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.

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.

Awkwardness as a Social Strategy

I'm not new to the use of awkwardness as a social strategy.  I never really figured out how to do the small talk thing.  After many years of crushing social awkwardness, I finally figured out how to spin it in a way that was entertaining.  Yay, social success!

What is new for me is publicly identifying as asexual-ish.  In doing so, I also gave myself license to be the most spectacularly awkward person- ever, pretty much- when talking about sex.  Complete with flailing.  Complete with extended pauses and unconventional language.  And complete with air humping, for when flailing just isn't adequate. 

I don't viscerally get sex in the way that it's usually talked about.  I mean, I get the mechanics of it, but I don't hear about something and think, "Oh yeah, that sounds like something that I'd like to try!"  In the past, I've either done mental gymnastics to relate conversation back to sex in a way that I do understand, or more often, just nodded along.  Oh yeah.  I totally get it.  Uh huh.  Super hot.  Definitely.

No more!  I came to own my social awkwardness, and so I've come to own my sexual awkwardness, too.  So bring on the sexy conversation.  I know what to do now!