Shifting

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Rivers of Snot

Over the past year, I have both cut out a considerable amount of my social involvement with my local kink community and acquired an in-state sex partner (we'll call him ISSP).  This has left me with less fodder for writing here, unless I were to turn my asexuality blog into a sex blog.  Which, for numerous reasons, I don't want to do.  An elaboration on that might be a post for another day, but not today.

Today I'm going to write about rivers of snot.

ISSP and I were talking the other day, and wandered onto the topic of crying.  Specifically, bawling like a three year old, rivers of snot-style crying.  He was using this as a description of unsexy crying.  I maintained that more context was required to determine whether it was sexy or unsexy crying.  He looked befuddled.

Don't get me wrong.  Uncontrollable sobbing, in and of itself, is not particularly sexy.  It's messy, it's graceless, it's profoundly awkward*.  No argument there.

So what's hot about it?  The rawness.  The vulnerability.   I really dig emotional intensity.  For me, I think that the emotions themselves end up being secondary to the intensity.  Delving into that sort of intensity in a reasonably controlled and safe setting is just fantastic.

To get that messy and graceless is to let some pretty substantial walls come down.  Forcing those walls to come down in an erotic context is absolutely hot- at least for me.

Even if it does involve rivers of snot.

-----

*Know what else tends to be messy, graceless, and profoundly awkward?  Fucking.  Seriously.

What We Say, What We Do

Different people have different skill sets.  Some folks are skilled with needles.  Some folks are skilled with rope bondage.  Some folks are skilled with psychological play.  And while we can all generally improve our skill sets, some of us are going to max out in a less adept place than others will.

And we only will be cognizant of that some of the time.  It's one of those things that's pretty tricky to to be meaningfully self-honest and self-aware about.  Hell, it's one of those things that's tricky to get solid, objective feedback on.  So very, very few people will think of themselves as a dumbass.  Or a predator.

And yet, "Don't be a dumbass" and "Don't be a predator" are often given as stand-alone safety/logic warnings.  Which would be would be perfectly great and sufficient were it not for that part where nobody self-identifies as such.  It will damn near always be read as a warning for somebody else.  You know, those other people over there.  The dumbasses, the predators.  Not me.

I have no qualms with people putting information/content/ideas out there that are not appropriate for all skill levels.  I support greater access to information and education, from introductory through advanced levels.  Breath play is a particular area where this has been in my awareness.  While many folks argue that breath play is simply too dangerous to teach, it's also the kind of play that many, many people- both in and out of the kink scene- practice at home.  With or without education.  Given this, I think that more information is the decidedly preferable option- questions of legal liability for the educator aside.  Recently, my thoughts on this trajectory have gotten complicated.

In addition to pictures of funny cats, the internet has brought us all sorts of photos of edge play.  Since most of my photo-perving time is devoted to rope bondage, that's what I'm most familiar with in this regard.  We have strappado suspensions, predicament ties with bottoms perched precariously on tall structures, and suspensions in which one of the primary load-bearing points is the throat.  All carry very real risks of injury requiring months to recover- or worse.  And I firmly believe that all of those are risks which people can assess and choose to accept.

In addition to Bondage101, kink education has brought us all sorts of techniques for edge play.  We have classes on gun play, abductions, and explicit limit-pushing.  It's the latter that has sparked a discussion that keeps popping up on my kinky internet feed.  The discussion started after a friend of mine attended a class on this topic by at a conference.  Based particularly on personal accounts from folks who have played with the presenter in question, the discussion does not seem to be about the presenter's ability to do these things in a way that is as safe as possible.  The focus seems to be instead on the danger of putting these tools and techniques in the hands of a mixed audience.

So what's the sweet spot?  How can information be made accessible to those who can use it well, without unwittingly encouraging people to make higher-risk decisions which they really are not equipped to make?

I know that I, for one, am interested in more information on things like breath play, higher-risk rope bondage, and limit-pushing.  Preferably all at once.  But only with highly trusted partners.  And my partners and I should be able to make those decision for ourselves.  Because we're not dumbasses or predators!

Oh, right.  That again.

I don't have an answer.  I'm extremely uncomfortable with the notion of censorship (whether external or self-imposed) in the name of keeping people from ideas and information that have been deemed unacceptably dangerous.  On the other hand, we are social creatures prone to imitation.  I know that I'm often inspired by play I see in the dungeons, classes, or represented online- I expect at least a few others are as well.  As subsets of the kink community race to one-up each other with the next edgy, dangerous thing, I expect that the baseline of perceived risk will shift.

I expect that this is a conversation which will continue to unfold both in my own mind and the broader kink community.  Hopefully it will unfold with minimal harm and maximum hotness.

Negotiating On The Fly

I kind of love pet play.  Not in a sexual way, not even in an erotic way.  But in the way that it totally shakes up communication and expectations between people.

Last year's kitty room at Shibaricon left me thinking about this trajectory, and it popped into my awareness again the other night after going to a local party with the MOST ADORABLE (human) PUPPY and her human friend.  They'd sat next to me for a bit in the dungeon as I was watching some hot ropey action.  The pup was on the floor between the chair that I was sitting in and the chair in which her human friend was sitting.  Since, as we've covered, I kind of love pet play, I leaned over and asked human friend if I could pet his puppy.  And he said yes!  And so I reached down and started scritching behind her ears.

In this case, the pup in question leaned right into the scritches.  I told her what a good girl she was and moved behind her other ear.  More happy leaning and nuzzling against my hand.  No words.  No traditional negotiation.  But clear communication.

And here is where I think some of the real beauty of pet play is.  I think that we all take for granted that non-human animals don't really need to bother with social niceties.  If they're into it, they'll tell you.  Clearly.  By leaning into it enthusiastically.  By play bowing, pouncing, by rolling around at your feet.  And if they're not into it, they'll tell you.  Clearly.  By growling, by hissing, by disengaging without any need to apologize or explain their reasons.  And it's totally okay either way.

And sure, in theory, humany humans can also growl, walk away, or otherwise disengage without any need to apologize or explain their reasons.  But I think that many of us, for any number of reasons, are uncomfortable giving such a blunt no.  Receiving such a blunt no isn't often a terribly comfortable experience, either.  I think there's quite a damn bit of room within our culture to get better with "no."

But within this little niche of kink, things seem to be moving along a-okay in that department.  I'm unsure how much of this is my own perception, or if others have picked up on the same thing.  I will say this though- hanging out in the kitty room at Shibaricon is a fantastic study in nonverbal interactions.  It's a room full of people navigating interactions with very, very few words.  Kitties negotiating play and belly rubs with humans, negotiating kitty schenanigans or brawls with one another.  On the fly.  Without a word.

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.