Hi, blog! It's been a couple of years!
I've found a fascinating shift over the last couple of years in my relationships. I've been tending towards more little-r relationships, and those seem to go better. I have a couple of play partners with whom I have forged strong chemistry with over the last couple of years. When I'm negotiating play with others, the non-sexual bit rarely feels like A Thing anymore - it's just a foot note.
The notion of "Oh, this is erotic but doesn't involve genitals" just doesn't seem to throw folks like it used to.
Is that reflective of a shift in who I'm spending time with, and their interests or inclinations? A shift in our larger culture as asexuality becomes more and more visible? A reflection of the fact that getting older just allows more nuance for sexuality than Tab A/Slot B?
Regardless of what's driving it, it's a welcome shift.
Monday, October 9, 2017
Monday, June 16, 2014
Unloved
I was a little surprised to realize that I hadn't written about this on here, yet. It's one of those insecurities that's really easy for me to get wrapped up in. I get a whiff of it, and immediately get stuck playing and replaying everything that feeds into it. The conversations I've had. Those moments where an understanding suddenly shifts into sharp focus.
When it comes to insecurities about being loved, many people seem to get wrapped around their worthiness, or lack of worthiness. But that's an area in which I've always been oddly confident. While I'm certainly imperfect, I don't for a second doubt the ways in which I'm a compassionate, attentive, caring partner. I absolutely believe that I am worthy of love.
But it can be hard to believe that I am loved, or will be loved, romantically. Some of that has been from the experience of dating people who struggle with the reality of a relationship that doesn't include a sexual element. As it was put so succinctly in the movie (A)Sexual, there's a way in which sexless relationships are simply not to be taken as seriously as those which do include sex. Even when people think they'll be fine with it, the reality often ends up being that... they're not. And that's never a pleasant reality to come to grips with.
But well before experiencing how that played out, a series of conversations left me rattled. They all occurred within the same year or so, as I was just starting to wrap my head around the notion that my sexuality was markedly different than that of most folks. And multiple people- all of whom were people that I'd been sexually involved with, and who I loved- shared their dubiousness that I would ever find partners who were comfortable with a sexless relationship. Of course, I was a wonderful person, and sweet and kind and all of that... it's just that it was plain unreasonable to believe that anybody could really love me if I wasn't putting out. And really, it wasn't very realistic to think that anybody would wait around if I always took so damn long to get around to the good stuff, and even when I did it wasn't the right kinds of sex anyhow, and it certainly wasn't frequent enough, and, and....
Let me emphasize again that these were conversations that I had with people I loved, and in many ways, still love today. They were conversations that came from a place of genuine concern on my behalf.
And they're conversations which now, years later, I've never been entirely able to shake.
It's a rough insecurity to overcome, because it targets that which is necessarily out of my control. I can't control others' feelings and emotions. And really, it's an impossible thing to assure against. Feelings do shift and evolve and change over time. Romantic love is never guaranteed. Even when it is there, it can (and does!) dissipate, for any number of reasons.
It's not an insecurity that dominates my life, by any means. I am fortunate enough to have a slew of fantastic people in my life, and that does quite a bit to help keep these kinds of worries from the forefront of my mind.
But when this particular insecurity comes up, it really comes out a'swinging. And I still haven't quite figured out how to block that right hook.
When it comes to insecurities about being loved, many people seem to get wrapped around their worthiness, or lack of worthiness. But that's an area in which I've always been oddly confident. While I'm certainly imperfect, I don't for a second doubt the ways in which I'm a compassionate, attentive, caring partner. I absolutely believe that I am worthy of love.
But it can be hard to believe that I am loved, or will be loved, romantically. Some of that has been from the experience of dating people who struggle with the reality of a relationship that doesn't include a sexual element. As it was put so succinctly in the movie (A)Sexual, there's a way in which sexless relationships are simply not to be taken as seriously as those which do include sex. Even when people think they'll be fine with it, the reality often ends up being that... they're not. And that's never a pleasant reality to come to grips with.
But well before experiencing how that played out, a series of conversations left me rattled. They all occurred within the same year or so, as I was just starting to wrap my head around the notion that my sexuality was markedly different than that of most folks. And multiple people- all of whom were people that I'd been sexually involved with, and who I loved- shared their dubiousness that I would ever find partners who were comfortable with a sexless relationship. Of course, I was a wonderful person, and sweet and kind and all of that... it's just that it was plain unreasonable to believe that anybody could really love me if I wasn't putting out. And really, it wasn't very realistic to think that anybody would wait around if I always took so damn long to get around to the good stuff, and even when I did it wasn't the right kinds of sex anyhow, and it certainly wasn't frequent enough, and, and....
