Collared

In my most recent post, I talked about coming to terms with my inner slut and learning to love her and take care of her. Part of this growth process brought me to this life event, something I certainly never saw coming…

Embracing my inner slut

Last year, something happened to me that shook me to my core.

I was slut-shamed.

Someone I loved and trusted took my sexuality and my enjoyment of lots of sex, lots of kinky sex, to be perfectly clear, and used that to hurt me.

And it was such a mind-blowing thing that I didn’t even realize what had happened until later, after the conversation was over, after I’d had a chance to cool down and think about it.

That person and I don’t talk anymore, if you’re curious.

But, as these things do, the event brought out a whole host of other feelings, stuff I’ve been spending the last year processing, especially as I’ve moved further into a Ds relationship and started to explore a few of my other kinks, namely, group and public play.

Almost two years ago, I met my partner N. I didn’t realize it was to be a life-changing meeting. In fact, he and I both meant to keep the relationship casual. He was leaving for Japan within a year. I was not looking for another partner. But, he was (and still is) into rope in a big way. So, after a highly successful first date that included a hot make-out session behind the Bipartisan Cafe, we agreed to a vanilla play date to see how our chemistry was.

It was hot. We fit like hand in glove. I knew I wanted more. So did he. So we set another date, this time for a scene.

Before this, I cheerfully labeled myself as “vanilla with sprinkles”, a term I’ve happily stolen from a former partner of mine. Mostly vanilla, vaguely interested in “the weird stuff” but not enough to build a lifestyle out of it. Jas has always had kink relationships, but it wasn’t something I ever understood, or wanted for myself.

I think I was ashamed.

I didn’t want to feel submissive. I didn’t want to feel dominant. I knew I liked hurting certain partners and seeing their skin bloom purple after a particularly hard bite. But it wasn’t who I was. I thought.

I knew I liked it when Jas spanked me and when we had very rough sex. I knew I liked some role-playing. I knew I liked to be in charge sometimes. I knew sometimes, I wanted someone to be completely in charge of me. But I was unwilling to admit how much it had grabbed my interest.

And I don’t need to go into the gory details here, but that first scene with N was incredible. I still don’t have the words for the feelings we tapped into. I knew, then, that I had a fully submissive side, and I needed to learn about that part of me and how it fit into my life. We likened it, later, to lightning. It was electric and life-changing.

Excited and happy, I told some people about this experience, and how I wanted more. Some people were really happy for me. Some were not.

And, long story short, I got shamed more than once for opening the closet door on this hidden side of myself.

Sex and shame are something I’ve seen go hand-in-hand since I was little. My mom was raised very conservative evangelical Christian. My dad was raised during the Great Depression and carried the Puritan mores of the time. When I first realized that touching myself down there felt really good, I was about eight. Not knowing any shame, yet, I was in the living room, and my dad saw me. He told me I was filthy and dirty and that what I was doing was disgusting and made me wash my hands with strong soap. I never masturbated again until I was 16 or so, and it took years to not feel guilty every time I made myself cum. The first time I had sex, I was 14, and of course my parents found out. Again, I was dirty and shameful and disgusting and they would never stop being disappointed in me. t’s not even go into me liking girls just as much as I like boys…

So, I learned to feel guilty and ashamed when I wanted something sexual. And that was before Jas and I started attending church regularly… Church would serve to compound those feelings. Kink was wrong. Being queer was wrong. And having enough love for many partners was very, very wrong.

I’ve been incredibly lucky this past year to have so much support as I’ve explored my slutty side, my kinky side, this person who was hiding inside me. Later, when we realized we couldn’t actually keep things casual, N collared me. And I knew deep in my core that it wasn’t him choosing me that made me strong; he had chosen me because I was already strong. When I traveled to see him in Tokyo at the beginning of this year, he put a ring on my finger. Collared submissive; cherished wife. Jason’s other partner was there with us, filming, and Jason, left in Portland with the kids, lost a whole night’s sleep because of nerves and because of happiness.

And I know neither of my men chose me in spite of my slutty ways, but because of them. Because I’m learning to love the woman who loves to be beaten. Who loves group sex at the swinger club downtown. Who loves to fuck both men and women, sometimes at the same time. Even knowing this, deep in my core, I will often ask both of them, “are you sure you are ok with this person I am? are you really sure??” because I am holding my breath, waiting for the judgement. Waiting for them to decide, like other partners have, that the idea of me being a slut is only hot in theory and is actually not ok in practice.

