Last night I had a dream that has me contemplative today. I dreamt that I demanded of a man that his ass was mine, and he agreed. He was scared, and I promised to use my smallest strap-on, but he knew that I wouldn't hurt him. I woke up rather aroused.
Anal penetration is a scary thought to many people. I've only done it to one man, my husband, and I rather enjoy it. I enjoy giving manual and oral stimulation as foreplay, but not so much as an alternative to PIV sex. Then again, it's rare for me to be satisfied by only receiving manual or oral stimulation as well.
I can understand the fear. My first experiences of receiving anal penetration were extremely pleasurable. I will admit that my first time was not a time of full consent, as I was not asked, and lacked the imagination to dream that it was going to happen. Romance novels really don't detail anal sex. It's taboo, and that's where I learned much of what I knew about sex before having it. Truthfully, had I known his intentions, I would have been too squeamish and icked out to consent, and I would not have learned about how good it can feel.
I'm glad I had a pleasurable initiation to anal sex, because JRS and MZ would have completely ruined it for me. They taught me that anal sex hurts. Ramming in through tight muscles only causes pain and injuries. Rather than pleasure, the repeated thrusting causes irritation. It sucks.
Happily, my husband knows how to ease his way in, to ensure that there is adequate foreplay and lubrication to make sure that it only feels good. I used to tense up some, and now I don't. Talking through the initial penetration helps greatly. Anal penetration requires control, gentleness, and slowness.
Unlike that produced by vaginal sex, the anus does not produce its own lubrication. I've noticed throughout my life that fear, irritation, and discomfort can all cause me to produce lubrication. Wetness does not necessarily correlate with desire. Some guys tell themselves that because a woman was wet, that she must have wanted it, no matter how much she otherwise resisted. That idea is completely false. The vagina lubricates itself to prevent injury. Wet does not mean willing.
For example, I notice that my vagina lubricates itself during routine gynecological examinations, which are awkward and uncomfortable. I get no joy from them. I am not turned on by them. They are disconnected from sex. And yet I am wet because of them. It's protection, not desire.
The anus is injured through unwanted penetration (and clumsiness as well), and does not have a built in protective device. In my experience, anal rape is much more physically painful than vaginal rape. Emotionally, not so much.
And so I understand the fear of anal penetration, willing and unwilling. Done wrongly, it hurts like hell. Done wrongly, it can hurt for days.
And, having given anal penetration, I understand the joy of giving. When I'm doing it right, my husband is incapable of speech, can only moan and whimper his pleasure. It gives me a sense of power over him. And I understand that he feels a sense of power over me when I moan and whimper under him, but that power is mutual, because he also receives pleasure from being inside me.
And I'm a little sad that no one else has ever trusted me enough to try it with me.
Showing posts with label reclaiming sexual power. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reclaiming sexual power. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
A Question of Choice
Responding to “When Pregnancy Is Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Be Pregnant” by Tiloma Jayasinghe
This week, I plan to expound upon abortion. A friend of mine just found out that she needs one. She feels that she can't tell anyone, because of the stigma involved. She ended up having to tell her boss, and was surprised by how supportive and helpful her boss ended up being. Actually, I'm surprised she told me.
I find that I'm more sympathetic to women who don't want children after having children than I was before I had children. Pregnancy sucks. Chosen pregnancy sucks, because people have rather exacting expectations of pregnant women.
(page 266) “Women are expected to suddenly become paragons of virtue and self-denial during their pregnancies, forgoing sushi, caffeine, nicotine, unpasteurized cheese, tuna, alcohol, cleaning the cat’s litter box, etc. Other members of society feel quite free to censure a woman who breaks any of these taboos.”
I still remember, and resent, the woman who argued with me about the soda I chose to drink. How dare I have caffeine? Didn't I know it wasn't safe? Actually, it's quite safe, and it's MY choice to make. It's my body, my baby, and my choice. I didn't ask for her permission, and she had no right to censure me.
(page 267) “Pregnant women are also affected by the war on abortion. If the fetus is granted rights of personhood, then a woman’s right to choose not to become a mother, for health or personal reasons, will be eliminated; she and the doctor who performs abortions could be charged with murder. When fetal rights are elevated over the right of a woman to choose when she wants to become a mother, to determine the spacing of her children, and to make a private decision about what happens to her body, then she loses her ability to control her own body and her choices are supplanted by those of the state—the state can pretty much tell a woman that she will be forced to carry her pregnancy to term.”
If the state has control over women's bodies because they are pregnant, then pregnant women are denied the liberty that everyone else has.
My experiences in the labor and delivery rooms have left me convinced that most women have at least one unnecessary intervention or something forced upon her, be it electronic fetal monitoring (still not proven safer than non-continuous non-electronic monitoring), rupturing of membranes, or overly-aggressive nurses, or something.
I was pressured into an induction that I wasn't ready for and didn't particularly want. Considering that my baby was born perfectly healthy, I think that over-testing was the true problem. I had to have weekly non-stress tests because the baby's heartbeat did not appear to be normal. My theory is that the baby was asleep for all of them, and that the heartbeat was reflective of that. There was one non-stress test that we had to schedule at a different time, and that heartbeat fit the normal parameters perfectly. The nurse administering the non-stress tests remarked that it was like a whole different baby.
I suppose that I could have refused, but it's difficult to take such a stand. Some doctors even take pregnant women to court to force them to undergo procedures, like Cesarean sections, because it's "in the best interest of the child." But doctors aren't always right, and it's not always in the best interest of the child. But it definitely puts women in their place, now doesn't it?
I have also been prescribed bed rest while pregnant, which I was unable to follow. I did not have the child care necessary to allow me to stay in bed. I had to care for a toddler and was not eligible for disability, having been a stay-at-home mom. Had my inability to follow bed rest resulted in miscarriage, could that have been considered murder if unborn babies had personhood? Was I, by caring for the baby I had already borne, in fact committing child abuse on the one I was carrying by not following orders? It was a risk I had to take. I really didn't have another viable choice.
(page 269) “He could not see that the idea of someone else’s paternalistically taking away her choice to have sex, or to forgo birth control, or to become a mother, renders her not mentally sound, less than human.”
In the essay, this refers to a lawyer who cuts deals for women that include agreeing not to have children. Parole can be contingent on regular pregnancy tests, and becoming pregnant can result in parole being revoked. Women can go to jail simply because they're pregnant. That's a scary thought.
(page 270) “Anytime you try to limit the procreative rights of a class of people because its progeny are considered doomed, or a burden, or generally unwanted, it results in a slow genocide of the poor.”
My own mother thinks that all girls should be fit with something like an IUD or hormonal implants to prevent pregnancy until they can be licensed to have kids. If I had waited until I was ready or could afford to have children, I may still not be a mother. I'm not sure I would ever have felt truly ready. Even now, I sometimes feel inadequate as a mother.
(page 270) “It is really about controlling who reproduces, prohibiting women from having sex, and starting with the easy targets—the vulnerable and the marginalized.”
Some people would say that my friend who needs an abortion is wrong. That she had sex and now needs to pay the piper. That she got pregnant, and to not carry to term is murder. That if she wasn't willing to have a baby, then she shouldn't have had sex to begin with.
I've been luck enough not to need an abortion. The one time that I would have (I hope) chosen to have an abortion, to not tie myself to the man who raped me repeatedly by the bond of blood, nature took care of the problem for me. I did not feel remorse. I felt relief. I was shaken by my close-call, but I was thrilled not to have to deal with the problem.
My friend is in a much better relationship than I had been in. She recently changed birth control methods, and statistically there is a much, much greater chance of getting pregnant when you change birth control. But having sex should not ever be contingent upon wanting to have a baby. I currently do not want to have a baby, and I have sex. Sex is about pleasure, about connecting with another person intimately, about passion, and sometimes about love. Sometimes it results in conception, but that should not be followed by forced birth.
(page 271) “Sexuality is a form of power, so if women own their sexuality and their ability to be sexual creatures, then they are empowered in ways that society does not want them to be. Punishing women for certain outcomes of sexuality (pregnancy and giving birth) is in effect punishing them for having sex.”
In some ways, I don't own my sexuality. I am not public about enjoying multiple partners at once because I fear the consequences. I fear being named slut. I fear that if I ever experience sexual violence again, that I will be told it's my fault. I fear that my children will be shunned or ridiculed.
(page 271) “Women are just as human as everyone else, and simply because women become pregnant or have the capacity to become pregnant does not mean that we lose our humanity or our right to fundamental human rights, which include the right to say yes, I want to have sex, without fear, without punishment, without judgment.”
I have nothing but sympathy for my friend. She is making a difficult decision, and she already recognizes that some people will see her in a negative light should they find out.
This week, I plan to expound upon abortion. A friend of mine just found out that she needs one. She feels that she can't tell anyone, because of the stigma involved. She ended up having to tell her boss, and was surprised by how supportive and helpful her boss ended up being. Actually, I'm surprised she told me.
I find that I'm more sympathetic to women who don't want children after having children than I was before I had children. Pregnancy sucks. Chosen pregnancy sucks, because people have rather exacting expectations of pregnant women.
(page 266) “Women are expected to suddenly become paragons of virtue and self-denial during their pregnancies, forgoing sushi, caffeine, nicotine, unpasteurized cheese, tuna, alcohol, cleaning the cat’s litter box, etc. Other members of society feel quite free to censure a woman who breaks any of these taboos.”
I still remember, and resent, the woman who argued with me about the soda I chose to drink. How dare I have caffeine? Didn't I know it wasn't safe? Actually, it's quite safe, and it's MY choice to make. It's my body, my baby, and my choice. I didn't ask for her permission, and she had no right to censure me.
(page 267) “Pregnant women are also affected by the war on abortion. If the fetus is granted rights of personhood, then a woman’s right to choose not to become a mother, for health or personal reasons, will be eliminated; she and the doctor who performs abortions could be charged with murder. When fetal rights are elevated over the right of a woman to choose when she wants to become a mother, to determine the spacing of her children, and to make a private decision about what happens to her body, then she loses her ability to control her own body and her choices are supplanted by those of the state—the state can pretty much tell a woman that she will be forced to carry her pregnancy to term.”
If the state has control over women's bodies because they are pregnant, then pregnant women are denied the liberty that everyone else has.
My experiences in the labor and delivery rooms have left me convinced that most women have at least one unnecessary intervention or something forced upon her, be it electronic fetal monitoring (still not proven safer than non-continuous non-electronic monitoring), rupturing of membranes, or overly-aggressive nurses, or something.
I was pressured into an induction that I wasn't ready for and didn't particularly want. Considering that my baby was born perfectly healthy, I think that over-testing was the true problem. I had to have weekly non-stress tests because the baby's heartbeat did not appear to be normal. My theory is that the baby was asleep for all of them, and that the heartbeat was reflective of that. There was one non-stress test that we had to schedule at a different time, and that heartbeat fit the normal parameters perfectly. The nurse administering the non-stress tests remarked that it was like a whole different baby.
