Urban Planning

"Dude, were the urban planners drunk when they laid this out?  Why is there a wall there?!"  It was an offhand comment that I made while snuggled up with a friend, but it fits pretty well.  We all have some rough idea of how to navigate cities, and what to expect.  Sure, there are some quirks that are particular to any given city.  And sometimes roads curve around in ways that you don't necessarily expect, or side roads unexpectedly dump you onto the freeway.  But on the whole, there are some basic patterns that most of us have come to count on.  Even the occasional detour is easy enough to navigate around.

The city of my psyche got laid out a little differently.  It can be a little trickier for folks that are new to the city of me to figure out how to navigate it.  If one has been so unfortunate as to not pick up the Lonely Planet guide before entering, they may be surprised to find that what they thought was a freeway on-ramp actually routes you to a park.  Surprise!  No sexy freeway for you!  But check out this cool swing set!

And while my own layout makes sense to me, I'm still struggling with where the walls are for others.  I often feel like entire parts of others' beings are walled off entirely, save for one toll bridge.  The cost? Sex.  Can't pay?  No visit to the romance district for you!

I'm not quite sure what to do with this metaphor from here.  It didn't particularly illuminate anything for me, though I think it may for others.  When food metaphors aren't adequate for explaining the way I work, it's at least another option to fall back on.

Appearances

Wow, blog!  That post from earlier today was a big pile of depressing!  So here's something less sad that I dug out of the drafts pile.  I wrote it a couple of months ago, and have no idea where I was going with it.  But here it is, probably in incomplete form, for your reading pleasure!

Working as a professional naked chick does weird things to your relationship with your body, and bodies in general.  At least it did to me.

I get that for many people, their bodies are deeply personal to them.  And why wouldn't they be?  They're the container we're in.  It's the space our minds and spirits inhabit.  We carry them with us everywhere we go.  And yeah, that's pretty personal.  So it follows that the appearance of that container, that space, would be similarly personal.

But when the thing that I was selling was that container, I inevitably changed my relationship with my body.  I've become much more utilitarian about my appearance.  Does it get the job done?  Is it bouncing light as it needs to, carrying me where I need to go, responding to sensory input in the ways I'd like it to?  Cool.  That's what it needs to do.

I'm also pretty honest- at least I think- about the limits of my body.  I don't view that as a personal failing.  There is no way that my body can be perfectly suited to everything.  It isn't.  Nobody's is.  It's suited to that which I need it to do.  And that is exactly what I want.  No more, no less.

Saying No

I've had multiple people over the years comment on how good I am at saying no.  It's kind of a weird piece of feedback to hear, and I have some conflicted feelings about it.

Mostly because I really, really do not enjoy telling people no.  That is especially true if they are somebody about whom I particularly care.  I strongly dislike the feeling that I'm disappointing them.  That feeling can easily spiral out of control for me- especially if "no" has been a frequent occurrence in that relationship.  Of course, that spiral of self-resentment and confusion puts the kibosh on any sexy inclinations that there may have been, leading to further no's, and and and....

Of course, the alternative is almost always worse than the no-spiral.  Mentally and emotionally checking out, with the detached hope it ends soon?  That's a pretty awful place to be, too.  And I'm pretty sure it's the option that has way more baggage attached.  So I say "no."

But I hate that it's played such a prominent role in my sex life.  I hate that it's a skill that I've practiced enough for it to seem noteworthy.  I hate that, while I'm apparently skilled at going through the motions of saying no, it has an emotional toll on me.  I would like very much to change that.  But I have no idea where to begin.

Snippets

What I need, as a bottom, is somebody who takes pleasure in hurting me.  Not just somebody who's doing it because it's what I'm into, but somebody who really enjoys the process of methodically working me over and seeing me in pain.

I'm not that into BDSM.

You're in my bed.  That says something.

That was the first time I've cried like that- full-out sobbing for an extended period of time?  That was new.  

Really?

Yeah.  It was the sort of catharsis that I needed.  Thank you.

I finally figured out the trick.

Oh?  What's that?

Not feeling remorse.

Primary and Secondary Attraction

In an attempt to explain the asexual experience, quite a few words and terms have been coined.  I've only given a cursory look over many of them- just enough to see that they didn't deeply resonate with me.  As several of those terms have been thrown around by others, I've become increasingly familiar with them, and have given them some more thought.

Primary and secondary attraction are a couple of those terms.  Primary attraction, as I understand it, is sexual attraction that's rooted in that which is immediately apparent about a person- the way they carry themselves, their smell, the clever things they say, all that kind of stuff.  Secondary attraction- again, as I understand it- is attraction that develops over time, and is rooted in a relationship.

These terms are usually used to help explain demisexuality.  Demisexual folks only develop secondary attraction.

