Monday, May 18, 2015

Degradation: YKINMK and That's Okay

Submission. Humiliation. Objectification. Degradation. These are words that get tossed around a lot in the kink scene, but they do not all mean the same thing.

This is my opinion on the matter:
Humiliation is about a Top getting off on a bottom's feelings of awkwardness, embarrassment, and shame. It is about a bottom being made to feel disconcerted, often mortified, and forced to endure a humbling scene for the Top's enjoyment. It is about the bottom providing entertainment through discomfort.

Me? I get off on humiliation.

Objectification is about the Top turning the bottom into an object—table, chair, artistic statue, whatever strikes his/her fancy. It is about the bottom being reduced to nothing more than that object, at least for a time. It is about the bottom being of service as something less than human.

Me? I get off on objectification.

Degradation is about the Top belittling and demeaning the bottom. It is about the bottom being made to feel inferior and disgraceful.

I do not get off on degradation.

The reason why is as simple as it is complicated.
Like many, I had a fucked up childhood. I don't like to get into details, or even talk about it—ever, with anyone—for a whole slew of reasons anyone who has suffered through a fucked up childhood will probably understand. But I will say that for far, far too long, I found life less than livable.

When I got older, I took control of my life, and things got better. But I still lived very...shall we say...fatalistically. I existed day to day, not quite sure when my last day would be, not quite believing the next day would come. I lived with what I considered lofty goals, and took hellish risks, because I wanted my death to mean something.
I wanted my death to be grand...because I didn't think my life meant very much.

It was around the time I met husband that my life began to really mean something. Will I give him all the credit for my improvements, the growth and recovery I went through? No, I will not. I was actively trying to get myself help, and fix myself up, for a fair amount of time before I ever met him. I don't think he ever would've even been interested in me if he hadn't see that strength (and stubbornness) of mine showing through.
But did he help? Hell yes.

He helped me start thinking about what I wanted out of life, what my goals were—because it was okay to make goals, it was okay to bank on a future.

He helped me understand I shouldn't be worrying so much about my grand death, it was my grand life I was supposed to be thinking about.

He made me realize my life had meaning, it had value and worth...and that value had nothing to do with what he thought of me, and everything to do with how I saw myself.

To this day, he reminds me all the time how important I am.
I am his priceless treasure.
I am beautiful beyond words.
He is so thankful he has me in his life.
It's as if I was made just for him.
He's so lucky...the luckiest man in the world.

I think I'm the lucky one. I'm a survivor, and I'm stronger because of it. I have no idea what kind of person I'd be if I hadn't gone through all the things I did...there's no point in wondering about it, because I'll never know. But I do know that everything I've ever been through has led me up to this point—and at this point, I got to say, my life is pretty fucking fantastic.

So no, I am not his worthless slut, or his useless slave, or his stupid cunt, or any of the other derogatory adjectives I hear other people use.

I am his slut, slave, cunt, hole, whipping post...whatever noun he decides strikes up his fancy. I am what he chooses me to be, because I am worthy of this privilege.
And my worth is not cheap.

I am NOT saying people who get off on degradation are doing ANYTHING wrong. This is the sort of thing that is completely subjective, and if you're the kind of person who gets off on it? Go for it.

I AM saying that as much as some people enjoy degradation, other people recoil from it; that it does not have to be an integral part of any power exchange dynamic or scene. That you can be a submissive, but being a submissive doesn't have to make you feel inferior in any way.

Not unless you want it to.




Wednesday, May 13, 2015

A String of Broken Stars


"You want me to be a tragic backdrop so you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say 'wow, isn't he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?' You think I'll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I'll swallow you whole."— Warsan Shire

One of my favorite relatives of all time was my Uncle D. Uncle D was not really my uncle—he was my father's uncle, which would make him my great uncle. But back in the day, Uncle D was one of those people who always seemed to be "walking awesome." He had the best stories to tell, and he knew how to tell them well; he could keep his audience captivated for hours on the edge of their seats. He was well traveled, and had done a lot, but more than that, things always seemed to be happening to him—things that (usually) ended up having a happy ending, or at least a riveting one.