Let me emphasize again that these were conversations that I had with people I loved, and in many ways, still love today. They were conversations that came from a place of genuine concern on my behalf.
And they're conversations which now, years later, I've never been entirely able to shake.
It's a rough insecurity to overcome, because it targets that which is necessarily out of my control. I can't control others' feelings and emotions. And really, it's an impossible thing to assure against. Feelings do shift and evolve and change over time. Romantic love is never guaranteed. Even when it is there, it can (and does!) dissipate, for any number of reasons.
It's not an insecurity that dominates my life, by any means. I am fortunate enough to have a slew of fantastic people in my life, and that does quite a bit to help keep these kinds of worries from the forefront of my mind.
But when this particular insecurity comes up, it really comes out a'swinging. And I still haven't quite figured out how to block that right hook.
Friday, February 28, 2014
That Warm Fuzzy Moment When...
...you're renewing your membership at the local science museum, and discover how stupidly easy it is to add a third adult onto your account.
Sure, it's designed with child caretakers in mind- you have Parent A, Parent B, and... Uncle C? Grandparent D? Babysitter E? There's any number of reasons that a standard nuclear family might want to add another adult to their account! But it works just fine for my purposes, as well. My purposes, in this case, being the addition of my husband's girlfriend to our account.
Yeah!!
Sure, it's designed with child caretakers in mind- you have Parent A, Parent B, and... Uncle C? Grandparent D? Babysitter E? There's any number of reasons that a standard nuclear family might want to add another adult to their account! But it works just fine for my purposes, as well. My purposes, in this case, being the addition of my husband's girlfriend to our account.
Yeah!!
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Assault & Trauma
Trigger Warning: This post talks about assault, trauma. Parts of it might be interpreted as rape apology.
There's an idea that I've been turning around in my head for awhile, that perhaps we as a culture partner the ideas of assault and trauma a bit too closely. There seems to be a notion that assault is the input, and trauma will always be the output. You can't have the output without the input. The bigger the input is, the bigger the output is. It's a 1:1 ratio of assault:trauma, and you simply cannot have one without the other. And I think that this view misses quite a bit of the range of human experience.
Some of the implications of that have already gotten some discussion, as the idea that everybody processes their experiences differently has become more widely understood. I think that this article brushes up against it, as it challenges the notion that to be assaulted is to be eternally broken inside. In recognizing the fact that everybody heals differently, we necessarily recognize that everybody has different responses to their experiences.
The idea that a violation of one's consent or boundaries can be traumatic, regardless of the "severity" of the violation is another way in which this discussion has moved incrementally away from the 1:1 assault: trauma model. I think that's it's incredibly useful and important to acknowledge that a non-consensual ass-slap, or "gray rape" can be traumatic events with major, lasting consequences.
I would like to see the conversation continue pushing and poking holes in the 1:1 model. I'd like to see recognition that very real trauma can result from events which are not assault, or even a consent violation of any kind. I'd like to see recognition that assault- even clear-cut, undeniable assault- may not always be traumatic.
It means accepting that as humans, our experiences and emotions are messy. It means accepting that sometimes a person's actions can be terribly damaging to another, but it doesn't necessarily mean that those actions were wrong. It means understanding that sometimes people do genuinely fucked up things, and everybody walks away alright. It means that while there is a strong correlation between assault and trauma, the relationship is not always one of causation.
I've had sexual experiences that were blurry around the consent edges (and in one case, by-the-book assault), that I feel great about. I've debated elaborating on those experiences in this blog for quite some time. Ultimately, the fear that somebody else would use those as a model of appropriate behavior is what keeps me from elaborating on details.
Conversely, I've had sexual experiences that were solidly within acceptable consent guidelines that left deep scars. There are no special details, or circumstances, from those. It was normal sex in established relationships, and unremarkable in every way save my own reaction to it. For a long time, I dipped my toes into the idea that those experiences had been non-consensual. Because how could they have been this traumatic, done this much damage, if they'd been consensual? I may have gone through the motions, but he should have known that I didn't want it, right? Wasn't it clear how detached, how disengaged I was?