I suppose that I could have refused, but it's difficult to take such a stand. Some doctors even take pregnant women to court to force them to undergo procedures, like Cesarean sections, because it's "in the best interest of the child." But doctors aren't always right, and it's not always in the best interest of the child. But it definitely puts women in their place, now doesn't it?
I have also been prescribed bed rest while pregnant, which I was unable to follow. I did not have the child care necessary to allow me to stay in bed. I had to care for a toddler and was not eligible for disability, having been a stay-at-home mom. Had my inability to follow bed rest resulted in miscarriage, could that have been considered murder if unborn babies had personhood? Was I, by caring for the baby I had already borne, in fact committing child abuse on the one I was carrying by not following orders? It was a risk I had to take. I really didn't have another viable choice.
(page 269) “He could not see that the idea of someone else’s paternalistically taking away her choice to have sex, or to forgo birth control, or to become a mother, renders her not mentally sound, less than human.”
In the essay, this refers to a lawyer who cuts deals for women that include agreeing not to have children. Parole can be contingent on regular pregnancy tests, and becoming pregnant can result in parole being revoked. Women can go to jail simply because they're pregnant. That's a scary thought.
(page 270) “Anytime you try to limit the procreative rights of a class of people because its progeny are considered doomed, or a burden, or generally unwanted, it results in a slow genocide of the poor.”
My own mother thinks that all girls should be fit with something like an IUD or hormonal implants to prevent pregnancy until they can be licensed to have kids. If I had waited until I was ready or could afford to have children, I may still not be a mother. I'm not sure I would ever have felt truly ready. Even now, I sometimes feel inadequate as a mother.
(page 270) “It is really about controlling who reproduces, prohibiting women from having sex, and starting with the easy targets—the vulnerable and the marginalized.”
Some people would say that my friend who needs an abortion is wrong. That she had sex and now needs to pay the piper. That she got pregnant, and to not carry to term is murder. That if she wasn't willing to have a baby, then she shouldn't have had sex to begin with.
I've been luck enough not to need an abortion. The one time that I would have (I hope) chosen to have an abortion, to not tie myself to the man who raped me repeatedly by the bond of blood, nature took care of the problem for me. I did not feel remorse. I felt relief. I was shaken by my close-call, but I was thrilled not to have to deal with the problem.
My friend is in a much better relationship than I had been in. She recently changed birth control methods, and statistically there is a much, much greater chance of getting pregnant when you change birth control. But having sex should not ever be contingent upon wanting to have a baby. I currently do not want to have a baby, and I have sex. Sex is about pleasure, about connecting with another person intimately, about passion, and sometimes about love. Sometimes it results in conception, but that should not be followed by forced birth.
(page 271) “Sexuality is a form of power, so if women own their sexuality and their ability to be sexual creatures, then they are empowered in ways that society does not want them to be. Punishing women for certain outcomes of sexuality (pregnancy and giving birth) is in effect punishing them for having sex.”
In some ways, I don't own my sexuality. I am not public about enjoying multiple partners at once because I fear the consequences. I fear being named slut. I fear that if I ever experience sexual violence again, that I will be told it's my fault. I fear that my children will be shunned or ridiculed.
(page 271) “Women are just as human as everyone else, and simply because women become pregnant or have the capacity to become pregnant does not mean that we lose our humanity or our right to fundamental human rights, which include the right to say yes, I want to have sex, without fear, without punishment, without judgment.”
I have nothing but sympathy for my friend. She is making a difficult decision, and she already recognizes that some people will see her in a negative light should they find out.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Truth, Consent, and Betrayal
Today I'm not responding to anyone else's work, instead I'm working on understanding pieces of the non-monogamous relationship I've been part of.
Not every aspect of our relationship was fully consensual. My husband and I agreed that unless we were in an otherwise exclusive relationship, a barrier method was necessary in order ensure that sex was as safe as possible. After all, not everyone who has an STD knows it, and it would be terrible to pass along an STD to the other.
My husband kept to that agreement. I didn't.
Early on, my lover asked that we forgo condoms, and despite my husband's protests to the both of us, I agreed. I could try to justify myself, but really I betrayed his trust and our agreement, and that is that.
There have been some pretty dire consequences to that decision. I switched birth control a couple of times, settled on the pill because I knew my husband and I would be trying for a baby soon, and, after several abrupt schedule changes/holidays, was unable to be as consistent as necessary to prevent pregnancy. I got pregnant at roughly the time my lover left town for an extended time, a couple of weeks before my husband and I planned trying.
I was pregnant, and paternity was in question. That was NOT supposed to happen. I felt like a whore.
Because of the uncertainty and because I had drank heavily the first few weeks of pregnancy, before we officially started trying, my husband and I discussed abortion. We quickly rejected that option.
The uncertainty took a toll on our relationship, and the baby's birth did not answer the paternity question with absolute certainty. The baby was slightly overdue, which we kind of expected, and was darker than previous babies. Of course the person the baby most resembles is me. Blood type was no help either, as my husband and my lover share the same one.
Eventually, because the uncertainty continued taking a toll on our relationship, we got a paternity test. It was unable to exclude my husband as the father, which in DNA test parameters meant that unless my lover shared the same genetic markers as my husband, then my husband was indeed the father.
A couple of years later, a routine PAP smear came back irregular, revealing that at some point in my life I contracted HPV. I felt incredibly dirty.
Because HPV can take years to result in an abnormal PAP and can be passed without symptoms, I will never know for certain when I contracted it, or from whom.
A simple apology is not enough in cases like these.
I fully accepted the blame for my part in betraying my husband. My lover and I did not have his consent for forgoing condoms.
My counselor has revealed that I have a pattern of taking on too much responsibility, and that I should trust others to take on their share too. So now the question remains: how much responsibility for this betrayal has my lover taken? I'm not the only one who did wrong.
Not every aspect of our relationship was fully consensual. My husband and I agreed that unless we were in an otherwise exclusive relationship, a barrier method was necessary in order ensure that sex was as safe as possible. After all, not everyone who has an STD knows it, and it would be terrible to pass along an STD to the other.
My husband kept to that agreement. I didn't.
Early on, my lover asked that we forgo condoms, and despite my husband's protests to the both of us, I agreed. I could try to justify myself, but really I betrayed his trust and our agreement, and that is that.
There have been some pretty dire consequences to that decision. I switched birth control a couple of times, settled on the pill because I knew my husband and I would be trying for a baby soon, and, after several abrupt schedule changes/holidays, was unable to be as consistent as necessary to prevent pregnancy. I got pregnant at roughly the time my lover left town for an extended time, a couple of weeks before my husband and I planned trying.
I was pregnant, and paternity was in question. That was NOT supposed to happen. I felt like a whore.
Because of the uncertainty and because I had drank heavily the first few weeks of pregnancy, before we officially started trying, my husband and I discussed abortion. We quickly rejected that option.
The uncertainty took a toll on our relationship, and the baby's birth did not answer the paternity question with absolute certainty. The baby was slightly overdue, which we kind of expected, and was darker than previous babies. Of course the person the baby most resembles is me. Blood type was no help either, as my husband and my lover share the same one.
Eventually, because the uncertainty continued taking a toll on our relationship, we got a paternity test. It was unable to exclude my husband as the father, which in DNA test parameters meant that unless my lover shared the same genetic markers as my husband, then my husband was indeed the father.
A couple of years later, a routine PAP smear came back irregular, revealing that at some point in my life I contracted HPV. I felt incredibly dirty.
Because HPV can take years to result in an abnormal PAP and can be passed without symptoms, I will never know for certain when I contracted it, or from whom.
A simple apology is not enough in cases like these.
I fully accepted the blame for my part in betraying my husband. My lover and I did not have his consent for forgoing condoms.
My counselor has revealed that I have a pattern of taking on too much responsibility, and that I should trust others to take on their share too. So now the question remains: how much responsibility for this betrayal has my lover taken? I'm not the only one who did wrong.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Fantasy
Responding to "The Fantasy of Acceptable 'Non-Consent': Why the Female Sexual Submissive Scares Us (and Why She Shouldn't)" by Stacey May Fowles.
Last night I found myself unable to sleep because of a rather vivid sexual fantasy I couldn't stop thinking about. The kind of fantasy I had is considered a rape fantasy by the mainstream lexicon. It came complete with a safe word.
My fantasy involved my partner(s) trespassing boundaries that I normally hold as unbreakable, and doing so in a forceful manner. I may even ask for my fantasy to become true someday. Who knows? The vulnerability and trust required are enormous.
I even recognize that my fantasy may have more to do about destroying certain memories, but that's less important than the pleasure I hope to receive.
I would say that my fantasy is tiptoeing into the world of BDSM.
(page 121) "For BDSM to exist safely, it has to be founded on a constant proclamation of enthusiastic consent, which mainstream sexuality has systematically dismantled."
Something I've just recognized, more by accident than anything, is that I'm not sure MZ would consider himself a rapist. And yet, I clearly and repeatedly told him no. There is a cultural narrative that no is just a yes in disguise so the girl can think she's not a whore, and that men just need to keep going unless the girl puts up a fight. Never mind that she might be scared you'll just rape her more violently.
And here I am fantasizing about something that looks like rape from the outside, but because I'll be the one requesting the activities, it's not. I'll be asking for a mild degree of violence, for some of my normal needs to be ignored, and for me to be restrained and to submit to activities that could be considered degrading.
But I have full and utmost confidence that nothing will happen without enthusiastic consent.
(page 120) "...by it's very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, it's language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sex scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation--it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations of interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end."
Ultimately, I would be in control the entire time, able to stop everything with a single utterance.
When I was raped, I had no control. I had no agency. I was violated. My humanity was rendered moot. I didn't matter.
Should this fantasy come to fruition, I will matter. I will have the power. I will have control and agency, despite appearances to the contrary.
And, in all honesty, I don't care if the rest of the world finds it acceptable. I do.
Last night I found myself unable to sleep because of a rather vivid sexual fantasy I couldn't stop thinking about. The kind of fantasy I had is considered a rape fantasy by the mainstream lexicon. It came complete with a safe word.
My fantasy involved my partner(s) trespassing boundaries that I normally hold as unbreakable, and doing so in a forceful manner. I may even ask for my fantasy to become true someday. Who knows? The vulnerability and trust required are enormous.
I even recognize that my fantasy may have more to do about destroying certain memories, but that's less important than the pleasure I hope to receive.
I would say that my fantasy is tiptoeing into the world of BDSM.
(page 121) "For BDSM to exist safely, it has to be founded on a constant proclamation of enthusiastic consent, which mainstream sexuality has systematically dismantled."
Something I've just recognized, more by accident than anything, is that I'm not sure MZ would consider himself a rapist. And yet, I clearly and repeatedly told him no. There is a cultural narrative that no is just a yes in disguise so the girl can think she's not a whore, and that men just need to keep going unless the girl puts up a fight. Never mind that she might be scared you'll just rape her more violently.