He was a good-natured guy, and was always volunteering for his synagogue and other charity groups. He often took the jobs no one else wanted and somehow, turned them into the funnest jobs in the world.

I remember watching a video of him one time of him playing the lead part in his synagogue's play. He had taken the leading lady's part, because nobody else had stepped up. The whole video had him wearing a dress and a wig, dancing around the stage like Peter Pan. You could hear the audience roaring with laughter in the background.

The thing about Uncle D was that he wasn't very good at relationships. I believe he was married four times—it might've been more, I don't know. (In my family, a marriage that lasted less than a year wasn't a "real" marriage, wasn't anything more than an embarrassment, and was best swept under the rug.) Every one of his breakups and divorces had been bad, filled with drama and horror.

Of course, since it was Uncle D telling us the stories of these breakups, he was always the Good Guy, and the exes were always the Crazies.

When I was little, I took his stories at face value. Of course Uncle D was a good partner; of course his exes were to blame for whatever had gone wrong. Uncle D was Walking Awesome. How could anyone not want that in a partner?

And yet...and yet, he broke up with all his girlfriends and divorced every woman he married, and not one of those divorces was amicable. They were messy, courtroom affairs, with stories of shouting matches in restaurants and TVs landing on sidewalks, dishes broken and police called.
All his exes seemed to wind up being Closet Crazy Women.

They didn't start out that way. They started out as nice women.
He couldn't say enough nice things about them, in fact. Every time we heard from him, the conversation would inevitably turn to how amazing the woman in his life was. It was sweet how he spoke about them; it certainly made him seem more endearing.
But eventually—sometimes it took months, and sometimes it took years—but always, the women turned into harpies and shrews, and Uncle D was left wondering what the fuck had happened.

The last time I went over to Uncle D's house, it was a short while after he married his latest wife, J. I had never met J before, but of course, I had heard great things about her; how caring she was, how soft spoken and gracious.
I went to visit him with my father, who keeps kosher. Uncle D knew this, and he asked J to plan the meal accordingly.

J bought my father a kosher dinner meal. She made sure to keep it double wrapped in the oven, as one is supposed to do, made sure to serve it to him still closed, so he could see she had not touched it, and gave it to him with plastic utensils, since hers were off limits.
The meal was great, with J serving and Uncle D regaling us with more stories that had us laughing off our asses.
Then J brought in dessert. My father immediately saw that the dessert, while kosher, was also dairy. Since my father had eaten meat during the meal, he could not eat the dessert—and politely told J and Uncle D the reason why he had to decline.

Uncle D started scolding J in a way I had never seen before. He turned to her and asked her what she was thinking, how could she not have known. She replied—softly—that she'd forgotten, and made a mistake. Uncle D continued to berate her in front of us, apologizing to my father for J's stupidity, telling him he should have seen to the matter himself instead of trusting her, and all the while, shaking his head at J like she was no more than an errant child.
Finally, J snapped.
"It was a mistake, OKAY?" She said. "I forgot, now can you please just LET IT GO."
Uncle D stared at her in amazement. An uncomfortable silence blanketed the room. Finally, Uncle D moved the topic of conversation onto something else...but the rest of the visit didn't seem so fun anymore.

Years later, I reminded my mother of what had happened that day. She just shook her head and sighed.
"It's amazing to me how Uncle D can take all these nice, wonderful women, and turn them into something so different," she said. "Living with him must be very hard."
I had never thought of it like that before, but immediately I realized the wisdom of her words.

Uncle D's ladies were not somehow hiding their crazy—or if they were, they were hiding the same crazy we all have, each and every one of us, when pushed hard enough. They had been fine, lovely women when he had met them.
It was Uncle D who had twisted these women around.

He had berated them, mocked them, made them think they were stupid, made them think he was doing them a favor by staying with them for as long as he did. They constantly had to walk on eggshells around him, always second guessing their words, always wondering how he would take what they said and how he would react in kind.
No woman can live like that forever—not without turning into a bitter, cynical fishwife.

Uncle D wasn't bad at picking women. But he was very good at picking the right women, and then turning them into exactly the type of women he couldn't stand.
I think there a lot of men like this out there.