My model of sexuality, trauma, consent and assault simply didn't allow for the possibility that something could be so damaging without it having been wrongdoing. My hurt didn't seem like it could be valid, or legitimate, without the non-consensual framework. I think I was groping towards the place where I'm at now when I wrote this entry a few years ago. In truth, I didn't entirely believe my words at the time.
I do now.
This is not to say that sexual trauma is always independent of assault- not at all. The two clearly have a close and frequent relationship. But I believe that it is inaccurate to speak as though they are inherently linked. The current narrative leaves a massive void where I think many experiences may fall. And that does a disservice to everybody involved.
There's an idea that I've been turning around in my head for awhile, that perhaps we as a culture partner the ideas of assault and trauma a bit too closely. There seems to be a notion that assault is the input, and trauma will always be the output. You can't have the output without the input. The bigger the input is, the bigger the output is. It's a 1:1 ratio of assault:trauma, and you simply cannot have one without the other. And I think that this view misses quite a bit of the range of human experience.
Some of the implications of that have already gotten some discussion, as the idea that everybody processes their experiences differently has become more widely understood. I think that this article brushes up against it, as it challenges the notion that to be assaulted is to be eternally broken inside. In recognizing the fact that everybody heals differently, we necessarily recognize that everybody has different responses to their experiences.
The idea that a violation of one's consent or boundaries can be traumatic, regardless of the "severity" of the violation is another way in which this discussion has moved incrementally away from the 1:1 assault: trauma model. I think that's it's incredibly useful and important to acknowledge that a non-consensual ass-slap, or "gray rape" can be traumatic events with major, lasting consequences.
I would like to see the conversation continue pushing and poking holes in the 1:1 model. I'd like to see recognition that very real trauma can result from events which are not assault, or even a consent violation of any kind. I'd like to see recognition that assault- even clear-cut, undeniable assault- may not always be traumatic.
It means accepting that as humans, our experiences and emotions are messy. It means accepting that sometimes a person's actions can be terribly damaging to another, but it doesn't necessarily mean that those actions were wrong. It means understanding that sometimes people do genuinely fucked up things, and everybody walks away alright. It means that while there is a strong correlation between assault and trauma, the relationship is not always one of causation.
I've had sexual experiences that were blurry around the consent edges (and in one case, by-the-book assault), that I feel great about. I've debated elaborating on those experiences in this blog for quite some time. Ultimately, the fear that somebody else would use those as a model of appropriate behavior is what keeps me from elaborating on details.
Conversely, I've had sexual experiences that were solidly within acceptable consent guidelines that left deep scars. There are no special details, or circumstances, from those. It was normal sex in established relationships, and unremarkable in every way save my own reaction to it. For a long time, I dipped my toes into the idea that those experiences had been non-consensual. Because how could they have been this traumatic, done this much damage, if they'd been consensual? I may have gone through the motions, but he should have known that I didn't want it, right? Wasn't it clear how detached, how disengaged I was?
My model of sexuality, trauma, consent and assault simply didn't allow for the possibility that something could be so damaging without it having been wrongdoing. My hurt didn't seem like it could be valid, or legitimate, without the non-consensual framework. I think I was groping towards the place where I'm at now when I wrote this entry a few years ago. In truth, I didn't entirely believe my words at the time.
I do now.
This is not to say that sexual trauma is always independent of assault- not at all. The two clearly have a close and frequent relationship. But I believe that it is inaccurate to speak as though they are inherently linked. The current narrative leaves a massive void where I think many experiences may fall. And that does a disservice to everybody involved.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
My Reign of Terror as a Safety Mechanism
So cuddling. Cuddling is this weird thing that is, in theory, something that I really enjoy. Yup! It's physically nice, it's emotionally nice, and I sure do love me some cuddles.
In practice, cuddling oscillates between being the nice thing that it is in theory, and being a terrifying pit of terror and doom and angst. And spiders. And terror.
There seem to be two main forces that drive cuddling toward the terror end. One is the very real phenomenon of cuddling transitioning from a non-sexual activity into a sexual one. Except that I'm never on board with experiencing that transition (except for ISSP), which means that suddenly this nice thing that involves physical closeness has turned into this terrifying thing. Worse, there's some period during which I am still physically entangled. This leads to very trapped feelings on my part, and having experienced this enough has made me very jumpy about anything that might even look like it could maybe possibly turn into any sort of sexual interest of any variety.