So as these terms have been bouncing around in my mind as of late, I realized that I'm kind of... the opposite.. of demisexual.

Primary attraction isn't actually that rare for me to come by.  Lots of people can seem at least moderately shiny to me upon first meeting.  Where things fall apart for me is when that novel shininess fades away, and I'm left without any secondary attraction to keep that interest going.

The way that this has manifested in my life has been that my sexual interest in people- people who I really, really love!- consistently drops off within a couple of months.  So far as I've found, there's no nice way for that to happen.  There aren't cute greeting cards that say, "Yeah, I mean, you smelled really nice!  But you're just not sexually interesting to me any more.  I still care about you though!  Let's still hold hands!"

So I'm pretty well left with two options.

I can have a series of sexual relationships that we both know are going to last a couple of weeks, or if we're lucky, a couple of months.  Adding sexual partners is a pretty big emotional investment for me, so on the whole, that's not going to be a very fun option.  I can get the occasional kick by making out with folks who, for any number of reasons, aren't on the table as long-term partners, but that's about as far as I'm inclined to go down that road.

Or I can opt to move really slowly into new sexual relationships, until I have a solid feeling that I'm experiencing more than just primary attraction.  That also gives me a chance to decide if I feel good about making that emotional investment in them.  If I'm still feeling it after the shiny-newness has worn off, game on!

I'm not quite sure what it is that keeps things sustainable.  This is where the primary/secondary attraction model seems to break down for me.  When I have a sustainable sexual attraction to somebody, I don't think that the root of that attraction is the non-sexual parts of the relationship.  I care about my sexual partners, and enjoy spending time with them, but it's not like they're The One(s), by any means.

It's an imperfect model in my case, but an interesting one nonetheless.  It's certainly given me a different lens to look through.

Flipping Sexual Switches

Tromping around in the world of erotic asexuality has given me a fascinating window into the world of sexual switches- both mine and others'.  Though erotic and sexual energies are pretty closely linked for most folks, interactions with me often lead to people learning more about where those aren't inherently linked for them.  It's in those places where we often find out shared playground.

Those activities which are inherently sexual for somebody can be widely varied, and are not necessarily what one would expect.  It might be cuddling in a certain way.  It might be playing with a certain spot on one's body.  For me, kissing is one of those unlikely sexual switches.

I can kiss and lick and bite somebody's body in a wide range of non-sexual situations, but for whatever reason, kissing on the lips is extremely sexual for me.  Aside from quick hello-goodbye pecks, my attempts to kiss or make out with folks to whom I wasn't sexually attracted have always been pretty uncomfortable and unintuitive for me.

I had it pointed out to be before I was even aware of it.  A couple of years ago, I had a brief foray with a kink-friendly guy.  We knew it we didn't fit into one another's lives in any sort of a long-term way, but we both had about six weeks in Colorado before we went off on our respective adventures.  With this context, we had a fun couple of weeks hooking up.  As we talked about our sexual experiences, both with each other and in the past, he commented once how he was having to relearn much about how to interact with somebody in order to hit my buttons and sweet spots.  The user guide to how to interact with me was apparently wildly different than that of any other women he'd been involved with.  One thing that he specifically cited was how much less interested I was in kissing than anybody he'd known.

Until that point, it wasn't something I'd ever noticed.  Once it was pointed out though, I realized how true it was.  In the years since, it's become even more obvious how much kissing is a sexual activity for me.  I love a deep kiss with somebody that I'm sexually into.  Still, in the same way that sex happens for me in but a very limited set of contexts, kissing is but an occasional endeavor for me.  

In Defense of Exhibitionism

Exhibitionism seems to have gotten a bad rap in my local kink scene.  It's a tirade that just keeps popping up.  The arguments against exhibitionism seem to go something like, "People that pay attention to showy technique, or care if people are watching, are totally missing out on intimacy and connecting with their partner in a meaningful way.  They are doing it wrong!  I look at them with a mix of disdain and pity."

As an exhibitionist, I would like to dissect some of what's packed in there.

Showy technique.  Yup.  I dig it.  As a bottom, I love feeling that I am in exceptionally capable hands.  And as a top, I love being able to work my partner over smoothly, efficiently, competently.  Turns out, doing something well can often look good.  And guys, that's okay.  It can actually make play that much hotter.  I've had somebody comment to me, after I tied her for the first time, how hot it was for her that I was able to solidly tie her up without putting laborious thought into the mechanics and technical details.  As a result, I'll bet it was kinda showy, too.  'Cause competence is sexy.