These day I start to grow suspicious when I hear some guy's tale of woe  about how ALL his exes turned out to be crazy, how he's had such "bad luck" finding "good women."
All I want to say to him is, Dude, maybe it's not all your exes. Maybe it's YOU. 

They won't hear it of course. It sounds good to say "My wife/girlfriend/Significant Other pretended to be so nice, but once we were well established, man, did she become a total bitch, I put up with her for theees looong cause I'm such an awesome guy, but I just couldn't take it anymore and I decided I had to move on, and that's why I'm single."

That sounds a hell of a lot better than "I acted the great guy until I got my woman well established and man, once I had her in my grips I totally treated her like shit and made her think she was so worthless not another guy would have her and she was lucky to have me. She didn't put up with my crap for very long though, the bitch."
...Yeah, I've never heard a guy own up to this truth.

I'm not saying every guy out there with more than one "horrible ex" story is like this. Some people really do have bad luck.

I guess what I'm saying is...you can never really know what a person is like in a romantic relationship based on how good a friend they are, or even how good a person they are.
Some people are just very good at bad breakups.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

My Personal Views on Presenting and Expectations of Confidentiality

So, what did you do last weekend?

I broke my toe!

I also presented a class at a kink conference. The class was titled The Art of Begging; I'll let you figure out that one.
A demo was incorporated into the class. I was, of course, the bottom.
I had to fix my tear-stained makeup afterwards. I'll let you figure out that one, too.

Presenting a class is sometimes a delicate thing. You want your audience to learn something; you want them to walk away feeling like their time was well spent; but mainly, you don't want to embarrass yourself.
(At least not in a bad way. I embarrassed myself plenty at the last class I presented, and got resounding applause for it.)

You don't want your listeners to misinterpret or misunderstand what you're trying to say. You don't want to flub and say the wrong thing entirely.
Giving a class is often giving a first impression of yourself to a lot of people. You don't want to fuck that up.
But since it's a kink event, confidentiality also comes into play.

Class presentations are a different breed entirely from discussion groups, at least in my opinion.
Discussion groups typically have a moderator: someone who makes sure the meeting stays civil, on topic, and that everyone a chance to talk.
But the moderator is not there to impart their trained knowledge, or even speak more than anyone else; in fact, moderators often say the least of all. In a discussion group, everyone has equal right to speak, and nobody's opinion is held to higher regard than anyone else's.
We all have our own truth, and as long as we are speaking from our own truth, our words are well received.

But since we're all there on a level playing field, welcome to share our own truth, then holding those words confidential becomes vital. Nobody feels safe to speak when they have to worry later about their words being used against them—which is why discussion groups have rules about confidentiality.
I've discovered that the well-run groups have very strict rules...and very good enforcement.

But in class presentations, there is one teacher, one authority figure, imparting information to an audience. The audience may have the chance to ask questions, and offer up their own knowledge, but for the most part, the person talking is the one people came to see, and they expect to get some value for it.

At a kinky class, confidentiality rules still come into play. People expect that
1. No one who comes to the class will divulge to others whom they saw there
2. No one will share private information that they heard from another audience member

Of course these rules are often only loosely followed. In tight-knit kink communities where everyone knows each other, familiarity induces transgressions, some major, some minor. Breaches of confidentiality occur. When everyone is friends with each other by six degrees of separation or less, it's easy to forget that the rule of Keep Your Mouth Shut still applies.
Unfortunately, you never know when the information you share will end up in the wrong ears.

Many of us have horror stories. I know I have one. I shared information about someone's predatory behavior in a discussion group; I later found out a person in the group repeated everything I had said to the very wrong person.
It was messy, unnecessary...and said a lot about that person, frankly.
If you can't abide by the rules of confidentiality, don't go.

But in my opinion, the rules of confidentiality have nuance of exception when it comes to class presenters.

Class presenters are not just offering up their own truth; they're offering up a belief that they want you to incorporate into your own set a beliefs, to change your actions somehow, no matter how slight that change may be.
Class presenters are in a position of authority. When the audience enters that class, they walk in with the assumption the class presenter will present reliable information with credible knowledge—otherwise they never would have been allowed by the organizers to give the class in the first place. 
Again, this is my opinion: but I think this should hold them to a higher standard.

