Wednesday, February 4, 2015

What's Your Sexual Native Language?

A little known fact about my Husband: he speaks three languages fluently, another three pretty well, and a few others enough to follow a conversation. He's the kind of person who can pick up a language like that (snaps fingers). His brain never lost the ability to listen to a new language and pick it up right away, almost like a child.

Like most other people on the planet, I am not like that. I know english, because it's my native language, but it's (sadly) the only language I feel comfortable enough to speak fluently. I do know one other language well enough to carry on a conversation; but there's always that process of translation going on in my brain: I have to listen to what the other person is saying, translate it into english my head, think up my answer, translate that into the other language in my head, and then make the foreign words come out through my lips and tongue.
They say you're not really fluent in another language until you can think in that language. I'm not able to do that. I lost that ability when I was a child.

Sexuality—in my opinion—is something of a similar concept.
We learn at an early age what to think about sex, how to regard it, what our attitude towards it should be; and that becomes our "sexual native language." While we're growing up, we think our views are not just normal, but shared by everyone else. It's always a shock to realize that's not true, that some people have the exact opposite views of us, a completely different language. (It's even more of a shock to realize there are people out there who find our opinions not just inappropriate, but sick.)

You can learn to change the way you view sexuality, just like you can learn a new language. Some people go through sexual epiphanies, and decide that from then on, they only want to speak a new sexual language, and never look back.
But some people have to strive to learn a new language, and never get really fluent at it. Even after years of speaking it, they still have to go through a translation process in their heads.
And this can make things interesting.

I'll give you an example: one of the core concepts of my sexual native language is propriety. I was taught that as a girl, I was expected to keep my body clean, my behavior modest, my world tidy. My mother started buying me long-sleeved cotton nightgowns when I was a toddler, and she taught me the correct way for a girl to dress and undress—even when she was alone, in the sanctity of her own room. It was something straight out of this video:
I was supposed to conduct myself with grace, virtue, and elegant reserve. I didn't always follow those tenants, of course; but when I didn't, I was acting improperly, I was doing something wrong, and the older I got, the less wiggle room I got. By the time I was a young woman, and had curves and contours in the all right places, I was expected to conduct myself properly. Boys were looking at me by then, having uncontrollable lustful thoughts; I had to send them the right message. 

These days I don't have to follow those guidelines—I don't have to speak that language. In the right circumstances, I can act dirty, even obscene, and downright unladylike.
But there's always a tiny thrill when I do, because deep down in my core, I feel my early ingrained education trying to rise up and balk. There's a certain sense of satisfaction telling that voice to shut the fuck up.

But it is hard sometimes, I got to say.
I still feel an innate need to fold my clothes as I take them off, to set them neatly aside and in a straight pile, ready for when I need them. The pants go on the bottom, the shirt goes on the top, and the lingerie goes in between them, because you never put your panties on top where anyone can see them, no no. Shoes go somewhere where nobody can trip over them, because a lady never leaves her shoes lying around.
Some lessons are hard to unlearn.
And some Sadists may get an inordinate sense of pleasure in finding those lessons...and using them again you.
Like last Saturday night, when Husband told a bratty friend of mine she had permission to mess up my pile of clothes and RUB HER ASS all over them.
She says she's not a sadist, but I really don't believe her.

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