On The Radio (Huh-Oh!)

Short post, to briefly say: I'm on the radio tonight! I'm a guest! Wow!

You can listen to yours truly talk about sex, kink, bdsm, and (if I know myself at all) feminism and Fifty Shades, at Sex Talk With Curvy. There's also a past episode by a moderator over at BDSMcommunity, Dar_Synn.

I've never done radio before, but I have done sexy things in a radio station. I know it's not the same thing, exactly, but in honor of tonight, here's the one remaining photograph of that afternoon, when times were simpler, and radio was still analog.

At KROCK, Radio Free Reed College

(And yes, it's cropped, because although I'm getting braver every day, I'm not quite brave enough to put my tits on the internet yet).

So, here goes nothin'!

Do As Your Told

So, this was supposed to be up a while ago, but what with the crazy that the last few weeks have been, it's taken a while to get it to a (semi-reasonably) readable place.

Also, the problem with writing porn is... well, it's porn. I end up quitting halfway through, masturbating, and losing interest.

It's a slow editing process.

Without further adieu: the first installation of totally-no-risk-herpes-inspired-porn!

*

We're riding home in the truck. I'm sitting on the bench seat, heels on the dashboard, body jackknifed and bare legs catching streetlights as we pass them. My skirt slips slowly up my thighs with each turn, each acceleration, higher by the inches, by the minutes. He can see the tops of the stockings, black lace. They pinch just a little, a good pinch, a reminder every time I move that I'm wearing them, and nothing else, underneath.

He looks over, making a point of it. I notice that he's noticed. He takes a turn down a street not ours, not so far away, but not the way home either. My breath catches in my throat, and he pulls over, parks the truck under a low tree, leaves heavy in the rain. The drip over the windsheild, shadows from the steetlight down the block. Just enough for us to see each other. The windows fog.

"Take off your coat." He says.
"What are..."
"I said, take off your coat." He cracks the window, just an inch, lights a cigarette, raises his eyebrows at me and stares. He does this when he's waiting, and I know that, and still, it takes me a second to understand.
I shimmy out of the coat, draping it over the seat behind me. We've had the heat on, so it's warm, but the air drafts through the window. I shiver a little.
He reaches out, touches my face, cupping it, like I'm something precious. His hands drift back towards my hair, fingers finding the curls at the bottom of my neck, rooting and pulling, not gently, enough to hurt. My breath comes fast.

He pulls me up, and I'm kneeling in the middle of the seat, facing him, leaf shadows across my eyes, the world in shadow and then light and then shadow. He sit forward still, looking over whenever he cares to, and taps the cigarettes out the window, hot breath and smoke fogging the glass.

Facing him, I wait, a prize on a shelf, almost ignored. An item of service, something utilitarian, and it's the most delicious kind of uncomfortable.

"Undo your buttons. All of them."

My head bent back, neck exposed as prey for the biting, I hold the back of the seat with one hand, and clumsy, shaking, pop the snaps on my blouse with the other. It hangs, open, white skin underneath. My chest rises and falls, pushing the goose pimpled skin over the edge my bra, swelling, warm against the cold air up and over the cups, and receding on the exhale.

"Very good. That's a very good girl." He says it carefully, quietly. There's not rush, and no urgency, but a calculation, because that's what it is. He knows exactly what that will do, electric down the length of me, just a word, just a phrase, but it's magnetic, good medicine.

"Yes Sir."

He lets go of my hair, tossing my head to the side. I'm not to move unless he says so; this is something we've discussed, at length, beforehand. This is something I know, and it's a test, every passing moment, a task evident in stillness, proved by the absence of evidence, nothing shifting that he can see, but I'm getting wetter by the second. My breath gets quieter, shallower, concentrating, the very concentration it requires building an ever-distracting heat between my legs.