Speaking of that swinger’s club, I’ve met some wonderfully open people there. Beautiful souls who love sex as much as I do, who have overcome their own hurdles about their sexuality, and who are proud of the lifestyle they live. Seeing their open, hedonistic joy in the pleasure their body can feel has helped me tremendously as I’ve figured out the simple fact that I’m a slut, one that’s kinky as fuck, actually.

And I’m ok with that. Finally.

PS: I want to write more about all of this, but I think I will do that in later posts. There’s a lot there to unpack.

 

Sublime

“How are you two getting along?” Mr Awesome will ask of a new partner.

Usually, I will grin.

“We can laugh together… In bed.”

I did the math today, after a conversation about first experiences. I’ve been sexually active since I was 14. That was in 1994, 22 years ago. That was my first time with a man; my first time with a woman was a few years later. I met the man I would marry when I was 17, and so there you go.

And in 22 years of continued experiences, an even split of male and female partners, sex in private rooms, parents’ attics, hot tubs, pools, beds, cars, couches, floors, and once on a public walking trail, the lesson I’ve truly taken to heart is this: find someone with whom you can laugh in bed. Sex can go from the sublime to the ridiculous with one well-timed fart or badly placed elbow. You need someone to laugh it off with. The myriad of emotions that sex brings to the table (bed?) is amazing and leaves a person very vulnerable. Sometimes, it needs to be tender, loving and gentle. Sometimes, it needs to be rough, quick, and bruising. Sometimes it needs to be a bit of Colum A and a little of Colum B. But it always needs to be approached with humor.

Sometimes, the best foreplay is opening up, sharing vulnerabilities and fantasies. Sometimes, it’s teasing and touching and kissing until your body cries out to be fucked.

And sometimes, the best foreplay is a morning spent in bed, making vagina jokes with your lover and laughing until your face and sides hurt. 

Testy

On Wednesday, I got to spread my legs for a very attractive woman.

I just wish it was a sexy as it sounds.

The woman in question was my doctor. And it was the second time in three months that I found myself on her table.

My doctor is an amazing woman. She gets the poly thing. Or at least she doesn’t judge it, which is a real bonus in a world full of judgmental health professionals. She also doesn’t bug me about my fat, because my numbers are amazing and I work out regularly and eat really well.

The overwhelming response of my concerned friends since the breakup has been to get myself tested. So I made my appointment…. And it’s funny. I taught teenagers about AIDs during the nineties, the importance of testing regularly when you are sexually active. I knew more about mucous membranes and t-cells when I was 17 than I did the actual acts that would cause them to be something I should be concerned about. I’ve had multiple tests for an assortment of cooties in the past several years.

And yet, I found myself in a near panic state at my appointment on Wednesday.

I shouldn’t have, of course, but I got all sorts of nervous and scared.

My doctor was kind. She wanted to know why I requesting another full panel just three months after my yearly exams. Did I really need HIV testing again, and why was I specifically requesting “all” STIs…

When I told her I had just ended a relationship with someone I now knew to be untrustworthy, her eyebrows raised, and her fingers flew on the keyboard.

“Right then. HIV, and herpes titer, and we’ll do a bright-light scope to look for any lesions…”

Within minutes, I had peed in a cup (dirty catch for gonorrhea and chlamydia), and was on the table with my legs spread wide. She noted a few signs of HPV, no surprise there as it’s something I’ve had for at least several months and likely for a year or more… At any rate it showed up on my last exam. Vaginal culture for high-risk HPV and bacterial vaginosis, and then off to lab for three vials of blood to be screened for HIV, and both herpes viruses, as well as a few other things, I’m sure. I think syphilis is a blood test…

She was both kind and efficient. I was told that she’d call when the results were in, if I wanted, and could skip another office visit.

So I wait. I should be hearing from her any day now.

I know the response I had was mostly to take control, in some small manner, of something that had spun wildly out of my grasp. And also that I wanted to start with a clean slate, to know I left that relationship behind me with nothing more than memories. And the reassurance of telling any future partners that I tested out ok.

Also, no one else is going to look out for my sexual health. That’s my job, and mine alone.

Now I’m going to preach a little. Folks, get tested. If you have sex, get tested. I know it’s harder to test guys for some things, but don’t let that be an excuse to not go in. HIV is a simple blood draw. Some tests require peeing in a cup. Some require, for us ladies, a pelvic exam and can be worked into your yearly Pap smear and breast exam appointment.

But if you’re playing this game of sexual roulette, and if you read my blog regularly, chance are good that you might be, please get tested. For your current partners, and for your future ones.

And most importantly, for yourself.