The second driving force is my phenomenally jacked up sensory processing. Types of touch that feel nice for most people- light, fingertippy contact- make me want to crawl out of my skin. Unfortunately, many people often use this type of touch without being conscious of it. It means that, depending on somebody's cuddle style, I may spend a fair bit of time taking their hand and firmly pressing the whole thing against my skin, while giving a verbal reminder, "Surface area. Pressure." 'Cause even with a pre-game explanation that I need adequate surface area and pressure when people touch me, it's the kind of thing that can be challenging to remember.
Somewhere along the way, I started building up walls to head off the things about cuddling which terrify me. I think that many people have some sort of read on those walls, and note that they are carefully guarded walls. Which in turn puts others on guard- they don't entirely know what's going on, but there is clearly heightened vigilance. I've had a couple of people tell me that they're afraid to share much physical contact with me, which I take to mean that my vigilance is translating clearly.
And... good? At some point, without my conscious awareness, I learned that people who are afraid of touching me are less likely to.. well.. touch me. And if I'm not being touched, it means that I'm not going to have any panic moments of, "OMG, teh sex is lurking!" and I'm not going to have any panic moments of, "Oh fuck, I can't handle this contact and I've already reminded them a couple of times and I know they're trying but this is really uncomfortable and maybe they'll change what they're doing soon and holy shit I can't handle this sensation any more."
So there it is. I maintain what is perhaps the most awkward reign of terror conceivable over people who I care for, because it functions as a safety mechanism. Are there healthier ways to navigate this? Obviously. But maintaining a Cuddle Reign of Terror does have a certain appeal to it.
In practice, cuddling oscillates between being the nice thing that it is in theory, and being a terrifying pit of terror and doom and angst. And spiders. And terror.
There seem to be two main forces that drive cuddling toward the terror end. One is the very real phenomenon of cuddling transitioning from a non-sexual activity into a sexual one. Except that I'm never on board with experiencing that transition (except for ISSP), which means that suddenly this nice thing that involves physical closeness has turned into this terrifying thing. Worse, there's some period during which I am still physically entangled. This leads to very trapped feelings on my part, and having experienced this enough has made me very jumpy about anything that might even look like it could maybe possibly turn into any sort of sexual interest of any variety.
The second driving force is my phenomenally jacked up sensory processing. Types of touch that feel nice for most people- light, fingertippy contact- make me want to crawl out of my skin. Unfortunately, many people often use this type of touch without being conscious of it. It means that, depending on somebody's cuddle style, I may spend a fair bit of time taking their hand and firmly pressing the whole thing against my skin, while giving a verbal reminder, "Surface area. Pressure." 'Cause even with a pre-game explanation that I need adequate surface area and pressure when people touch me, it's the kind of thing that can be challenging to remember.
Somewhere along the way, I started building up walls to head off the things about cuddling which terrify me. I think that many people have some sort of read on those walls, and note that they are carefully guarded walls. Which in turn puts others on guard- they don't entirely know what's going on, but there is clearly heightened vigilance. I've had a couple of people tell me that they're afraid to share much physical contact with me, which I take to mean that my vigilance is translating clearly.
And... good? At some point, without my conscious awareness, I learned that people who are afraid of touching me are less likely to.. well.. touch me. And if I'm not being touched, it means that I'm not going to have any panic moments of, "OMG, teh sex is lurking!" and I'm not going to have any panic moments of, "Oh fuck, I can't handle this contact and I've already reminded them a couple of times and I know they're trying but this is really uncomfortable and maybe they'll change what they're doing soon and holy shit I can't handle this sensation any more."
So there it is. I maintain what is perhaps the most awkward reign of terror conceivable over people who I care for, because it functions as a safety mechanism. Are there healthier ways to navigate this? Obviously. But maintaining a Cuddle Reign of Terror does have a certain appeal to it.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Still Not Interested
So a funny thing has happened lately. I've had a pretty sharp uptick in my libido. I've got some theories as to why that might be, but that's neither here nor there. The point is, I'm all, "Yeah, sex sounds awesome, let's do that! Fuck yes, sex!" And, as usual for me, all this enthusiasm has been directed at an exceptionally short list of people.
I decided to do a little thought experiment with myself, since sex has been seeming like such a great idea. Delicately, tentatively, I sent a few little probes into my mind to see if maybe I might be a little interested in some of the people who it would really, really make sense for me to want to have sex with. People who are attractive to me in many of the non-sexy ways. People who I like and trust. Was there any libido that might get kicked in a different direction..?
Nope. Nope, definitely not. Still not interested.