And here I am fantasizing about something that looks like rape from the outside, but because I'll be the one requesting the activities, it's not. I'll be asking for a mild degree of violence, for some of my normal needs to be ignored, and for me to be restrained and to submit to activities that could be considered degrading.
But I have full and utmost confidence that nothing will happen without enthusiastic consent.
(page 120) "...by it's very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, it's language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sex scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation--it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations of interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end."
Ultimately, I would be in control the entire time, able to stop everything with a single utterance.
When I was raped, I had no control. I had no agency. I was violated. My humanity was rendered moot. I didn't matter.
Should this fantasy come to fruition, I will matter. I will have the power. I will have control and agency, despite appearances to the contrary.
And, in all honesty, I don't care if the rest of the world finds it acceptable. I do.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Love Isn't Enough
A reflection on "Killing Misogyny: A Personal Story of Love, Violence, and Strategies for Survival" by Cristina Meztli TzinTzun.
The cultural narrative that we have is that love is powerful enough to heal all wounds, that if sacrifice and sacrifice, that our love is powerful to overcome anything, but like the concept of a single soul that completely complements your own, it's not a concept based in reality. Love is a catalyst. Love can be a stepping stone to healing, but you have to WANT to heal, and the love that can truly heal is self love.
Perhaps I should out myself as a non-romantic.
Love takes work. It takes effort and communication and compromise on the part of everyone in the relationship, or it will wither and die. It will warp into hate. It will become an unhealthy trap. Love is not easy.
(page 259) "I felt that if [he] could love me above all the other womyn he had abused, that would prove how unique and loved I truly was. I wanted my love for [him] to be my most sacrificial gift: I wanted it to be strong enough to heal us both."
This is a common theme in romance novels, that the heroine's love is so powerful and healing that it cures all that ails the broken hero. Love is hopeful and understanding.
But that is a fairy tale. Love should be a building block to a healthy relationship, not a sacrifice. If one partner is sacrificing and sacrificing while the other gains, then that is not a healthy relationship. That is a one-way street.
Once upon a time I wanted to find a lover to rescue me from my family, but it only led to more abuse. Until I decided to leave and make my own way, no one could rescue me.
(page 262) "...I have torn down my own image as strong and perfect to help in redefining strength as vulnerability and honesty. I have broken my silence and faced accountability."
I am in the process of being vulnerable and honest. So far, I have discovered a deep well of anger living and seething inside me. The past two weeks, I've cried more times than I remember crying all my life, as I work to remember the past and reflect on the present. It's not easy. As much as I celebrate the good parts of my life and sexuality, I am still healing. I still have a great amount of work to do before I become comfortable talking in real life about everything.
I don't like feeling vulnerable, but I recognize that it's something I need to feel before I become truly strong.
(page 260) "I will have to forgive myself for my mistakes and overcome the shame and embarrassment that come with knowing that the men who have most influenced me and whom I have let "love" me have been the most abusive, violent, sick, and selfish men I have ever known."
My first attempts at relationships were with sick and selfish men. Until I recognized that I had deplorable taste in men, that I allowed myself to be controlled and taken advantage of, and found the strength to respect myself, I was unable to find love. All I found was abuse.
I find myself wishing I had stayed the girl who was not willing to sacrifice myself for love. I gave up the strong, brash, brave person I was. I became weak and pliable. I was so afraid that I would never find love, that I mistook weak and violent men as heroes-in-the-rough. I don't know why I was so desperate. They were horrible people who I never wish to encounter again.
(page 260) "I want to challenge the shame and guilt our society creates out of myths about sexually transmitted diseases, sex, beauty, and love."
I hope to raise questions about sex and beauty and love. I want to help weave a narrative that love is not a gift, but a commitment between two (or more) people who want to truly help each other learn to be better people--it is not a sacrifice, and it cannot heal by itself. Sex is more than just a physical act, and beauty is so not depicted in magazines or TV or movies.
As for STDS, I recently discovered that I have an incurable one. I have HPV. I had to have a fairly common procedure, cryotherapy, to remove precancerous lesions from my cervix. Because HPV doesn't always cause symptoms, in fact the most high risk ones tend not to appear as warts, and can take years to develop into cancer, I have no way of knowing when I became infected. It could have been when I was 6 or 7 and my mother's brother violated me orally. It could have been when I lost my virginity. It could have been when MZ raped me. It could have been unknowingly passed on to me by one of the people I love now. I don't know, and I probably never will.
When I first found out, I felt terribly dirty and that no one who didn't already love me would ever want me. It disgusted me. I couldn't believe it. How could this happen to me?
While HPV means that I'll have to be more careful with any future partners I may eventually have, I am overcoming my shame. About 80% of adults are infected. It's typically passed along unwittingly, though there are definitely some people out there who know but just don't care that they're passing it on. I have a common, chronic disease that I have to continue to observe to make sure that it doesn't become dangerous and life-threatening. It doesn't define me.
Healing is a process, and while I have made many strides, I am now working on my most intimate wounds. It's not easy, and my anger is still at an overwhelming stage. I am doing my best to keep it from becoming a destructive force, but it's not easy. Healing isn't easy. It's hard work, and love is a catalyst, not a cure.
The cultural narrative that we have is that love is powerful enough to heal all wounds, that if sacrifice and sacrifice, that our love is powerful to overcome anything, but like the concept of a single soul that completely complements your own, it's not a concept based in reality. Love is a catalyst. Love can be a stepping stone to healing, but you have to WANT to heal, and the love that can truly heal is self love.
Perhaps I should out myself as a non-romantic.
Love takes work. It takes effort and communication and compromise on the part of everyone in the relationship, or it will wither and die. It will warp into hate. It will become an unhealthy trap. Love is not easy.
(page 259) "I felt that if [he] could love me above all the other womyn he had abused, that would prove how unique and loved I truly was. I wanted my love for [him] to be my most sacrificial gift: I wanted it to be strong enough to heal us both."
This is a common theme in romance novels, that the heroine's love is so powerful and healing that it cures all that ails the broken hero. Love is hopeful and understanding.
But that is a fairy tale. Love should be a building block to a healthy relationship, not a sacrifice. If one partner is sacrificing and sacrificing while the other gains, then that is not a healthy relationship. That is a one-way street.
Once upon a time I wanted to find a lover to rescue me from my family, but it only led to more abuse. Until I decided to leave and make my own way, no one could rescue me.
(page 262) "...I have torn down my own image as strong and perfect to help in redefining strength as vulnerability and honesty. I have broken my silence and faced accountability."
I am in the process of being vulnerable and honest. So far, I have discovered a deep well of anger living and seething inside me. The past two weeks, I've cried more times than I remember crying all my life, as I work to remember the past and reflect on the present. It's not easy. As much as I celebrate the good parts of my life and sexuality, I am still healing. I still have a great amount of work to do before I become comfortable talking in real life about everything.
I don't like feeling vulnerable, but I recognize that it's something I need to feel before I become truly strong.
(page 260) "I will have to forgive myself for my mistakes and overcome the shame and embarrassment that come with knowing that the men who have most influenced me and whom I have let "love" me have been the most abusive, violent, sick, and selfish men I have ever known."
My first attempts at relationships were with sick and selfish men. Until I recognized that I had deplorable taste in men, that I allowed myself to be controlled and taken advantage of, and found the strength to respect myself, I was unable to find love. All I found was abuse.
I find myself wishing I had stayed the girl who was not willing to sacrifice myself for love. I gave up the strong, brash, brave person I was. I became weak and pliable. I was so afraid that I would never find love, that I mistook weak and violent men as heroes-in-the-rough. I don't know why I was so desperate. They were horrible people who I never wish to encounter again.
(page 260) "I want to challenge the shame and guilt our society creates out of myths about sexually transmitted diseases, sex, beauty, and love."
I hope to raise questions about sex and beauty and love. I want to help weave a narrative that love is not a gift, but a commitment between two (or more) people who want to truly help each other learn to be better people--it is not a sacrifice, and it cannot heal by itself. Sex is more than just a physical act, and beauty is so not depicted in magazines or TV or movies.
As for STDS, I recently discovered that I have an incurable one. I have HPV. I had to have a fairly common procedure, cryotherapy, to remove precancerous lesions from my cervix. Because HPV doesn't always cause symptoms, in fact the most high risk ones tend not to appear as warts, and can take years to develop into cancer, I have no way of knowing when I became infected. It could have been when I was 6 or 7 and my mother's brother violated me orally. It could have been when I lost my virginity. It could have been when MZ raped me. It could have been unknowingly passed on to me by one of the people I love now. I don't know, and I probably never will.
When I first found out, I felt terribly dirty and that no one who didn't already love me would ever want me. It disgusted me. I couldn't believe it. How could this happen to me?
While HPV means that I'll have to be more careful with any future partners I may eventually have, I am overcoming my shame. About 80% of adults are infected. It's typically passed along unwittingly, though there are definitely some people out there who know but just don't care that they're passing it on. I have a common, chronic disease that I have to continue to observe to make sure that it doesn't become dangerous and life-threatening. It doesn't define me.
Healing is a process, and while I have made many strides, I am now working on my most intimate wounds. It's not easy, and my anger is still at an overwhelming stage. I am doing my best to keep it from becoming a destructive force, but it's not easy. Healing isn't easy. It's hard work, and love is a catalyst, not a cure.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Talking About Sex
Responding to: "Beyond Yes Or No: Consent as Sexual Process" by Rachel Kramer Bussel.
I have difficulty talking about sex, except in clinical terms. I have trouble initiating. I have trouble asking for what I want. I believe it's a reflection of the internalized virgin-whore dichotomy, and that if I ask for what I want, then I'm admitting I'm a slut. I'm trying to get past this, though many many years of habit are hard to break.
(page 43) "The issue of 'consent' encompasses the ways we ask for sex, and the ways we don't.... Without our speaking up and demanding that our lovers do, too, we don't ever truly know what they are thinking, which impedes us from having the sex we could be having."
I must confess, I like it rough most of the time. This is actually a fairly recent revelation for me, at least the degree of roughness that I like. I feel more emotionally safe when the sex is rough, knowing that it shouldn't trigger any trauma or flashbacks. The rapes and abuse were not physically rough. But my lovers like more of a variety and want to be tender with me. Great sex is a process, as if I focus only on what I want, then I'm doing a disservice to my lovers, while if I focus only on what my lovers want, then I'm doing a disservice to me. But we can also decide to focus on one partner for a day, or for an hour, and fulfill unmet needs graciously and lovingly; which is definitely worthwhile.
(page 46) "And if you have been sharing, or trying to share, what you want and aren't being listened to? That's a problem. Recognize that and make it a priority."