Caring if people are watching.  I'll be honest, the wee! chemicals are a big part of why I like BDSM.  I'm pretty sure that's why a fair number of us are here.  Getting my hurty on gives me those wee! chemicals, but so do many types of activities in front of a crowd.  It's relatively rare that I want to engage with bystanders, but glancing up mid-scene to see a sea of faces?  Yup, there's that adrenaline rush.  I've also had more than a few scenes where somebody commented on the number of people watching, who I had no idea were there because I was too focused on playing.  But hey, even if I don't notice people watching me play as it's happening, I still feel good knowing that people were watching.  I like to think that what I'm doing is interesting and engaging enough that people are inspired to watch it unfold.  I guess I'm just an attention whore like that.

Connecting with my partner.  I like connection.  Going on a suspension bender earlier this spring, where I tied pretty much everybody that asked, served as quite the reminder that I really am much happier playing with people who I have that kind of connection with.  Wooing or being wooed by technical abilities helps me connect with my partner.  Sharing the rush of adrenaline that comes from performing helps me connect with my partner.  I connect with my partners in a multitude of ways, the specifics of which may or may not be obvious.  But I do hear through the grapevine that said connection tends to be pretty obvious.

And you know what?  Connection is hot.  Watching other peoples' connections is hot.  For me, as a voyeur, that's going to be what determines whether I really camp out in front of a scene to watch it start to finish.  That's where the magic is.  I might pause in front of a showy scene for a bit, but unless it's showy and the players are going exciting places together, it's not going to hold my attention for long.

So please, don't look at me with disdain and pity.  Don't assume that having an audience trumps my connection with my partner.  Don't assume that the ways in which you connect with your partner are the only ways in which two people can meet in playspace.  Are you uninspired by my dynamic ropework, or loud moaning?  That's pretty okay by me.  I hope you'll wander on to something that you are more inspired by, rather than sniping from the sidelines of the dungeon or Fetlife.  You focus on what gets you off, and I'll focus on what gets me off.  Deal?  Deal.

Defining Relationships

When it comes to relationships, I don't color in the lines.  Polyamory lends itself to that, with the notion of letting relationships simply be what they are, whatever that looks like.  Asexuality(ishness) makes that trend even more prominent in my life.  I have friends, and acquaintances.  And I have people that I'm entangled with in some... other... way.  My husband, who I respect and adore wholeheartedly.  It's a non-sexual, non-romantic marriage, but "good friends" doesn't begin capture the depth of his role in my life.  Or my adventure co-pilot, with whom I enthusiastically play and spill my guts to.  We explore new territory together, and sometimes hold hands.

Or the woman I've been quasi-dating for a few months now.  She's pretty awesome.  We've talked about the ambiguity of our relationship, and all of the directions in which it's not going.  And we've talked about our mutual comfort with that ambiguity.  The other day, she casually mentioned how it had recently come up that she wasn't sure what it would look like if our relationship- whatever it is- ended.   "She doesn't have sex, and in fact she doesn't even really kiss.  So if it ended... what would that look like?  Would I even know?"

And.. holy shit, I have no answer for that.  I don't know what it would look like either.  So much as possible, my relationships tend to evolve rather than end entirely.  Fluffy answers like, "Well, it would feel different" are wholly unsatisfactory to me.  But that's all that I have.  My relationships don't come with the clear parameters and flags.  There aren't clear roadmarkers telling us what it is or isn't.  They just... are.

Risk Tolerance

It has recently become clear to me that my risk analysis for sex and sexuality-related endeavors is considerably different than that of most people.  I've known for awhile that I was well outside the middle of the bell curve on a few different fronts.  The full extent of my apparent discrepancies in what I consider acceptable personal risk had never quite clicked though.

I am exceptionally jumpy about STIs.  I'm not entirely sure why this is, though I have a few theories.  I have multiple people who are close to me who have been affected directly and indirectly by STIs- in some cases as a minor temporary inconvenience, and in some cases it's been tangibly life-altering and permanent.  I don't consider STIs to be something that effect other people, over there.  They aren't statistics and data.  I consider them to be a very real phenomenon that affect people that I know and care about.  I know folks that have had to take a round of antibiotics, and that was that.  And I know somebody who has died as a result of HIV.  I consider yet-to-emerge diseases to be a wildcard variable which I cannot possibly plan around.  But I still wonder about them because I know somebody that was affected by a now-prevalent STI before it was well known or understood.  Combine all these personal-to-me anecdotes and a brain that easily goes into hamster wheel mode, and you have a recipe for anxiety surrounding sexual health.

So... I'm prudent when it comes to genitals and fluids.  Especially when I'm a middle node in a web of people, and my decisions with one person could affect another person.  I decline opportunities to have sex with people I like in ways that I'd like to because of my exceptionally low risk tolerance in that regard.  It's entirely my own decision, and I am more than willing to accept the consequence of further restricting my already limited pool of potential partners.