But it did make me realize that some part of me still thinks I'm broken. That maybe, if I get fucked in just the right way, or do just the right little dance in my own head, or stumble upon some fantastic magical cure, suddenly it will click, and I'll relate to sex like a normal person (whatever the hell that's supposed to mean). I'll be fixed.
Nope. Nope, definitely not. Still not interested.
And that's okay.
I decided to do a little thought experiment with myself, since sex has been seeming like such a great idea. Delicately, tentatively, I sent a few little probes into my mind to see if maybe I might be a little interested in some of the people who it would really, really make sense for me to want to have sex with. People who are attractive to me in many of the non-sexy ways. People who I like and trust. Was there any libido that might get kicked in a different direction..?
Nope. Nope, definitely not. Still not interested.
But it did make me realize that some part of me still thinks I'm broken. That maybe, if I get fucked in just the right way, or do just the right little dance in my own head, or stumble upon some fantastic magical cure, suddenly it will click, and I'll relate to sex like a normal person (whatever the hell that's supposed to mean). I'll be fixed.
Nope. Nope, definitely not. Still not interested.
And that's okay.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Not That Weird, After All
My husband and I haven't had sex in something like two and a half years. Which, for those who are counting, is about a year longer than we've been married. Stripping that, along with the romantic partnership, out of our relationship is what let us get to a healthy, stable place with one another. We were pretty bad at finding mutually satisfying ways to be sexual or romantic.
But we're pretty fucking great at living together, and leaning on each other for the important things. For all the ways in which we are not, and make a point to not be, primary partners, we are pretty bombass domestic partners. The way that I characterize it is that if I get hit by a bus, I want my husband to be the one making decisions. We can trust each other in that way, with that depth, without holding hands or getting each other off.
At first glance, this seems to throw many people. Marriage gets taken for granted as a package deal. Even for non-monogamous folks, who already tend to think outside the box when it comes to relationships, our approach is consistently met with surprise.
And then they think about it. "Huh. I guess that makes sense." Sometimes folks without long-term partners even have a lightbulb moment of who fills that role in their own lives. "Oh, like my friend Peter! We've lived together on and off for the last ten years." "Oh, like my friend Erica! We just took a three week trip together, and she's been my best friend since college. If I got hit by a bus, I think that she's the one I'd want making those types of decisions."
And then Reader's Digest, of all things, sealed the deal. While waiting at the doctor's office with my husband ('cause we go to important appointments together!), he pointed out a copy with a cover story about traits of happy marriages. "Hey, see if we're normal!" he suggested. So I flipped it open to the article. Most of the numbers and percentages were not particularly relevant or interesting to me, so I've since forgotten them. But one jumped out. According to Reader's Digest (super legit, I know), a solid 20% of the happiest couples are no longer attracted to one another. Triumph! "Looklooklooklook! We're not weird! See?!"
Well. Maybe a little weird.
But at least not the only ones who figured out that you can do this without doing that.
But we're pretty fucking great at living together, and leaning on each other for the important things. For all the ways in which we are not, and make a point to not be, primary partners, we are pretty bombass domestic partners. The way that I characterize it is that if I get hit by a bus, I want my husband to be the one making decisions. We can trust each other in that way, with that depth, without holding hands or getting each other off.
At first glance, this seems to throw many people. Marriage gets taken for granted as a package deal. Even for non-monogamous folks, who already tend to think outside the box when it comes to relationships, our approach is consistently met with surprise.
And then they think about it. "Huh. I guess that makes sense." Sometimes folks without long-term partners even have a lightbulb moment of who fills that role in their own lives. "Oh, like my friend Peter! We've lived together on and off for the last ten years." "Oh, like my friend Erica! We just took a three week trip together, and she's been my best friend since college. If I got hit by a bus, I think that she's the one I'd want making those types of decisions."
And then Reader's Digest, of all things, sealed the deal. While waiting at the doctor's office with my husband ('cause we go to important appointments together!), he pointed out a copy with a cover story about traits of happy marriages. "Hey, see if we're normal!" he suggested. So I flipped it open to the article. Most of the numbers and percentages were not particularly relevant or interesting to me, so I've since forgotten them. But one jumped out. According to Reader's Digest (super legit, I know), a solid 20% of the happiest couples are no longer attracted to one another. Triumph! "Looklooklooklook! We're not weird! See?!"
Well. Maybe a little weird.
But at least not the only ones who figured out that you can do this without doing that.
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