Communication is integral to great sex, but it's also integral to having a good relationship. Period. Communication isn't always easy. If one partner is afraid to be truthful, then there is something wrong. Of course, truth can be a weapon wielded bluntly and with force for maximum pain, and truth can be gentle, easier to hear, easier to listen to, easier to act on. I try, but sometimes fail, to be gentle with the truth.
(page 46) "There is a lot more that goes on during sex than simply yes and no, and in the silences, unspoken doubts, fears, mistrust, and confusion can arise."
I feel that this is especially the case when there are multiple partners at the same time. It can be difficult to give more than one partner enough attention, and it can be lonely to be ignored. Speaking up is a necessity, though it may be strange at first to ask who wants to go first or who wants to indulge which desire when.
And even when it's only one partner, saying that something isn't quite working can be intimidating. If this stroke isn't working, am I going to hurt my partner's feelings because it's incredible for him? Talking is a risk, but it's a risk that's absolutely important to take.
(page 47) "Getting more comfortable talking about sex in and out of the heat of the moment means there'll be fewer of those awkward silences and less chances of one person thinking they had the best sex in the world while the other wishes it never happened."
I'm still working on it, but I do believe that I'm getting there--asking for what I want honestly and directly. Of course, it's easier to ask for what you want when you KNOW what you want, and I've started exploring that too.
I have difficulty talking about sex, except in clinical terms. I have trouble initiating. I have trouble asking for what I want. I believe it's a reflection of the internalized virgin-whore dichotomy, and that if I ask for what I want, then I'm admitting I'm a slut. I'm trying to get past this, though many many years of habit are hard to break.
(page 43) "The issue of 'consent' encompasses the ways we ask for sex, and the ways we don't.... Without our speaking up and demanding that our lovers do, too, we don't ever truly know what they are thinking, which impedes us from having the sex we could be having."
I must confess, I like it rough most of the time. This is actually a fairly recent revelation for me, at least the degree of roughness that I like. I feel more emotionally safe when the sex is rough, knowing that it shouldn't trigger any trauma or flashbacks. The rapes and abuse were not physically rough. But my lovers like more of a variety and want to be tender with me. Great sex is a process, as if I focus only on what I want, then I'm doing a disservice to my lovers, while if I focus only on what my lovers want, then I'm doing a disservice to me. But we can also decide to focus on one partner for a day, or for an hour, and fulfill unmet needs graciously and lovingly; which is definitely worthwhile.
(page 46) "And if you have been sharing, or trying to share, what you want and aren't being listened to? That's a problem. Recognize that and make it a priority."
Communication is integral to great sex, but it's also integral to having a good relationship. Period. Communication isn't always easy. If one partner is afraid to be truthful, then there is something wrong. Of course, truth can be a weapon wielded bluntly and with force for maximum pain, and truth can be gentle, easier to hear, easier to listen to, easier to act on. I try, but sometimes fail, to be gentle with the truth.
(page 46) "There is a lot more that goes on during sex than simply yes and no, and in the silences, unspoken doubts, fears, mistrust, and confusion can arise."
I feel that this is especially the case when there are multiple partners at the same time. It can be difficult to give more than one partner enough attention, and it can be lonely to be ignored. Speaking up is a necessity, though it may be strange at first to ask who wants to go first or who wants to indulge which desire when.
And even when it's only one partner, saying that something isn't quite working can be intimidating. If this stroke isn't working, am I going to hurt my partner's feelings because it's incredible for him? Talking is a risk, but it's a risk that's absolutely important to take.
(page 47) "Getting more comfortable talking about sex in and out of the heat of the moment means there'll be fewer of those awkward silences and less chances of one person thinking they had the best sex in the world while the other wishes it never happened."
I'm still working on it, but I do believe that I'm getting there--asking for what I want honestly and directly. Of course, it's easier to ask for what you want when you KNOW what you want, and I've started exploring that too.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Closet Case
Responding to: Ask Professor Foxy: How Do I Tell My Parents About My Poly Relationship?
I'm very much in the closet about having any kind of extramarital relationships. A big part of this is because I need consent to rip down the closet doors.
We live in a culture that does not value non-monogamous relationships. The most widespread example of polyamory in the US is the fundamentalist Mormon off-shoot of polygamy, which pairs young and undereducated women with older men.
I completely understand wanting privacy. I want a modicum of privacy myself. That is why I am anonymous. The slut-shaming for women who "stray" outside their marriages can be heinous. I don't want to be called a slut or a whore or cheating bitch by anyone. I absolutely believe that I would be named a whore by at least my mother if I came out as married with lovers.
Then there is my husband. He and my parents never really got along anyway, and to be open that I'm happy for him when he enjoys someone else's company would just have them brand him as a cheating bastard, while I've been brainwashed somehow to think this is acceptable.
I also have to consider how it would affect my loved ones. How would they feel if someone revealed "I think your spouse and best friend are having an affair?" out of the blue. I don't want to put either my husband or my best friend in the position of suddenly having to defend their marriage/friendship.
At the same time, I'd like to be free to show my affections. I also don't want my husband to have to hide his affection for others, should he wish to show them. I know I have the air of obliviousness that would allow me to simply say "They're good friends" and change the subject if I'm not willing to explore the subject of polyamory at the time or with that particular person.
Regardless, I am currently in the closet, and unless and until all those who will be affected by my openness give permission to be dragged out with me, I will remain there.
I'm very much in the closet about having any kind of extramarital relationships. A big part of this is because I need consent to rip down the closet doors.
We live in a culture that does not value non-monogamous relationships. The most widespread example of polyamory in the US is the fundamentalist Mormon off-shoot of polygamy, which pairs young and undereducated women with older men.
I completely understand wanting privacy. I want a modicum of privacy myself. That is why I am anonymous. The slut-shaming for women who "stray" outside their marriages can be heinous. I don't want to be called a slut or a whore or cheating bitch by anyone. I absolutely believe that I would be named a whore by at least my mother if I came out as married with lovers.
Then there is my husband. He and my parents never really got along anyway, and to be open that I'm happy for him when he enjoys someone else's company would just have them brand him as a cheating bastard, while I've been brainwashed somehow to think this is acceptable.
I also have to consider how it would affect my loved ones. How would they feel if someone revealed "I think your spouse and best friend are having an affair?" out of the blue. I don't want to put either my husband or my best friend in the position of suddenly having to defend their marriage/friendship.
At the same time, I'd like to be free to show my affections. I also don't want my husband to have to hide his affection for others, should he wish to show them. I know I have the air of obliviousness that would allow me to simply say "They're good friends" and change the subject if I'm not willing to explore the subject of polyamory at the time or with that particular person.
Regardless, I am currently in the closet, and unless and until all those who will be affected by my openness give permission to be dragged out with me, I will remain there.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Respect
Responding to "Hooking Up with Healthy Sexuality: The Lessons Boys Learn (and Don't Learn) About Sexuality, and Why a Sex Positive Rape Prevention Paradigm Can Benefit Everyone Involved" by Brad Perry.
(page 199) "Why aren't we all socialized to expect and proactively ensure that every sexual interaction is marked by mutual enjoyment and respect?"
Let's think about this question, let it simmer in our collective consciences, and stew on it awhile.
Sex should have mutual enjoyment and respect? Every time, no matter what? Really?
Why not?
Because sex really should be all about mutual enjoyment and respect every time no matter what.
Yes, ladies, sex really should be more than submitting to your husband and procreation.
Yes, men, sex should be more than scoring or getting off or punishing someone.
Envision better. Act Better. Expect more.
Even when sex is a casual hook-up one time only thing, it should come from a place of reciprocity. "All about me" sex may satisfy a physical need temporarily, but giving someone an orgasm is better for the ego.
Even when sex is paid for, there should be respect. Another person, a human being just like you and me, has negotiated certain services for a particular payment. They have limits, and those limits need to be abode. Non-payment, violence, and going beyond the agreed upon limits are all wrong.
And even in a marriage, NO must be heard. And when one spouse is deeply asleep, it is not acceptable for the partner to do sexual acts without their knowledge.
Violence is unacceptable.
Coercion is unacceptable.
Rape is unacceptable.
Every sexual interaction MUST be marked by mutual enjoyment and respect. Or it doesn't belong in "The Number." It doesn't count, and depending upon the circumstances, it deserves a name other than sex.
(page 199) "Why aren't we all socialized to expect and proactively ensure that every sexual interaction is marked by mutual enjoyment and respect?"
Let's think about this question, let it simmer in our collective consciences, and stew on it awhile.
Sex should have mutual enjoyment and respect? Every time, no matter what? Really?
Why not?
Because sex really should be all about mutual enjoyment and respect every time no matter what.
Yes, ladies, sex really should be more than submitting to your husband and procreation.
Yes, men, sex should be more than scoring or getting off or punishing someone.
Envision better. Act Better. Expect more.
Even when sex is a casual hook-up one time only thing, it should come from a place of reciprocity. "All about me" sex may satisfy a physical need temporarily, but giving someone an orgasm is better for the ego.
Even when sex is paid for, there should be respect. Another person, a human being just like you and me, has negotiated certain services for a particular payment. They have limits, and those limits need to be abode. Non-payment, violence, and going beyond the agreed upon limits are all wrong.
And even in a marriage, NO must be heard. And when one spouse is deeply asleep, it is not acceptable for the partner to do sexual acts without their knowledge.
Violence is unacceptable.
Coercion is unacceptable.
Rape is unacceptable.
Every sexual interaction MUST be marked by mutual enjoyment and respect. Or it doesn't belong in "The Number." It doesn't count, and depending upon the circumstances, it deserves a name other than sex.
Friday, September 4, 2009
More Than Appearances
Responding to "A Woman's Worth" by Javacia N. Harris.
(page 64) "I'm not advocating that women ignore or hide their bodies. A woman's feeling good about her body and learning to enjoy it can only help her in the journey toward a healthy and satisfying sexual life."
The magazines regularly edit models and celebrities to depict bodies impossible to achieve in nature. Teeth are whiter than the most bleached ones out there. Absolutely no fly away hairs. Blemishes are nonexistent, and skin tone is magnificently even. I guess we're all supposed to be plastic mannequins, both thoroughly anorexic but somehow curvy, and then we'll all be perfect and happy.
Is it any wonder that even the highest paid, most fabulous supermodel may be completely insecure about her looks? No one can ever measure up.
Like many, if not most, American women, I often feel unpretty. I have stretch marks, mommy breasts, and a slighted rounded belly. I'm also practically anorexic. I shock people when I admit my weight, because they always forget to take my height and "childbearing" hips into account. Yet I fear I'm fat. I constantly get carded, yet I fear I may look old.
The impossibility of American beauty "standards" (perhaps fantasy is a better word) makes me want to hide beneath overly-large t-shirts and jeans. I feel ugly far more often than I'd like to admit.
(page 64) "My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous."
It's not always easy to focus on what my body can do, especially once I derail myself by spotting my flaws. But once I get started, I can accomplish many things with my body. My hands produce art. My arms hold and comfort my children. My feet can walk forever and not give up.