"It's a very nice skirt you have on, there."
"Thank you Sir."
"And very nice stockings." He's running a hand gently over my knee.
"Yes Sir."
"Did you pick those out yourself?"
I hesitate, as if one answer or another would change what happens next.
"Yes."
A quick slap across the face, before I can think, it catches my cheek in a hot sting and I'm looking suddenly out the window.
"Yes what?"
A stupid mistake.
"Yes Sir. Sir yes Sir."
"That's right."

He trails his fingers over my thighs, nudges them apart, ever so slightly, with gentle taps on the inside, like training an animal, teaching an innocent. I move them in increments, one towards the back of the seat, one towards the edge. The grey wool skirt hangs in the middle, whole inches of modesty.
"Oh that's a very good girl." He reaches up, pushes the blouse back from my shoulders. His fingers run the down my front, and I breathe and rise to meet him as he presses a flat hand between my breasts, reaching to pull the cups down and my nipples up, resting them on the folds of the bra, displayed. They pucker in the draft, and I shiver.

"Are you cold?"
"A little Sir."
He slaps me lightly again, across the jaw.
"Good." He says, cupping my face.

He sits back for a moment, not touching me. He tosses the cigarette out the window, and exhales long smoke. He stares, looking up and down, considering, a puzzle to solve.

"Pull it up."
"What?"
"Pull up your skirt. Show me."

I reach down, and push the hem neatly up, bunching it along the tops of my thighs. The stockings end, bare leg above them, bare between them, and looking down at myself it is stockings and then nothing, my thighs and lips in the open air. He pushes a strand of hair back from my face, and his other hand, I notice, lays between his legs, stroking gently up and down.

"Are you wet?"
"Yes Sir."
"And would you like to do something about that?"
"Yes Sir." I say. I'm trembling.
"Are you worried someone will see?" He asks, as if he could know that, as if he's aware of how hard it is not to look behind, not to look at the windshield, not the check how covered we are by the tree or how much light, exactly, mists in from the outside.
"Yes Sir."
"Good. Touch yourself."

A hand, tentative, I press up my thigh, between my legs, pushing the skirt up and out of the way, full view now. It's hot and wet, almost dripping to the seat below. The palms of my finger tips find an easy rythym, pressing in between my lips and to either side of my clit, slipping slowly, at first, and then faster. I let out a breath, and bit my mouth to keep from smiling.
"Oh that's such a good girl. Such a good girl." His hand is moving fast too now, over his jeans.

He unzips his jeans, pulling himself out. I keep my eyes down, as instructed, but I know that he's looking, watching my fingers flicking between my legs, tits heaving up and down as I start to grind with my hips, nipples tight and peaked with the cold. I keep my eyes down, no eye contact, I know this, and watch his grip on his dick get tighter, the rhythm get faster, pulsing blood under the skin. I want to climb on top of him and ride it, can feel the head of him pressing into me, slipping into me, can feel the warm inside skin of my thighs rubbing on his jeans, can feel the rhythm of me, filthy, desperate, right there in the car.

But he slows, just then, and lifts my chin with his other hand, looking me in the face.

"Would you like to taste it?"
I nod, mouth already open.
"And what do you do when you want something?"
"I..."
"You know the answer. It's okay." He's almost gentle.
"I ask for it, Sir."
"That's right."
"May I... May I suck your cock please, Sir?" And even as the words are out of my mouth, I can taste it on my tongue, feel it hard and pulsing against the insides of my cheeks.

"Very good. Go ahead."

He lets go, and his dick stands up straight from his jeans, hard and pink. I lower myself down, pausing my hand on myself to adjust. He taps me light on the ass.

"Did I tell you to stop?"
"No Sir."
"Good. Now taste it."

I kiss him up and down the shaft, thin skin over the swell. My lips run up and down the sides, to the top. I open my mouth and lower, slowly. Like a favorite food I haven't ever tasted before, the moment of satisfaction when I take him in, and I'm full, I'm full of him.

He rests a hand across my back, fingers trailing lightly over my ass, which is up in the air, my hand still going fast between my legs. I suck, running my tongue along the ridge of the head, rising and then pushing back down, building a rhythm. My clit is on fire, and I flick faster, in time with my own sucking, and every stroke is hot and biting and any minute, any damn minute, it'll fall over the edge. His searches with his other hand, finding a cigarette and a lighter, smoking again out the open window as I work his dick deeper and deeper down my throat.