I think their words should be shared outside of the class. I think what they say through their place of privilege—because giving a class is a privilege—should be scrutinized and questioned. I do not think they should be able to hide behind the rules of confidentiality to conceal and belie their own words.

But I can't speak for other presenters, I can only speak for me.
So this is my rule as a presenter, clearly spelled out:

I expect everyone who attends one of my classes to keep confidential the identities of those who are there, the faces they see in the crowd. I expect everyone to keep confidential things that other audience members share.

I do not expect anyone to keep confidential the things I say as the class presenter. 

You don't like something I said, say so. You want to write a public review, write it. You want to drag me on the carpet for a statement I made, drag away.
As a class presenter, I am willing to take that on. I want it. I think it's one of the inherent responsibilities of any presenter, to be able to stand by their words—or apologize for them. If I can't do that, I shouldn't be presenting in the first place.

Like I said, giving classes is an honor and a privilege. It's a sign of the trust my community has in me, and I want to maintain that trust.
So if you ever hear me say something in one of my classes you think is wrong, or just somehow doesn't sit well with you? Ask me about it; disagree with me in the strongest terms you think are necessary. Public, private, I don't care. It would be nice if tell me when you've hit publish on something somewhere, so I have a chance to respond; but I'm not going to get mad if you don't.
For me, personally, there is no expectation of secrecy when it comes to what I say while presenting.

I just wanted to make that clear.


Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The Anal Queen of Blogger

I love wiki commons. 
One of the best things about Blogger is the ease of setting up and running the blog; they really do make it simple for people like me, who do not get blog-tech at all, to maintain the blog.
On the other hand, one of the worst things about Blogger is the lack of control. I can't play around with the layout that much, I can't add in a bunch of widgets I want to...I'm kind of limited. I also can't check the IP addresses of the people who visit my blog.
But I can see what people search for to find my blog.
This was the top ten list last week...take a look:
1. "How to become an anal slut"
2. "1950's household"
3. "Anal sluts"
4. "Best anal slut"
5. "Blog about anal slut"
6. "Anal blogpost"
7. "I am an anal slut"
8. "I found out my wife is an anal slut"
9. "Most painful spanking implement"
10. "Sex video anal"
I don't know if I'm doing something right, or something wrong, but I am sure am laughing hard right now.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