And then there's the non-sexual decisions I make.

As I type this, I have bruises on my neck.  They were put there several days ago possibly by biting, or more likely by choking, by somebody that I had met but a few hours prior, after we'd been drinking.  Yup.  Let's count the BDSM no-no's packed into that.  I violate one major safety guideline or another almost every time that I play privately.  I generally trust strangers on a multitude of fronts.  I've utilized the concept of a safe call exactly once, and it was for a modeling gig very early into my career as a naked chick.  I self-suspend when nobody else is home.  I pretty much piss all over what is often held up as common sense when it comes to safety.

When bottoming, I seem to have an exceptionally high risk tolerance.  This is particularly true with partners who I trust to respond intelligently in dynamic and unpredictable situations.  I'm much more prudent as a top, but my delight in breath play and willingness to tie a struggling partner seem to put me in a category of much higher risk tolerance than that of many.  In all scenarios, I weigh possible consequences, and do mitigate risk in a variety of ways which are not necessarily obvious.  Still, I make decisions which are considered inexcusably dangerous by some.

Does it all come down to payoff?  Perhaps.  I can pretty comfortably go months without partnered sex.  Skip out on the kink for long, and I start getting seriously crabby.  Or does it come down to personal experience?  Sure, I've read horror stories on the internet of breath play gone terribly wrong, or models being drugged and raped.  I'm hard-pressed to come up with a single first-person anecdote from somebody that I personally know who has had shit go south with the more noteworthy risks that I choose to take.  Or is it that, for whatever reason, I feel a greater sense of control over non-sexual variables and interactions?  I do feel more grounded  in my ability to weigh and analyze those risks, and that may well inform my willingness to scoot right up to the edge of what I consider reasonable.

I'm aggressively in favor of letting people make their own decisions.  I can't imagine asking others to jump right on board with the conclusions of my own risk assessments any more than I can imagine following the lead of others without my own analysis.

Raw

I started this blog feeling pretty good about what all I'd worked through on the asexual-ish front.  I'd hit upon an identity/bucket that clicked, and really felt right for me.  I'd gotten involved with a really fantastic woman who was totally okay with us not involving genitals in our play.  There were all kinds of moments of hilarity and misadventure.  Sure, there was the serious stuff to continue working through, and more self-discovery, but I was feeling pretty good.

I'm still feeling pretty good.  I bounce around, I make (a)sexuality jokes, and am generally pretty happy-go-lucky.

But then I'm reminded how raw so much of this is for me.  When I sit down to write here, and I feel deep-set anger bubbling up.  When I'm feeling cornered by somebody's sexual interest, and I feel a knot of panic forming under my ribs.  When I read asexuality blogs, and feel a devastating resonance with others' painful words and experiences.

It's still raw, and it still hurts.  The ferocity of it, the intensity, consistently takes me by surprise.  I'm not sure what there is to do about it, other than know there are still strong, painful undercurrents.

Objectification

Disclaimer: This post kind of makes it sound like this is some huge, awful ongoing phenomenon in my life.  It really isn't.  But it has been something that I've encountered and wrestled with enough over time that I have undue anxiety and discomfort around it.  I'd prefer that I didn't.

When I say objectification, I don't mean the sexy kind of objectification.  I mean the non-negotiated, can't-turn-it-off-kind. 

One of the most profoundly objectifying experiences that I've felt has been others' sexual attraction to me when I wasn't feeling it- at all.  How to best explain it?  I know.  Time for an another food comparison!

I'm a vegan, and have been for a long damn time.  I like food, and I really like shitty diner food.  I'm just not a brown rice and veggies kinda girl, and many of my favorite dishes are veganized versions of "classic" American dishes.  But when I look at food made with animal products, it stops being food to me.  Sure, it might make me want a vegan version of whatever it is, but I'm not lusting after that particular dish.  Because it isn't food for me.  It just... isn't.

Something that I really struggle with is being looked at as a food source, as it were, by folks for whom I am simply not edible.  Sure, it can be confusing as somebody is determining whether or not I contain eggs or dairy products.  But once that's established... Why are you still looking at me like that?  Not edible!!

It makes me feel as though it's not me that's being desired.  It's as though I'm being read as a blank slate onto which other people can write their desires and fantasies.  Because that's what's being desired- things which are not a part of who I am.  Things that are being written onto me.  It's as though I'm not an autonomous being, not fully human.  Just an object.

I really feel as though there's something about desire as others experience it that I am just not grokking.  I'm pretty sure there's a blind spot there.  Seeing as it's a blind spot though, I can't actually look at it to figure out what's going on.  I'd like to better understand though, and would be hugely appreciative of insights or perspectives that others might be able to offer on this.