"Good girl. Deeper now." His voice is gentle, patient, instructional, his hand running slowly past my lower back, patting my ass, slapping a little, finger pressing gently between the cheeks and against the outside of the pucker there.

I suck harder, push the head of him against the back of my mouth, into my throat, gagging and spitting, coughing as I come up, gasping for breath and then down again, a little push to get to the base, his balls pressing into my cheek.

"Oh, that's my girl." He sighs, takes his finger away, and grabs a handful of my ass cheek, holding on, dragging from his cigarette with the other hand.

"That' my very, very good girl." His voice begins to falter, just a little, the pleasure in his body a waver in the measured tone. He starts thrusting back, and I can barely breath, and between my legs there's a clenching starting, the beginning of a fall. He flicks the cigarette out the window and puts a hand on my head, pulsing my whole body up and down over him.

"Oh yes good girl. You like that, don't you? You like my cock down your throat?" I can't answer, but he knows that.

"Good slut... That's a very... very good little... slut." It's real praise, heightened, his voice a little higher, but he means it.
"You take that cock. That's... that's my good..." Hands wrapped in my hair, he holds my head down, a pulsed throbbing in my mouth, shooting striaght down the back of my throat, hot and salty, so far back I can barely taste it.

He pauses a moment, lets out a breath. He lifts my head from his lap. I'm still slick against myself, still going, so close to coming but knowing that I need permission.

"May I, Sir?"

I'm kneeling, desperate, flushed, still facing him, a drip of his come across my chin. He looks me up and down, tucks his cock back in his pants. He run a finger over my chin, wiping the drip, holding the finger out for me.

"No." He says. I lean forward, licking it from his fingertip, "You may not. Buckle up."

He pushes me gently, almost playful, back to the passengers side, and my legs are shaking and my pussy is throbbing and my fingers fall, wet and still, to clench in my skirt.

"You wait until we get home." He says.

And he buckles, and puts the key in the ignition, and turns it, and the engine roars us home.

*

More soon, on life, the universe, and everything (and man, are there a lot of things!)

Herpes: Six Months Later

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

This is your vagina; this is your vagina on drugs.

Vagina news! You thought this was a sexy blog, didn't you? NOPE! Let's talk about my genitals some more instead!

Had the appointment with the vaguely specialized OBGYN on Monday, and super awesome for me, it's probably not Lichen Planus! Or Lichen Sclerosis! Or any of those other diseases who's side affects are frightening noun-verbs like "scarring" and "closure."

So, before anything else:

SUPER HURRAY SUPER (PROBABLY) SUPER!

There's still a probably in there, because (as like all the other times I've been to the lady doctor), they don't know what exactly is wrong. So, it could still be those things, but mostly, it's probably not. Yippee!

I got to the office slightly late, and very damp (like, dripping on my sign-in forms damp), due to a little mix-up of me forgetting where the fuck my appointment was and going to other of their offices first, being told at their other offices that I needed to go to the other other offices, and then sprinting to a car2go to get to the other other offices (it's situations like these that really reinforce my always-fifteen-minutes-early policy). The nurse was nice, if brief, and the doctor was great. I forget her name, but she looked like someone straight out of my childhood - long dark hair, Berkeley hippie-mom clogs, dorky spectacle glasses, etc. It's absolutely superficial, but I was more at ease for her style choices.

So, we talked. It's always fun to watch a doctor's face when I start to talk unabashedly (happily, even), about my genitalia. Yes, I will use the right words for my anatomy, and no, I will not blush when I say them. It's my damn anatomy. My favorite exchange (after we'd been talking about symptoms and possible diagnosis for a while):

MD: And, with some women, they consider a vestibulectomy, which can help, but also sometimes causes more problems than it solves.