More Thoughts On Labels

I've been giving a lot of thought to labels lately—more than usual. I don't know why.
Maybe it has something to do with the new Star Wars trailer coming out. Maybe it has something to do with the laundry pile sitting next to my washing machine that seems to be self-breeding through mitosis, which is scaring the living shit outa me.
But I digress.
Labels. Why do we get so caught up on labels? What difference do labels make?
Some people are vehemently, almost militantly anti-label. They make a point of keeping their Fetlife profiles completely vague, absent of titles, statuses, fetishes, anything that might dare to come across as a label. Their only fetish will be something along the lines of, "you want to know, fucking ask me."
I do believe that is a fetish on Fetlife.
So here's what I think about labels.
I think it's not just the label that's important. I think it's the intent behind the label, too.
When you think about it, labels serve as a courtesy not to the person who self-identifies, but to the rest of us looking in. People like structure and order; people like standardization. Laziness breeds efficiency, and people tend to be lazy; so if you can make their lives that much simpler by supplying a quick and easy label, they will reach out and take hold of it like a child to a grape-flavored popsicle on a hot day.
But the point of the label is supposed to be to make people understand something faster. Maybe they won't understand the fine points—maybe they won't see the small nuances right away—but they will get the general idea, quick and simple like, and they will be happier for it.
Labels are supposed to give knowledge to others, often so they can change their behaviors accordingly.
What labels are not supposed to do is confuse. This is what I think riles up people so much: when labels obscure and complicate matters instead of simplifying them. When people assume one thing about a person based upon their label, and then come to find out that person is the exact opposite of what their label typically stands for.
And yeah, I know, some of you are going to gripe now "But nobody should be making assumptions! You should be asking!"
And you'd be right.
But for a person to adopt one label, when it's pretty fucking obvious everyone else uses that label to mean something wholly different than the way they're using it, maybe even the complete opposite—that is deceptively ambiguous at best. That person are purposely misleading others into thinking something about them that is not true.
And then, you gotta ask why.
I am monogamous. I do not have sex with others. Men, women, doesn't matter: no sex for me or with me.
Does this mean I'm straight? No. But it does mean my sexual orientation becomes less relevant for others looking for prospective sex partners, because whatever I am, however I see myself in my own head, I'm still not available to them for sex.
And I want people to know that. I want to make that clear up front. Because I don't want to waste anyone else's time by making them wonder if (and hope that) they can sleep with me.
Now...if I labeled myself monogamous, but still had sex with other people? That would, I'm sure, raise a whole bunch of questions in other people's heads.
Why would I call myself monogamous if I'm sleeping around? Could it be I'm cheating on my husband? Could it be I don't want anyone to know about my other sexual partners? Why not? Why hide it?
Is there a consent violation going on in there somewhere?
Suspicion is raised. Uncertainty begins to form. And all because I choose to use a specific word to describe myself, when there are others out there capable of doing a much better job.
And maybe there's a good reason why I'm choosing to use the word monogamous. Maybe it means something special to me.
But then I'm using it with the full knowledge that I'm confusing everyone I give it to, everyone who ends up thinking I'm using that word in a deceitful way.
That is the choice I would be making.
There are general labels, old labels, new labels—the word "polyamorous" is relatively new—and what's ironic here is that for many, the deeper you pare down, the more specific you get, the more you need to think about personal nuance. You need to ask what special meaning, if any, people might have for using the labels they do.
"Poly" is pretty general. But when people start using phrases like "closed poly," "triad poly," "V poly"...that is when people typically feel the need to start asking questions.
But the point is always supposed to be transparency and clarity. Big Brother's Newspeak won't get you very far.
War is peace! Ignorance is strength! Cheating is fidelity! Lies are virtuous!
No. Doubleplusungood.
TL;DR? The new Star Wars trailer just came out.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Beliefs, Actions, Lifestyles

If I have no Dominant in my life, am I truly a submissive?

It's a question I see around a lot.
Except most of the time when I see it, it's turned around, to come from the Dom's point of view: If I have no submissive in my life, am I really a Dominant? But the point of the question is still the same. If I have no one to act out my kink with, can I still claim my role?

Some people say no: a Dominant is not really a Dominant unless, and until, someone is submitting to them. Likewise, a submissive is not really a submissive unless, and until, they are submitting to a higher authority.
My opinion? I call bullshit.

That mentality doesn't work because for many of us, "Submissive" and "Dominant" are labels we use to describe more than just what we do in the bedroom. They are ways to describe our self-identity, who we are, what we know of ourselves. These words are used the same way others use "man," "woman," "heterosexual," "homosexual," etc. They are not words to describe a fetish or a proclivity, but beds into which we lay down our souls.

In a recent post thread (which has since deleted, or I'd link to it) someone commented that it's wrong to label others based on what behaviors they happen to be engaging in at the time. The example they gave was a married woman who is monogamous with her Husband; to assume this woman is straight, simply because she does not have sex with other women, would be wrong.

For personal reasons, that example resonated with me.

Lots of people have had to hide, and continue to have to hide, who they are because of mitigating circumstances. Things have changed in this century—but even so, even in the great ole' U.S. of A, coming out as gay or transgender can result in torture and death. Many of us with taboo predilections decide it's safer to live "normal," vanilla-looking lives; they bury their true natures deep within themselves. They live like that forever.
Hell, most of us here in the kink community are not "out" as kinky to our extended loved ones. We're out to each other...but maybe if we could be out in our "other" lives, and free to live openly kinky, we would discover things about ourselves we wouldn't otherwise know.

If a man marries a woman, has children with her, and never experiences a sexual relationship with another man—does that mean he must be straight? If a woman lives her entire life as a woman, and never puts on so much a man's hat—does that mean she must be cisgendered?

If a person lives their whole life as a Dom or a sub, and never gets to experience the other side...does that mean we are safe to assume who they are? Who they believe themselves to be? How they feel inside?

Actions are important. But I think beliefs matter, too.