And while I may not always like the way my body looks, I love the way that it feels. My hair is soft. My nails are strong. My skin is soft, smooth, and velvety. My joints are very flexible, allowing me to move in surprising ways.
I'm not so hung up on my body that I can't enjoy myself in the light while I'm nude. The occasional acne or ingrown hair (aka blemishes) sometimes make me long for the dark, but that's fairly rare.
(page 64) "I have fun when I dance because I am enjoying my body, not putting it on display for someone else's pleasure."
Whenever I do stop worrying about how I look, relax, and have fun, I seem to draw attention from the male gaze. Supposedly, it's quite complimentary (according to men, at least), but I got over being told I'm cute a long time ago, about the same time I got over catcalls and guys honking and yelling when I happened to be out and about walking. Now it's just obnoxious. I'm more than eye-candy, and I prefer to be complimented on my accomplishments, not my face and body. Beauty fades and standards (fantasies) change.
My body is amazing, and that's what I need to remember. I'm not a mannequin. I'm not plastic. I'm flesh and blood, and I love it.
(page 64) "I'm not advocating that women ignore or hide their bodies. A woman's feeling good about her body and learning to enjoy it can only help her in the journey toward a healthy and satisfying sexual life."
The magazines regularly edit models and celebrities to depict bodies impossible to achieve in nature. Teeth are whiter than the most bleached ones out there. Absolutely no fly away hairs. Blemishes are nonexistent, and skin tone is magnificently even. I guess we're all supposed to be plastic mannequins, both thoroughly anorexic but somehow curvy, and then we'll all be perfect and happy.
Is it any wonder that even the highest paid, most fabulous supermodel may be completely insecure about her looks? No one can ever measure up.
Like many, if not most, American women, I often feel unpretty. I have stretch marks, mommy breasts, and a slighted rounded belly. I'm also practically anorexic. I shock people when I admit my weight, because they always forget to take my height and "childbearing" hips into account. Yet I fear I'm fat. I constantly get carded, yet I fear I may look old.
The impossibility of American beauty "standards" (perhaps fantasy is a better word) makes me want to hide beneath overly-large t-shirts and jeans. I feel ugly far more often than I'd like to admit.
(page 64) "My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous."
It's not always easy to focus on what my body can do, especially once I derail myself by spotting my flaws. But once I get started, I can accomplish many things with my body. My hands produce art. My arms hold and comfort my children. My feet can walk forever and not give up.
And while I may not always like the way my body looks, I love the way that it feels. My hair is soft. My nails are strong. My skin is soft, smooth, and velvety. My joints are very flexible, allowing me to move in surprising ways.
I'm not so hung up on my body that I can't enjoy myself in the light while I'm nude. The occasional acne or ingrown hair (aka blemishes) sometimes make me long for the dark, but that's fairly rare.
(page 64) "I have fun when I dance because I am enjoying my body, not putting it on display for someone else's pleasure."
Whenever I do stop worrying about how I look, relax, and have fun, I seem to draw attention from the male gaze. Supposedly, it's quite complimentary (according to men, at least), but I got over being told I'm cute a long time ago, about the same time I got over catcalls and guys honking and yelling when I happened to be out and about walking. Now it's just obnoxious. I'm more than eye-candy, and I prefer to be complimented on my accomplishments, not my face and body. Beauty fades and standards (fantasies) change.
My body is amazing, and that's what I need to remember. I'm not a mannequin. I'm not plastic. I'm flesh and blood, and I love it.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
What Counts
Responding to: "The Process-Oriented Virgin" by Hanne Blank.
Reading this essay led me to reflect upon my "number" and change it.
Even in the ancient world, when it was obvious that women were property and bargaining chips, women from cities that had been invaded, resulting in mass rape, were still considered virgins and marriageable.
(page 289) "What happened to you sexually was not necessarily what you were as a person."
Most people seem to agree that rape, especially in children or by strangers, is an assault and not sex. It doesn't count, especially when the victim has no other sexualized experience.
(page 290) "This didn't just broaden the spectrum of what might be understood to constitute virginity, as a (at least potentially) contextual quality. It also placed, at least in some cases, the determination of whether someone was or wasn't a virgin in a place where it almost never rested otherwise: namely, in the virgin's own hands."
So why should it count for those of us who are sexually active, married or not?
I was a full participant in "losing" my virginity. My motive was more curiosity than anything. There was a guy I knew, attractive enough, very flirtatious, an outsider like me. I gave him my number. He called, asked me when I'd come over. We were both clear that I'd be coming over for sex. I didn't have any illusions that we'd start dating. I got directions, lied to my parents about plans, and one Saturday we got together.
I'd read enough romance novels to understand that there might be some discomfort, but that if I was excited enough it would be enjoyable anyway. All in all, I had a very positive experience. Wish I could say the same about the rest of my experiences.
(page 294) "As an assertion of unconscious, psychological truth, the statement that a given woman's virginity ends when the individual says it does, for the reasons that she says it does, is unassailable. It destroys the historical relationship between authority figures and virginity by cutting out outsiders--anyone from priests to parents to virginity testers--out of of the picture entirely, divesting them of any voice in regard to what virginity is and what it might or might not be worth."
I think post-virginal sex should also be defined by ones experiencing it.
I've revised my number--or, more accurately, I now have two numbers. One is the number of people I've had sex with; the other number is relevant only for medical inquiries. I've shed some experiences, recognizing them for the garbage they are.
(page 293) "The sex that counts for these young women is sex in which they are involved and invested."
JRS does not count. I wasn't involved. I was a masturbatory aid, nothing more that day. That was not sex. It was "not-rape," though with the "surprise" anal sex, I've begun to shift it into the rape or sexual assault category.
MZ does not count. MZ was my "boyfriend" for far too long--a few months. He raped me six times and coerced me into sex about weekly. Over and over I'd tell him no. It was like hitting pause on a busted remote where the moment you lift your finger, it continues playing anyway. I found out he'd gotten me pregnant when nature too care of that problem for me before I'd realized I had a problem at all. I stupidly told him even though we'd broken up, thinking it was The-Right-Thing-To-Do. He raped me again. That entire "relationship" doesn't count.
One more experience doesn't meet the involved and invested requirement. It doesn't count either. There really wasn't anything bad about it; it just doesn't measure up. I didn't seek it. I didn't NOT want it. I just went along with it. Not good enough. Not sex.
The mischievous part of me wonders how the douches I excised would react if I told them that they don't count, but that would make this retaliatory, rather than being true to myself. I don't care to encounter any of them again, so I won't be seeking them out. I'd prefer to focus on the enthusiastic sex that does matter, that does count, that fills me with joy.
Reading this essay led me to reflect upon my "number" and change it.
Even in the ancient world, when it was obvious that women were property and bargaining chips, women from cities that had been invaded, resulting in mass rape, were still considered virgins and marriageable.
(page 289) "What happened to you sexually was not necessarily what you were as a person."
Most people seem to agree that rape, especially in children or by strangers, is an assault and not sex. It doesn't count, especially when the victim has no other sexualized experience.
(page 290) "This didn't just broaden the spectrum of what might be understood to constitute virginity, as a (at least potentially) contextual quality. It also placed, at least in some cases, the determination of whether someone was or wasn't a virgin in a place where it almost never rested otherwise: namely, in the virgin's own hands."
So why should it count for those of us who are sexually active, married or not?
I was a full participant in "losing" my virginity. My motive was more curiosity than anything. There was a guy I knew, attractive enough, very flirtatious, an outsider like me. I gave him my number. He called, asked me when I'd come over. We were both clear that I'd be coming over for sex. I didn't have any illusions that we'd start dating. I got directions, lied to my parents about plans, and one Saturday we got together.
I'd read enough romance novels to understand that there might be some discomfort, but that if I was excited enough it would be enjoyable anyway. All in all, I had a very positive experience. Wish I could say the same about the rest of my experiences.
(page 294) "As an assertion of unconscious, psychological truth, the statement that a given woman's virginity ends when the individual says it does, for the reasons that she says it does, is unassailable. It destroys the historical relationship between authority figures and virginity by cutting out outsiders--anyone from priests to parents to virginity testers--out of of the picture entirely, divesting them of any voice in regard to what virginity is and what it might or might not be worth."
I think post-virginal sex should also be defined by ones experiencing it.
I've revised my number--or, more accurately, I now have two numbers. One is the number of people I've had sex with; the other number is relevant only for medical inquiries. I've shed some experiences, recognizing them for the garbage they are.
(page 293) "The sex that counts for these young women is sex in which they are involved and invested."
JRS does not count. I wasn't involved. I was a masturbatory aid, nothing more that day. That was not sex. It was "not-rape," though with the "surprise" anal sex, I've begun to shift it into the rape or sexual assault category.
MZ does not count. MZ was my "boyfriend" for far too long--a few months. He raped me six times and coerced me into sex about weekly. Over and over I'd tell him no. It was like hitting pause on a busted remote where the moment you lift your finger, it continues playing anyway. I found out he'd gotten me pregnant when nature too care of that problem for me before I'd realized I had a problem at all. I stupidly told him even though we'd broken up, thinking it was The-Right-Thing-To-Do. He raped me again. That entire "relationship" doesn't count.
One more experience doesn't meet the involved and invested requirement. It doesn't count either. There really wasn't anything bad about it; it just doesn't measure up. I didn't seek it. I didn't NOT want it. I just went along with it. Not good enough. Not sex.
The mischievous part of me wonders how the douches I excised would react if I told them that they don't count, but that would make this retaliatory, rather than being true to myself. I don't care to encounter any of them again, so I won't be seeking them out. I'd prefer to focus on the enthusiastic sex that does matter, that does count, that fills me with joy.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Jumping at Shadows
Responding to "In Defense of Going Wild or: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Pleasure (and How You Can Too)" by Jaclyn Friedman.
(page 314) "I hereby declare my right to be wild and still maintain my bodily autonomy."
I know a couple of women who drink beyond the blacking out point on a regular basis. I am scared for them. Don't they know that it only takes one creep to abuse them in their vulnerable state? I hope for their safety, but know it's just a matter of time before they get hurt (or hurt again). I find myself struggling not to slut-shame one of them, but I have to make a conscious effort not to.
(page 315) "Sure, there are plenty of ways drinking and/or sexing can be bad for you--any pleasure can be manipulated or abused for any number of reasons. But there's nothing inherently wrong with either, and when you force women to choose safety over pleasure in ways men never have to (and when you shame them for choosing 'wrong'), you teach women that their pleasure is not as important as men's."
All my life I've been hearing about the dangers of daring to be female in public after dark. It's sad really. Walking after dark in a quiet area is so very peaceful. I enjoy the night sky on clear or partly cloudy nights.
Recently, my best friend and I went out to a bar, no men attached. With loving concern, my husband cautioned me to be careful and not drink too much. After all, there are predators in every town. Turns out that in the early hours of morning that very day, a woman took a short-cut home, and someone attacked her, raping her.
