as I knew, kissing and taking
off your clothes was sex and that somehow had
something to do with how women got pregnant.
So I wore a lot of layers and kept my lips to myself.
I would read my older sister’s YM and Seventeen
magazines and when she would catch me she
would answer a lot of my questions without me
having to ask them. She knew that Mom and Dad
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hadn’t told me anything and that I was much too
shy to ask questions on such a taboo subject.
So it went on like that for a long time until I had a
good portion of the puzzle. I knew in theory that it
was more than kissing and taking off clothes, but
I stuck to my layers and no kissing policy.
I didn’t lose my virginity until I was almost 20.
That’s not something I relish in admitting because
when people hear it they usually give me a pitying
look and wait for some kind qualifying statement
that will explain what’s wrong with me and why it
took me so long. I don’t have any sort of explanation or excuse other than it just didn’t happen for
a while. I had a lot of chances before that which
didn’t pan out for one reason or another. Looking
back on those, I’m glad that they didn’t. The first
few times I had sex it was kind of a dud. I couldn’t
let myself enjoy it because of my fear and guilt.
I took a Human Sexuality course in college that
helped me understand a lot of things and feel
much more open about sex. I was good friends
with the professor and she welcomed my questions and concerns and always discussed things
with me without making me feel bad for not
knowing something or ashamed for wondering
about things. Her friendship has played a huge
role in getting me to where I am.
Another big stride toward being comfortable with
my sexuality was when I started dating my awesome man. In all aspects of my life he is com-
pletely supportive and caring and helpful. His
companionship has allowed me to start to break
down some of my sexual barriers and start to figure out what needs to happen for me to enjoy
sex. He doesn’t feel any of the same sexual guilt
and repression so it’s hard for me to explain to
him sometimes. He tries very hard to listen to me
and help me talk through what I’m thinking and
resolve it as much as I can. Of course he knows
that if I don’t work through it then he isn’t getting
laid so yeah he has some physical investment,
but for the most part I know he just wants me
to feel good about what we are sharing together
and enjoy it as much as I can. I am extremely
fortunate to have such an understanding and
supportive partner.
So once my man and I got comfortable and I
felt bold enough to ask him to try certain things I
started enjoying myself a lot more. We keep a lot
of things on the table and play it by ear every time
things start to heat up and talk a lot to make sure
we are both comfortable. But as it turns out, a lot
of the things that we enjoy are absolutely terrible
and totally detrimental to the fight for the equality of women. By enjoying the feeling of my man
dominating me I am totally destroying any chance
of being his equal in our relationship outside of
the bedroom? That one took me a while to wrap
my head around and work through. I really disagree with these ideas and I believe that telling
women that they can’t get it on the way they like
it is not much different than all the other ways we
are oppressed. As long as thing are consensual
and safe then get down however you want.
now: I am in a healthy and committed relationship with a caring and respectful partner. We engage in consensual sex that remains within both
of our comfort zones. I am comfortable setting
boundaries and I know that he will not push me
to do anything that I do not want to do. Nothing I
choose to do with my partner makes me a traitor
to women or feminism. In fact, I am exercising my
rights as a strong free woman by choosing who
I am going to have sex with, when I am going
to have sex with him, and exactly how I want to
have sex. Sexual desires are natural and I should
not feel ashamed or guilty for indulging in sex in a
safe and healthy manner.
I think about sex. I have sex. I enjoy sex. And
that’s okay.
Just don’t tell my mom.
I know that my story isn’t that uncommon. A lot of
people cope with the same feelings as I do and
I wish them all the best in dealing with this shit.
I’m constantly working on it and trying to make it
all make sense to me. But this is where I am right
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