I think if you took a Dominant guy, and stuck him on a deserted island with no one to submit to him, he'd still be a Dominant guy. Because that is who he is, that is how he sees himself in his own head, and the only person who can change that fact is him.
And really, nobody lives on a deserted island. We all live out in society, communities filled with spice and variety. We learn about ourselves through navigating through this diverse, spectacular world.

Not all of us are free to live the lives we want. But I think we should all have the right to decide who we are, what makes us tick, and what words we want to use to describe what lies deep within our hearts.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Eyes On The Destination

This morning when I drove Husband to the caltrain station, he and I were the only ones in the car. This is unusual because normally I drive him to the station on the way to driving Son3 to school. But Son3 is on vacation, so today he and I were blissfully alone.
As we were talking, laughing, and talking about the upcoming day, this guy in the car next to me tried to cut me off.
"What the fuck was that," I hollered, swerving quickly to avoid him. "Did you see that? He just tried to cut me off!"
"I saw."
The conversation resumed, I started to relax...and then the guy in the car next to me sped up to move into my lane again, this time succeeding in getting in front of me.
"GODDAMN IT," I yelled. "You are ONE CAR ahead now. Happy? HAPPY?"
"It's Monday morning, and people are stressed out," Husband said. "Their competitive natures come out. I know what that's like. I used to do that."
"You're not like that guy," I said. "You're not an asshole."
"Not an asshole, competitive personality," he corrected me. "The point is not that you are not one car ahead. The point is that he is not one car behind."
"And this makes a difference to you?" I asked incredulously.
"Yes," he said. "It does."
At this point, the guy in the car now one space ahead merged quickly in and out of the lane to get in front of the next car, and I swore in disbelief.
"Asshole," I said under my breath.
"Not asshole," Husband said. "Competitive personality."
As we drove up to the train station, I said, "You know why you're not an asshole? Because you don't mind being behind me. There have been lots of times when you've gone behind me."
"This is true," he said. Then he kissed my forehead and said in my ear, "Because the way to take your ass is from behind. Us people with competitive natures, we always keep in mind where it is we're going."

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Why You Shouldn't Call Me

You may end up calling me on a day when Husband is working from home.
He may enter the bedroom as the two of us are talking.
He may then go into the bathroom to pee, leaving the bathroom door OPEN.
I may then start yelling at him for leaving the door open.
You may hear him snap at me for yelling at him.
I may call him a few choice words for being a disgusting pig and barbarian as he starts to walk out of the bedroom.
He may then close the bedroom door...and lock it.
He may then grab the belt from the closet.
You may have to listen to me quickly and profusely apologizing as I try to squirm away.
You may also have to listen to me howling as he starts slapping me with the belt.
You may then hear me call him an ASSHOLE as he starts to walk away.
He may then start slapping me with the belt all over again.
You'll have to listen to me wailing more.
You may then have to give me a few moments to recover before we go on with our conversation.
You might also need a few minutes to recover from your laughter.
And that is why you should never call me.

Monday, April 6, 2015

How Negative Stereotypes are Spread

I'll share with you a little secret pleasure of mine: I love list photo memes. You know, the ones that make you click through "Six Tattoos Gone Horribly Wrong" or "Ten Ways Stupid Criminals Got Caught"? Where each page is a different photo, with a different caption, and you have to keep clicking through pages covered with ads to get to the next one? I love those.

But I didn't love this one.

Likes.com just came out with a list, "Why Girls Should Never Have An@l S3x [sic]", and it's one of the most absurd and erroneous things I have ever seen.
Let's go through the list, shall we?

Why 'Why Girls Should Never Have Anal Sex' (Let's Write It Out, Please) Is Completely False, Line By Line  

#1 It Just is Not Pleasant
Um, says WHO? The author? Ok, fine, this person is entitled to their opinion. But the explanation given makes me think this author has never experimented with anal sex, ever: "We all know what it feels like dropping off a huge turd. Now, imagine it being stuffed back inside in its frozen form."
Uh, what? Dicks do not feel like frozen turds, and if you've ever actually tried anal sex, you'd know that.
Also? comparing a sexual act to fucking feces is pretty offensive. 

