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.

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.

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.

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.

Art

I like making art.  I like creating pieces which evoke a response- be it emotional, reflective, or simply "Hey wow, that looks neat!"  Honestly, most of what I do is geared toward that last one.  I admire folks that create with political or social commentary at the forefront, or who really pour their heart and soul into pieces.  But most of what I do comes from a place of "Haha, I'll bet this will look cool!"

This is why I'm no good at writing artist's statements.

But anyhow.  Once in awhile I do shoot content that comes from a more personal place.  This was one of those photos.  I shot it in the fall of 2010, and it was a visual representation of my relationship with sex at the time.  Not so chipper.

Through a somewhat convoluted series of events, this piece ended up in an erotic art show.  I was rather surprised and thrilled by this news (given than I hadn't, ya know, actually submitted the piece to this particular show).  And also somewhat bemused.

This photo came from a place of such frustration and resentment toward sex.  It didn't matter how much I wasn't into it, or how much I was just going through the motions- the show must go on, baby.  So to have a piece with so much negativity tied into it be accepted into a show celebrating eroticism?  I'll admit, I was giggling on the inside as I framed and shipped the piece.

Why is this on my mind now, a year after these events?

In a turn of events that has me giggling once again, the photo that I use for this blog was accepted into an erotic art show.  Asexually erotic, FTW.

The Gray in Gray-A

There's a reason that I identify as gray-a, rather than strictly asexual.

It's because the kinds of sex that I like, I like a lot.  A whole freakin' lot. 

I haven't figured out the exact formula for good sex, by my definition.  It comes with some combination of general attraction, having the right kink buttons pushed, and a general feeling of safety, both emotional and physical.  And then on top of all of that, there's some magical, generally elusive special sauce.

Sometimes I feel like I've painted myself into an asexual little corner.  In most cases, I don't want people to view me as a sexual creature.  I don't have that special sauce (or whatever) with them, and at this point I'm pretty burnt out on having people write sexuality onto me when it isn't there.  I've experienced it from partners, from friends, from strangers who see my non-sexual nudie photos on the internet.  And I'm sick of it.

So I just say, "I'm not into genitals most of the time" and leave it at that, rather than leaving perceived openings for negotiation or wiggle room or exceptions or whatever else.

But really, I sure do miss having sex that works for me.

Small Forest Creature

Back in the days when I was trying (unsuccessfully) to make sex work for me, I often felt like my libido was a small forest creature.

I'd be walking along a trail through the forest of life when I would suddenly hear some rustling in the bushes.  I pause and look.  Is it... yes!  Yes!  It's libido!  We have confirmed its presence!  It was a rush of joy, followed by... panic.

Oh God, don't scare it off!  Avoid eye contact, no sudden movements.  Wait for it to come closer, don't crowd it.  If I do this just right, I'll bet I can get my libido to stick around long enough to actually, ya know, do something with it.  We can get this party going, yet!

Of course, this strategy rarely worked.  In my frantic attempts to stay calm, I'd quickly lose any sexy inclinations that I'd had.  This series of events, this frenzied internal monologue, repeated itself many, many times.  It was not a pleasant time, but it was an important stage along the way for me.

I don't hunt my libido anymore.  It comes out from time to time, on its own terms, and that's okay.

Villains

Relatively little of my journey into the exciting world of asexuality-ish-ness has happened alone.  Partners, sweeties, lovers, friends, and play partners have all joined me along the way for various lengths of time.  I've learned quite a bit from these experiences, and my time with others has been hugely important in shaping how I identify and relate to sexuality today.

Some of the experiences have been delightful.  Others have been painful, for me and those involved.  Many formative moments have been particularly painful.  But because they were formative, I'm compelled to write about them.  Before doing so, I do feel that it's important for me to put a qualifier out there.

There are no villains in this story.  There have been many people, myself included, who have done the best that they've known how to do.  And sometimes we've hurt each other along the way.  That doesn't make any of us villains.  It just makes us human.