I was relatively safe in a low-key bar, walking on well-lit streets to find one of the plentiful taxis. The extent of misconduct I experienced was a single inappropriate comment, by the cab driver of course.
The night life doesn't scare me. Even as a foolish teen I took precautions. I had extremely sharp pencils in my purse. I drove myself instead of trusting some guy to see me home safely (strangely, this upset my parents--that I'd insist on driving myself. Weren't men chivalrous enough to pick me up? Was I ashamed of them?) While I occasionally found myself the lone girl at an athletes' party, once anyone seemed more than tipsy or I got a bad feeling, I left. No harm done.
No, being female at night in public left me unscathed.
It was my "boyfriend" who told me to "put out or get out"--in my own car. The "surprise" anal sex happened in the afternoon--at work.
(page 316) "If we want to raise awareness about the links between drinking and rape, we should start by getting the word out to men (who are, after all, the overwhelming majority of rapists) that alcohol is likely to impair their ability to respond appropriately if a sexual partner says no."
Yes, the nightlife can be dangerous--especially when men have been drinking. The cases of questionable sex or date rape that men I know have told me about involved their drinking alcohol in all but one case.
When I go out to enjoy myself, I don't want to jump at shadows or contain my joy. I want to be free to celebrate. It's up to everyone to exercise the restraint to be sure of their welcome, no matter how tipsy or drunk or wasted their object of desire is.
(page 319) "If we spent even a fraction of the time we use to teach girls to fear for their bodies teaching them to use their bodies for their own protection instead, there'd by a hell of a lot less for any of us to worry about. Because the most practical way to reduce the risk of rape for all women is to create a culture in which the rapist has to worry that he'll get hurt."
A distant cousin of mine one tackled me and threatened to rape me. I didn't know how to get him off me, except by threatening to bite him. I knew I couldn't take him in a fight, but it worked. I'm not sure how serious he was, even to this day, but a simple display of my backbone stopped him. So in addition to teaching our sons that only yes means yes and that alcohol may hinder their ability to recognize that a yes shouldn't count, we need to teach our daughters to hear and use their voices. This world could be a better place.
(page 314) "I hereby declare my right to be wild and still maintain my bodily autonomy."
I know a couple of women who drink beyond the blacking out point on a regular basis. I am scared for them. Don't they know that it only takes one creep to abuse them in their vulnerable state? I hope for their safety, but know it's just a matter of time before they get hurt (or hurt again). I find myself struggling not to slut-shame one of them, but I have to make a conscious effort not to.
(page 315) "Sure, there are plenty of ways drinking and/or sexing can be bad for you--any pleasure can be manipulated or abused for any number of reasons. But there's nothing inherently wrong with either, and when you force women to choose safety over pleasure in ways men never have to (and when you shame them for choosing 'wrong'), you teach women that their pleasure is not as important as men's."
All my life I've been hearing about the dangers of daring to be female in public after dark. It's sad really. Walking after dark in a quiet area is so very peaceful. I enjoy the night sky on clear or partly cloudy nights.
Recently, my best friend and I went out to a bar, no men attached. With loving concern, my husband cautioned me to be careful and not drink too much. After all, there are predators in every town. Turns out that in the early hours of morning that very day, a woman took a short-cut home, and someone attacked her, raping her.
I was relatively safe in a low-key bar, walking on well-lit streets to find one of the plentiful taxis. The extent of misconduct I experienced was a single inappropriate comment, by the cab driver of course.
The night life doesn't scare me. Even as a foolish teen I took precautions. I had extremely sharp pencils in my purse. I drove myself instead of trusting some guy to see me home safely (strangely, this upset my parents--that I'd insist on driving myself. Weren't men chivalrous enough to pick me up? Was I ashamed of them?) While I occasionally found myself the lone girl at an athletes' party, once anyone seemed more than tipsy or I got a bad feeling, I left. No harm done.
No, being female at night in public left me unscathed.
It was my "boyfriend" who told me to "put out or get out"--in my own car. The "surprise" anal sex happened in the afternoon--at work.
(page 316) "If we want to raise awareness about the links between drinking and rape, we should start by getting the word out to men (who are, after all, the overwhelming majority of rapists) that alcohol is likely to impair their ability to respond appropriately if a sexual partner says no."
Yes, the nightlife can be dangerous--especially when men have been drinking. The cases of questionable sex or date rape that men I know have told me about involved their drinking alcohol in all but one case.
When I go out to enjoy myself, I don't want to jump at shadows or contain my joy. I want to be free to celebrate. It's up to everyone to exercise the restraint to be sure of their welcome, no matter how tipsy or drunk or wasted their object of desire is.
(page 319) "If we spent even a fraction of the time we use to teach girls to fear for their bodies teaching them to use their bodies for their own protection instead, there'd by a hell of a lot less for any of us to worry about. Because the most practical way to reduce the risk of rape for all women is to create a culture in which the rapist has to worry that he'll get hurt."
A distant cousin of mine one tackled me and threatened to rape me. I didn't know how to get him off me, except by threatening to bite him. I knew I couldn't take him in a fight, but it worked. I'm not sure how serious he was, even to this day, but a simple display of my backbone stopped him. So in addition to teaching our sons that only yes means yes and that alcohol may hinder their ability to recognize that a yes shouldn't count, we need to teach our daughters to hear and use their voices. This world could be a better place.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Beyond Victimhood
Responding to: "What It Feels Like When It Finally Comes: Surviving Incest in Real Life" by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
(page 97) "What was in all the zines and seven inch vinyl records was this: if we all said out loud how common the secret catastrophe was that all of us knew girls who'd been raped or fucked with, the 'every single person I know is a fucking survivor' feeling--what would it mean? If all the rage and memory and experience of what we'd lived through came screaming out, wouldn't the world split open? What would the world do with the reality that maybe more than one out of four girls and one out of six boys were sexually abused before we could vote? That the world was built on incest?"
There continues to be a stigma attached to victims of sexual abuse and assault. Victims are broken, never to be whole again. Victims are mine fields, always ready to explode or cry or react badly. Victims are basketcases. Being a victim is the entirety of your identity. Wrong. So very, very wrong.
Far too many of us have been victims, and there is a wide spectrum of responses. It's often easier to just be quiet. I was honest on a medical questionnaire, and the bumbling jerk of a nurse flipped out. He interrogated me, because if I was going to flip out on a doctor exam, he needed to know, and I better not do that. Because I desperately needed to see the doctor, I didn't complain. I should have.
I understand that hearing or reading stories of abuse, assault, rape, etc can be an uncomfortable experience. What do you do? What do you say? How do you act around this person after this revelation? Do you offer a hug? Do you say sorry? What do you do? What is proper?
I have quite a bit of distance from my experiences at this point. If I do tell you what happened, and I'm growing more casual in my sharing, I don't want you to treat me differently than you did in the past. Incest doesn't define me. Rape doesn't define me. I'm not a walking ball of insecurities threatened by every man I see. I never have been, not even when the experiences were new.
(page 99) "I came bit by bit back into my body through words that tell me stories that sound like mine, of how racism, violence, and abuse are all wound together; about how denial of childhood sexual abuse and denial of systemic oppression feel the same."
Victims have been othered, are seen as lesser. I fear being branded a victim, because I pass for normal. Aloof perhaps, but normal.
But what is normal? As I hear more stories from more people, I start to wonder if getting hurt is what's truly normal in this world. If this victim brand is naught but a tool to keep us silent, to keep us complicit. All of us, not just women. Who wants to be a victim? If we just pretend it's not happening, of course it will go away. Only, it hasn't. Nor will it.
(page 101) "Every time I have just the kind of sex I always wanted, every time I grow more into the fierce, fearless femme I have always wanted to be, I heal not like a cliche but like I can see new cells being made, the purple and magenta color of the outside of the skin cells, the bone being reknit."
My lovers want to please me, want to hear me moan and sigh and whimper with pleasure. My ecstasy makes them feel powerful. The power of pleasure is filling, lasting, awe-inspiring. It's divine. It's healing.
The more pleasure I receive, the more pleasure I want to give. I like the power of coaxing moans and sighs and whimpers from my lovers. It's good for my soul. The mere anticipation of great sex is enough to thoroughly silence the bad memories. The more great sex I have, the less power my bad experiences have. I think about them less and less.
Some men think they can own a piece of a woman through subjecting them to violence and abuse. That they will mark her forever. Brand her forever. Wrong. Want a place in my soul? Bring me screaming into orgasm.
I am currently working through my bad experiences, but the men who hurt me are not my true focus. I am. I am working to understand that it wasn't my fault. I am working to forgive myself. My mother's brother, JRS, JD, MZ, and anyone else who has hurt me are nothing to me.
(page 102) "A lot of people are waiting to be asked, silently screaming in their heads 'Ask me, go on ask me, can't you fucking see what's going on?'"
No one asks. They don't want to know.
I've started asking, but worry I'm just reopening wounds. It's hard to ask. Goodness, victim stigma as silencing mechanism really does work.
I think I'll just tell my stories and invite everyone else to also tell theirs.
Maybe someday I'll learn to ask.
(page 97) "What was in all the zines and seven inch vinyl records was this: if we all said out loud how common the secret catastrophe was that all of us knew girls who'd been raped or fucked with, the 'every single person I know is a fucking survivor' feeling--what would it mean? If all the rage and memory and experience of what we'd lived through came screaming out, wouldn't the world split open? What would the world do with the reality that maybe more than one out of four girls and one out of six boys were sexually abused before we could vote? That the world was built on incest?"
There continues to be a stigma attached to victims of sexual abuse and assault. Victims are broken, never to be whole again. Victims are mine fields, always ready to explode or cry or react badly. Victims are basketcases. Being a victim is the entirety of your identity. Wrong. So very, very wrong.
Far too many of us have been victims, and there is a wide spectrum of responses. It's often easier to just be quiet. I was honest on a medical questionnaire, and the bumbling jerk of a nurse flipped out. He interrogated me, because if I was going to flip out on a doctor exam, he needed to know, and I better not do that. Because I desperately needed to see the doctor, I didn't complain. I should have.
I understand that hearing or reading stories of abuse, assault, rape, etc can be an uncomfortable experience. What do you do? What do you say? How do you act around this person after this revelation? Do you offer a hug? Do you say sorry? What do you do? What is proper?
I have quite a bit of distance from my experiences at this point. If I do tell you what happened, and I'm growing more casual in my sharing, I don't want you to treat me differently than you did in the past. Incest doesn't define me. Rape doesn't define me. I'm not a walking ball of insecurities threatened by every man I see. I never have been, not even when the experiences were new.
(page 99) "I came bit by bit back into my body through words that tell me stories that sound like mine, of how racism, violence, and abuse are all wound together; about how denial of childhood sexual abuse and denial of systemic oppression feel the same."