#2 The Damage is Permanent
What damage? Why the immediate assumption that there's any damage at all? Even the explanation makes no sense: "As any woman who has endured multiple or even one pregnancy can tell you, once it is stretched out, there are no sure-fire ways to repair the damage. Keep it tight, keep it right." 
What does pregnancy have to do with anal sex? Nothing, unless you think babies come out of a woman's asshole. Is this author that stupid? And the "keep it tight, keep it right" line is something out of a sexist's handbook.

#3 Does Leaking Sound Fun?
No? Oh wait, we're talking about feces again? "Imagine going through your day constantly worrying if those white pants you have on are going to be blemished by anal leaking? This is the reality for women who frequently let their guys in their back door." 
Again, author, where the fuck are you getting your facts? Anal sex done safely (hell, even anal sex done not-so-safely) does not cause anal leakage! You know what may cause other kinds of leakage? Plain old vaginal sex. Vaginal sex can lead to urinary tract infections and yeast infections. Those aren't fun, either, but I don't see anyone warning women away from having any sex at all.

#4 It sends a Message
This one really starts to get my blood boiling: "Sex is a critical part of any relationship, it can set the tone for physical chemistry and brings partners closer. But allowing a guy to have his butt sex fantasy granted is just another sign that he wears the pants."
No, see, experimenting with what gives both of you pleasure is not a sign of anything except that you both want to feel pleasure during sex, and make each other happy. Sex is not about keeping score, or playing a power trip through denial and manipulation—not unless you both want it to. And why are you assuming that the butt sex is his fantasy? What if it's hers? Is that so hard to accept? Apparently it is for this author!

#5 It Must Be Discussed
And here is where my temper flares: "Doing anal requires permission, which requires discussion, which requires premeditation. Premeditation is not sexy."
Um, YES IT IS. Talking about sex is important. Permission is not just sexy, it's a REQUIREMENT BY LAW. If you don't have permission to have sex with her, you're not having sex, you're committing RAPE. Is that sexy?
Do I really need to answer that?

#6 Once You Go Back...
Oh, no! You showed him "he wears the pants!" Now what? "The first time you let him put it in the tiny hole is the last time he truly appreciates vagina. Once you let him in the back, he ain't never coming back!" 
Really? Really? A guy who tries anal sex will never again appreciate vagina, is that what you're trying to tell me. They're suddenly vagina snobs. I just...I can't even.
And once again, what about what she wants? If he all of sudden wants anal sex all the time, she doesn't get to have a choice? Oh, but I forgot, sex is about permission, and permission ain't sexy...ugh.

#7 Is It Worth It?
Ah, the coup de grace, guys. Here is where this sexist, misogynistic, fallacy-riddled piece of writing takes it home: "There are reasons why guys fantasize about having a virgin once in their life. Tightness matters, but if your girl's natural entryway is not doing it for you, maybe it is time to just move on to the next one. Don't ruin her pooper first, just move on."
Because guys everywhere go from woman to woman in the hopes they will find that elusive virgin so they can fuck them until their "natural entryway" has lost all appeal, and then they can "move on." After all, what's important here is not the woman herself—it's her vagina, and how tight it is. Didn't you know, guys are doing us a favor by using us for vaginal sex. At least they're not ruining the pooper before they disappear into the virgin sunset, am I right? Saving her anal sphincter from your desperate need to plow your seed in virgin territory is the gentlemanly thing to do.
Jesus.

Look, let's get a few things straight:

  • Anal sex does not have to be painful. It can, in fact, be extremely pleasurable for many women.
  • There is no "permanent damage" that's going to be done if a woman has anal sex safely. Yes, there's risk—just like any sexual act has risk. A guy can actually break his penis having sex, but I don't see anyone warning men away from sex. Anal sex has some risks vaginal sex doesn't have, that doesn't mean it can't be safe and fun.
  • Anal sex does not cause permanent gaping, looseness, numbness, or any of the other stupid stuff some people like the author of this article believe. Yes, if a woman allows her anal sphincter to be ripped or "blown," there requires a healing process. But this is true for any part of the human anatomy, including the labia and cervix—and including the penis.
  • Anal sex does not mean the woman is dirty, "slutty," or any of the other negative connotations some people associate with it, and women who "let" their men in the "back door" should be doing it because they want to, not because they're somehow scoring relationship points.  The only message anal sex should send is that the woman knows what she likes, and she's all about getting her own pleasure from sex while her guy gets his, too. 
  • ALL SEX SHOULD BE DISCUSSED. If there's the slightest chance your partner doesn't want to have sex—I don't care if it's vaginal sex, anal sex, or any other kind of sexual activity—DON'T GO THERE. Period. 
  • A guy who has anal sex does not "lose" his love of vaginal sex. It's different, that's all. They both have their pros and cons, but vaginas really never lose their appeal, because vaginas are awesome, amen.
  • If you think your guy is only with you to fuck your ass—whether it's a virgin ass or no—he's not the right guy. Any man who goes hopping around using women for sex is living a pretty shallow life, and you're better off without a guy like that. 
The bottom line is, anal sex is just another sexual activity in a long list of sexual activities that should bring pleasure to both parties, or however many people are involved. It shouldn't be condemned, and the people who enjoy it shouldn't be condemned, either. 
And articles like this one just perpetuate a lot of myths and lies, ones anal sluts like me have to counter on a regular basis. It's maddening, really. 
But I bet some anal sex right now would make me feel better. 

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

It's Not Fair

Another personal story because I KNOW HOW ALL OF YOU KINKY FUCKERS LOVE TO LAUGH AT ME.
Most of you already know how apple pie is my go-to get-out-of-jail-free card with Husband.
I do penitence pie with flair. 
Well, maybe not free; my ass still gets the comeuppance it deserves. But it's the comeuppance I think it deserves, which is nowhere near the abuse HUSBAND usually thinks it deserves, and while some of you may think that's an underhanded tactic on my part, I say, TOO BAD: when it involves my ability to sit, I'm gonna do whatever I can to facilitate.
Yesterday morning Husband left the house without saying one word to me. From the time he got up, until the moment I dropped him off at the train station—not one word.
I assumed it was because he was furious with me, and I knew why.
It was because he'd had a lot of sodium and MSG in his dinner the night before, and sodium and MSG makes him snore when he sleeps. He ended up snoring so loudly that night, I had to poke him to roll over...over and over again.
It's not my fault if I woke him up.
And it's certainly not my fault that last poke went in his eye.
But, you know, I could understand why he would think differently.
So I decided it was probably in my best interest to bake him an apple pie. I let him know by text.
He was pleased.
When he got home, he found me in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He leaned against the counter and stared at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. "I just didn't sleep good last night."
"IT'S NOT MY FAULT," I immediately shouted. "YOU are the one who ate that damn MSG soup. You KNOW that stuff makes you snore."
He looked at me like I'd just gone mad. "What?"
"I was trying to sleep too!" I kept yelling. "I have bad aim when I'm half asleep! And YOU kept ME up, too!"
"Wait," he said. "Wait a minute. Did you...did you poke me last night when I was trying to sleep? Was I snoring, and you poked me?"
"...Yeah?" I said. "You mean you don't remember?"
"I had no idea. What do you mean, you have bad aim? Where did you poke me? In my balls?"
"No, in, uh, your shoulder."
"Really. Where did you poke me?"
"I may have kinda slightly got your eye. BUT IT'S NOT MY FAULT."
"It doesn't hurt," he said, touching his eye. "I guess it wasn't as bad as you thought."
"You mean...you really don't remember this at all?...But then why didn't you say anything to me this morning?"
"Cause I was tired and had a sore throat?" He said. "You thought—you thought I was angry at you? Is that why you decided to make me pie?"
I was frowning too deeply to answer at this point. Husband, on the other hand, started laughing uproariously.
"It's different when I make you pie and you're NOT mad at me, you know," I said through gnashed teeth, watching him laugh. "I get brownie points for this."
He stopped laughing long enough to think about that for a moment. "Wait a little longer," he said then. "I'm sure you'll do something I'll be mad at you for." And he started laughing once more.
"THIS IS NOT FAIR," I said.
"Wife," he said, offering me a kiss on the head, "it's not meant to be."
I live under a bus—a bus that right now, tastes like apple pie, and does not give brownie points.
It's not fair.