Victims have been othered, are seen as lesser. I fear being branded a victim, because I pass for normal. Aloof perhaps, but normal.
But what is normal? As I hear more stories from more people, I start to wonder if getting hurt is what's truly normal in this world. If this victim brand is naught but a tool to keep us silent, to keep us complicit. All of us, not just women. Who wants to be a victim? If we just pretend it's not happening, of course it will go away. Only, it hasn't. Nor will it.
(page 101) "Every time I have just the kind of sex I always wanted, every time I grow more into the fierce, fearless femme I have always wanted to be, I heal not like a cliche but like I can see new cells being made, the purple and magenta color of the outside of the skin cells, the bone being reknit."
My lovers want to please me, want to hear me moan and sigh and whimper with pleasure. My ecstasy makes them feel powerful. The power of pleasure is filling, lasting, awe-inspiring. It's divine. It's healing.
The more pleasure I receive, the more pleasure I want to give. I like the power of coaxing moans and sighs and whimpers from my lovers. It's good for my soul. The mere anticipation of great sex is enough to thoroughly silence the bad memories. The more great sex I have, the less power my bad experiences have. I think about them less and less.
Some men think they can own a piece of a woman through subjecting them to violence and abuse. That they will mark her forever. Brand her forever. Wrong. Want a place in my soul? Bring me screaming into orgasm.
I am currently working through my bad experiences, but the men who hurt me are not my true focus. I am. I am working to understand that it wasn't my fault. I am working to forgive myself. My mother's brother, JRS, JD, MZ, and anyone else who has hurt me are nothing to me.
(page 102) "A lot of people are waiting to be asked, silently screaming in their heads 'Ask me, go on ask me, can't you fucking see what's going on?'"
No one asks. They don't want to know.
I've started asking, but worry I'm just reopening wounds. It's hard to ask. Goodness, victim stigma as silencing mechanism really does work.
I think I'll just tell my stories and invite everyone else to also tell theirs.
Maybe someday I'll learn to ask.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Darkness
This post is another detour from Yes Means Yes, before I get into some heavy posts. Reflecting on readings from Dreaming the Dark by Starhawk.
(page XIV) "When we tell of the turning dark, the velvet dark, Hecate's birthgiving dark, the shadow listens to that also. And what we name feeds into the open imaginations that are listening. So their concept of what is narrowly called death can change.
"The dark: all that we are afraid of, all that we don't want to see--fear, anger, sex, grief, death, the unknown.
"The turning dark: change.
"The velvet dark: skin soft in the night, the stroke of flesh on flesh, touch, joy, mortality.
"Hecate's birth-giving dark: seeds are planted underground, the womb is dark, and life forms itself anew in hidden places."
This blog is about exploring the dark places: the scary, taboo, secretive places of my memories, my culture, and my life. It's about shining a light into the darkness, seeing what's there, and either bringing something into the light or leaving it in the dark.
Darkness has been associated with negativity for much too long. Sometimes darkness is nurturing, restful, protective, healthy, necessary.
My husband and I have different strategies for moving about the house in the middle of the night. Unless I need to read something (like a prescription label), I keep the lights off. Sudden light pains and blinds me. The bathroom has enough ambient light and I touch the back of the toilet to make sure the seat isn't up. I travel the stairs by feel. He turns on the light. I guess it's not as jarring for him. I go slower and more carefully, but that's all the changes I make.
The darkness I'm exploring with this blog is by far velvet darkness: that of carnality. The "dark side" I indulge is that of rough sex and non-monogamy. I strive for healthy non-monogamy in that I am honest and open to my partners about my partnerships. Because I am married, my consent is contingent upon my husband's consent. If he doesn't grant me the consent to be with another, then that would be cheating, which is wrong.
The downside to an open marriage is our culture's slut shaming. Because I don't conform to a narrow vision of sexual morality, those who do have a narrow view would say that I asked for it if anything untoward would happen to me again. Hell, I "deserved" it the first time for not waiting until marriage!
Happily, we live in a pluralistic society, and not everyone subscribes to a sex-negative perspective, which I find much "darker" ethically. My interest in in negotiating my sexuality in ways that respect me, my husband, my lovers, and my lovers' spouses.
Whether I adhere to mainstream expectations, I am not nothing/a slut/(insert insult here) because I enjoy sex. I am more than my sexuality.
(page 10) "The world itself is the content of the world, its true value, its heart, and its soul."
I recently had a spiritual discussion where I revealed that I don't believe in heaven and hell, that they are both states found in daily life. Sexually, heaven is orgasmic enthusiastic sex while hell is coercive sex, sexual assault, sexual abuse, and rape. Concepts of the afterlife require faith, and I'm not looking for spiritual debate. I'm not trying to proselytize, and I'd appreciate being given the same respect.
A girl in northern California was kidnapped at age 11, held captive, and raped repeatedly for almost two decades, forced to bear two children. That is hell. The man who kidnapped her is the devil. His wife, who did nothing to stop this, is the devil. All the people who failed to notice the compound (parole officers, etc) have sinned. Hell is of this world.
One form of faith is (page 11) "...choosing to take this living world, the people and the creatures on it, as the ultimate meaning and purpose of life, to see the world, the earth, and our own lives as sacred."
Sex is sacred. When sex is free from coercion, guilt, emotional blackmail, cheating, lies , and violence, when sex is freely shared and enthusiastically engaged in, sex is sacred, wholesome, wondrous, beautiful. The joy I get from sex fills me, refreshes me, makes life good. Everything I enjoy adds to life, bringing me heaven in this world: companionship, exploration, love, children, good food, cooking, trees, so many things. Seeing life and sex as sacred makes coercive, non-consensual facsimiles of sex even more horrific, the blasphemy that it truly is.
(page 35) "...our choices bring about consequences, and--we cannot escape responsibility for the consequences, not because they are imposed by some external authority, but because they are inherent in the choices themselves."
A long time ago, I dated a man who chose not to listen when I said no. That choice makes him a rapist.
I have healed greatly over the years, but pieces of me are still hurting. In order to fully heal, I have to reopen old wounds and risk hurting again. Not healing is also a choice, but not healing will mean that I'll continue to hurt for the rest of my life, that I'll have a frozen voice, that I'll find myself paralyzed with fear. I have instead chosen to speak.
(page XIV) "When we tell of the turning dark, the velvet dark, Hecate's birthgiving dark, the shadow listens to that also. And what we name feeds into the open imaginations that are listening. So their concept of what is narrowly called death can change.
"The dark: all that we are afraid of, all that we don't want to see--fear, anger, sex, grief, death, the unknown.
"The turning dark: change.
"The velvet dark: skin soft in the night, the stroke of flesh on flesh, touch, joy, mortality.
"Hecate's birth-giving dark: seeds are planted underground, the womb is dark, and life forms itself anew in hidden places."
This blog is about exploring the dark places: the scary, taboo, secretive places of my memories, my culture, and my life. It's about shining a light into the darkness, seeing what's there, and either bringing something into the light or leaving it in the dark.
Darkness has been associated with negativity for much too long. Sometimes darkness is nurturing, restful, protective, healthy, necessary.
My husband and I have different strategies for moving about the house in the middle of the night. Unless I need to read something (like a prescription label), I keep the lights off. Sudden light pains and blinds me. The bathroom has enough ambient light and I touch the back of the toilet to make sure the seat isn't up. I travel the stairs by feel. He turns on the light. I guess it's not as jarring for him. I go slower and more carefully, but that's all the changes I make.
The darkness I'm exploring with this blog is by far velvet darkness: that of carnality. The "dark side" I indulge is that of rough sex and non-monogamy. I strive for healthy non-monogamy in that I am honest and open to my partners about my partnerships. Because I am married, my consent is contingent upon my husband's consent. If he doesn't grant me the consent to be with another, then that would be cheating, which is wrong.
The downside to an open marriage is our culture's slut shaming. Because I don't conform to a narrow vision of sexual morality, those who do have a narrow view would say that I asked for it if anything untoward would happen to me again. Hell, I "deserved" it the first time for not waiting until marriage!
Happily, we live in a pluralistic society, and not everyone subscribes to a sex-negative perspective, which I find much "darker" ethically. My interest in in negotiating my sexuality in ways that respect me, my husband, my lovers, and my lovers' spouses.
Whether I adhere to mainstream expectations, I am not nothing/a slut/(insert insult here) because I enjoy sex. I am more than my sexuality.
(page 10) "The world itself is the content of the world, its true value, its heart, and its soul."
I recently had a spiritual discussion where I revealed that I don't believe in heaven and hell, that they are both states found in daily life. Sexually, heaven is orgasmic enthusiastic sex while hell is coercive sex, sexual assault, sexual abuse, and rape. Concepts of the afterlife require faith, and I'm not looking for spiritual debate. I'm not trying to proselytize, and I'd appreciate being given the same respect.
A girl in northern California was kidnapped at age 11, held captive, and raped repeatedly for almost two decades, forced to bear two children. That is hell. The man who kidnapped her is the devil. His wife, who did nothing to stop this, is the devil. All the people who failed to notice the compound (parole officers, etc) have sinned. Hell is of this world.
One form of faith is (page 11) "...choosing to take this living world, the people and the creatures on it, as the ultimate meaning and purpose of life, to see the world, the earth, and our own lives as sacred."
Sex is sacred. When sex is free from coercion, guilt, emotional blackmail, cheating, lies , and violence, when sex is freely shared and enthusiastically engaged in, sex is sacred, wholesome, wondrous, beautiful. The joy I get from sex fills me, refreshes me, makes life good. Everything I enjoy adds to life, bringing me heaven in this world: companionship, exploration, love, children, good food, cooking, trees, so many things. Seeing life and sex as sacred makes coercive, non-consensual facsimiles of sex even more horrific, the blasphemy that it truly is.
(page 35) "...our choices bring about consequences, and--we cannot escape responsibility for the consequences, not because they are imposed by some external authority, but because they are inherent in the choices themselves."
A long time ago, I dated a man who chose not to listen when I said no. That choice makes him a rapist.
I have healed greatly over the years, but pieces of me are still hurting. In order to fully heal, I have to reopen old wounds and risk hurting again. Not healing is also a choice, but not healing will mean that I'll continue to hurt for the rest of my life, that I'll have a frozen voice, that I'll find myself paralyzed with fear. I have instead chosen to speak.
So-Called Compromise
The quote for this post comes from The Osho Zen Tarot. Unless otherwise specified, and until I finish responding to Yes Means Yes, all of the essays I quote from are found within that book.
Compromise: "It is one thing to meet another halfway, to understand a point of view different from our own and work towards a harmony of the opposing forces. It is quite another to 'cave in' and betray our own truth."
Despite the fact that I of yet have no comments, I have decided to require my approval before they post. I don't need any readers I may eventually have encounter trolling. I want this to be an accountable place. I want sincere questions and insights.
I drew this card in multiple readings over the years. I enjoy Tarot and the thoughtways some of the cards have sent me on.
I'm still discovering my voice. It fades sometimes. I get heartsick reliving the past. I choke myself off, my words paralyzed within me.
I can't allow myself to remain silent. Silence is complicity.
Another thought: to be true to me, I am responding to works in the order I'm ready to talk about them. This blog is my journey, and it is not linear.
To relate this card to sex: if one partner whines, begs, pleads, hounds the other for sex, then giving in is caving. It is not true consent. It is settling. It is a betrayal of the self. It is not love. It is not pleasure. It is not sex. It is "not-rape." I hope the caving partner learns to leave. I hope the whining partner shuts the fuck up, because the whining partner is not a good partner at all.
Compromise: "It is one thing to meet another halfway, to understand a point of view different from our own and work towards a harmony of the opposing forces. It is quite another to 'cave in' and betray our own truth."
Despite the fact that I of yet have no comments, I have decided to require my approval before they post. I don't need any readers I may eventually have encounter trolling. I want this to be an accountable place. I want sincere questions and insights.
I drew this card in multiple readings over the years. I enjoy Tarot and the thoughtways some of the cards have sent me on.
I'm still discovering my voice. It fades sometimes. I get heartsick reliving the past. I choke myself off, my words paralyzed within me.
I can't allow myself to remain silent. Silence is complicity.
Another thought: to be true to me, I am responding to works in the order I'm ready to talk about them. This blog is my journey, and it is not linear.
To relate this card to sex: if one partner whines, begs, pleads, hounds the other for sex, then giving in is caving. It is not true consent. It is settling. It is a betrayal of the self. It is not love. It is not pleasure. It is not sex. It is "not-rape." I hope the caving partner learns to leave. I hope the whining partner shuts the fuck up, because the whining partner is not a good partner at all.
Friday, August 28, 2009
No, You DON'T Get to Touch Me
Responding to "Reclaiming Touch: Rape Culture, Explicit Verbal Consent, and Body Sovereignty" by Hazel/Cedar Troust
I was planning on responding to a different piece before I reflected on this one, but I was reminded last night once again why the assumption that it's OK to touch someone without asking is erroneous. Last night a co-worker decided to try to startle me by talking right behind me, and when I told him that it would have been successful, and would have been cause for a rather sharp reaction from me had he touched me instead, he looked puzzled. I reach out & touch people on the back all the time to make sure they don't run into me, he said. I encouraged him to warn me verbally. This isn't the first coworker to consider touching my back (shudder) without asking, and sadly I doubt he'll be the last.
(page 171) "...rape culture works by restricting a person's control of hir body, limiting hir sense of ownership of it, and granting others a sense of entitlement to it. "
I didn't realize just how invasive and demeaning casual touching can be until I was pregnant. Complete strangers feel totally comfortable grabbing a woman's pregnant belly without even asking. Don't. Don't do that. It's not your body, it's not just an unattached floating belly, and you need to respect pregnant women enough to ask.
Before becoming pregnant, I was relatively invisible. Sure, people would approach me and hit on me, and occasionally I'd get cat calls when walking by myself, but it was no where near as intrusive or constant as when I was pregnant. I miss that relative invisibility, though now I can relive it when I go somewhere people don't instantly recognize me and leave the kids at home.
Truthfully, I've never been the touchy-feely type, and some touches can panic me. A coworker asked why once, and for simplicity's sake, I told her I'd been attacked (true, but unrelated). My mother mentioned on several occasions while I was growing up that even as a baby I really didn't like cuddling much, so I was probably just born wired this way. Really, if I haven't given someone permission to touch me, even if that permission is stated only within the confines of my mind, I don't want to be touched.
When people touch me, especially "superiors," without making sure it's OK, then they deny me agency. It's difficult to diplomatically explain that I don't welcome being touched, and that no one is entitled to touch me without my consent, when inside I'm cringing. I flinch. No one is entitled to touch me (or anyone else). Not even doctors. I am not public property.
(page 173) "Practicing explicit verbal consent, I was able to decide first and then accept touch--or say no, which was much easier, because I was no longer breaking off contact and rejecting, but simply not beginning, that activity. I found that there was tons of touch that I accepted rather than wanted, even from people I really wanted to touch me--and to my surprise, I found the people I touched regularly were the same."
I rarely practice explicit verbal consent, though I've started asking to touch my friends, like asking if they'd like a hug when they're upset. It's a bit liberating, because asking permission is much more productive than standing there wondering if my crying friend wants physical comfort (a hug) or really doesn't want to be touched in that moment. Standing there is awkward, and I try not to assume permission to touch except with those I'm most intimate (and who regularly welcome my touch).
I've also realized that I do assume touch is OK, especially with my husband. I like to rest my legs on him or lean against him when we're sitting together because it makes me feel closer to him. I rarely think to ask permission, and it tends to make him feel like furniture, which is the opposite of closeness. When I remember, I move away and ask permission. It's not frequent enough yet.
Sometimes, usually when I'm fatigued, touch--normal, caress-y type touch--just plain feels bad. It's overwhelming and sets off a flight-or-fight response in me. I've stopped being embarrassed about that, which makes it easier for me to request firm touches at that time. I've called them massage touches, trying to allude to the firmness/pressure I need, but I keep getting told a variation of "I don't know that many massages," so I need a different term.
Until I was confident enough and direct enough to explain my physiology, it seemed that my rejection was about my partner, rather than about the touch. This wasn't useful, and led to hurt feelings. As I've become more and more practiced in asking for firmer touches, my touch panic has been greatly mitigated, allowing me to enjoy sex where previously I'd flee or flinch or resist without explanation.
The assumption that it's OK to touch unless told not to and that assumption that it's OK to have sex with someone unless told not to are on the same continuum of belief. Do not assume consent.
(from the notes section, page 330) "Rape is not always a deliberate attempt to harm, but it's never an 'accident.' Though perpetrators may be unaware that what they're doing is rape, non-consensual, or hurtful, if they took their victims' feelings and body sovereignty seriously, they would take more care to do only things that were wanted. Rape is defined by its effect on the survivor, no by what's going through the perpetrator's mind at the time of the assault, but the latter is relevant in analyzing how to stop rape."
Not much to add to this excellent insight beyond that I've said in previous posts. The same feeling of entitlement that allows people to touch without asking, the assumption that your touch is welcome can be hazardous and cause great harm. If you ever have to wonder if your touch is welcome--that you're not sure should be answer enough. I respect people too much to believe that the thought of sex turns anyone into slavering idiots incapable of stopping.
I was planning on responding to a different piece before I reflected on this one, but I was reminded last night once again why the assumption that it's OK to touch someone without asking is erroneous. Last night a co-worker decided to try to startle me by talking right behind me, and when I told him that it would have been successful, and would have been cause for a rather sharp reaction from me had he touched me instead, he looked puzzled. I reach out & touch people on the back all the time to make sure they don't run into me, he said. I encouraged him to warn me verbally. This isn't the first coworker to consider touching my back (shudder) without asking, and sadly I doubt he'll be the last.
(page 171) "...rape culture works by restricting a person's control of hir body, limiting hir sense of ownership of it, and granting others a sense of entitlement to it. "
I didn't realize just how invasive and demeaning casual touching can be until I was pregnant. Complete strangers feel totally comfortable grabbing a woman's pregnant belly without even asking. Don't. Don't do that. It's not your body, it's not just an unattached floating belly, and you need to respect pregnant women enough to ask.
Before becoming pregnant, I was relatively invisible. Sure, people would approach me and hit on me, and occasionally I'd get cat calls when walking by myself, but it was no where near as intrusive or constant as when I was pregnant. I miss that relative invisibility, though now I can relive it when I go somewhere people don't instantly recognize me and leave the kids at home.
Truthfully, I've never been the touchy-feely type, and some touches can panic me. A coworker asked why once, and for simplicity's sake, I told her I'd been attacked (true, but unrelated). My mother mentioned on several occasions while I was growing up that even as a baby I really didn't like cuddling much, so I was probably just born wired this way. Really, if I haven't given someone permission to touch me, even if that permission is stated only within the confines of my mind, I don't want to be touched.
When people touch me, especially "superiors," without making sure it's OK, then they deny me agency. It's difficult to diplomatically explain that I don't welcome being touched, and that no one is entitled to touch me without my consent, when inside I'm cringing. I flinch. No one is entitled to touch me (or anyone else). Not even doctors. I am not public property.
(page 173) "Practicing explicit verbal consent, I was able to decide first and then accept touch--or say no, which was much easier, because I was no longer breaking off contact and rejecting, but simply not beginning, that activity. I found that there was tons of touch that I accepted rather than wanted, even from people I really wanted to touch me--and to my surprise, I found the people I touched regularly were the same."
I rarely practice explicit verbal consent, though I've started asking to touch my friends, like asking if they'd like a hug when they're upset. It's a bit liberating, because asking permission is much more productive than standing there wondering if my crying friend wants physical comfort (a hug) or really doesn't want to be touched in that moment. Standing there is awkward, and I try not to assume permission to touch except with those I'm most intimate (and who regularly welcome my touch).
I've also realized that I do assume touch is OK, especially with my husband. I like to rest my legs on him or lean against him when we're sitting together because it makes me feel closer to him. I rarely think to ask permission, and it tends to make him feel like furniture, which is the opposite of closeness. When I remember, I move away and ask permission. It's not frequent enough yet.
Sometimes, usually when I'm fatigued, touch--normal, caress-y type touch--just plain feels bad. It's overwhelming and sets off a flight-or-fight response in me. I've stopped being embarrassed about that, which makes it easier for me to request firm touches at that time. I've called them massage touches, trying to allude to the firmness/pressure I need, but I keep getting told a variation of "I don't know that many massages," so I need a different term.
Until I was confident enough and direct enough to explain my physiology, it seemed that my rejection was about my partner, rather than about the touch. This wasn't useful, and led to hurt feelings. As I've become more and more practiced in asking for firmer touches, my touch panic has been greatly mitigated, allowing me to enjoy sex where previously I'd flee or flinch or resist without explanation.
The assumption that it's OK to touch unless told not to and that assumption that it's OK to have sex with someone unless told not to are on the same continuum of belief. Do not assume consent.
(from the notes section, page 330) "Rape is not always a deliberate attempt to harm, but it's never an 'accident.' Though perpetrators may be unaware that what they're doing is rape, non-consensual, or hurtful, if they took their victims' feelings and body sovereignty seriously, they would take more care to do only things that were wanted. Rape is defined by its effect on the survivor, no by what's going through the perpetrator's mind at the time of the assault, but the latter is relevant in analyzing how to stop rape."
Not much to add to this excellent insight beyond that I've said in previous posts. The same feeling of entitlement that allows people to touch without asking, the assumption that your touch is welcome can be hazardous and cause great harm. If you ever have to wonder if your touch is welcome--that you're not sure should be answer enough. I respect people too much to believe that the thought of sex turns anyone into slavering idiots incapable of stopping.
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