ME: Yeah, and, you know, I like my vestibule. I'd like to keep it around.

MD: Exactly!

ME/MD: (genuine laughter).

So, talking was great, and then she poked around and speculumed and squeezed my ovaries from the inside (which is always so strange and a little bit cool). She took a swab and they did a wet prep, which I'd actually never had done before (it's when they look at your discharge/fluid right there in the office, under a microscope, as opposed to sending it away for tests). I didn't have yeast, and everything looked normal. I wasn't having symptoms that day, but based on my description, she thinks it's some kind of skin issue (and not necessarily discharge related). Which makes sense to me.

They prescribed me a steroid cream, which I have to use in very careful, very small doses, for short periods of time, otherwise it's going to aggravate the problem (too much usage too frequently can thin the skin, causing cracks, etc. I'm not sure exactly how it works in the first place, but I'm going to do some V Book reading later). If symptoms come up again, and I can get in to see them quickly, they might do a biopsy. Which is... a super unpleasant procedure that includes nouns and verbs like "injection," "needle," and "punch-tool." So, I'm maybe not going to talk about/psych myself up for that until I have to.

Fast forward a few days, and right on time (just before my period), some symptoms came along. So, deep breath, unscrew the cap, and onto my vulva the steroids went. So far, I can't really tell if they're helping or hurting (it's better now, a few days later, but I'm not sure if that's cream-related or not). But that's sort of beside the point. In case you missed it, I'll say it again:

I got prescribed steroids. To put on my VAGINA.

So, on this holiday weekend of Thanksgiving, here's to you, legally doped up vulvovaginal area. May you be better, faster stronger:

drawn on a cocktail napkin by yours truly (it's not supposed to be frowning - that's my clitoris. or roid rage. who knows).

Sex Radical Sex Radical, I'm Your Sex Radical.

sex-positive, and just down right sexy.

Yeah, the title has terrible prosody, but I like it anyway.

Sometimes, I forget that the words I use (usually specific usually to kink/feminism/poly talk) aren't part of everybody's vernacular. That sounds real snotty, but what I mean is: I use these words so much, that I forget they're customized, specialized, niche-type words.

Out at the bar last night (which is a post for another time; fucking non-monogamy is so much fucking god damn fun), and I was talking about what kind of porn I like. I used the word "sex-positive," and then again later when I was talking about das blog. And the guy I was out smoking with asked me, very simply, very straightforward: "I've heard you use that word a couple of times now, and I don't think I understand what it means."

I tried (and sort of failed) to explain it. I said something along the lines of "oh, well, it's looking at sex, and sex expression/sexuality, in a way that challenges the dynamics we usually assume go along with sex, like... like, for instance [and here, I was talking about sex positive porn], the assumption that the scene is over when the man comes. What he came on a lady's tits and then she rubbed it all over while getting off? And why does it have to be a lady and a man in the first place?"

And while I think that's all included in sex-positivity, I think that's super specific to my brand, my leanings of sex-positivity.

Whereas the word, as its core? The belief, boiled down to a simple, sexy reduction? Is this:

Sex. Is. Good. For. You. Sex is fun, bodies are hot, people are (for the most part) pretty great, and pretty great to sleep with. It isn't something we should hide or be ashamed of, and it should never be an obligation, a payment, or a means of assault.

It is, basically, thinking that sex is positive.

For me, sex-positivity and feminism are pretty interconnected, which is in part where the whole "challenging of sexual norms/conventions" comes in, and makes my own personal definition of sex-positivism: "yes, sex is awesome, but look at how much of our world doesn't think so. Clearly, I should do something about that." With a little time on wikipedia, I found that the rest of the world also noticed this, about thirty years ago, and that there's a whole movement about it. I think I already knew that, somewhere in my brain, but it was cool to see. Yeah, sex is fun, and a part of being human, and wait, we have all these fucked up beliefs about how women should be sexual, about what should be acceptable as clothing, sex-acts, behavior, about how your actions as a woman, sexually, translate to a certain definition of your personality.* And hey, isn't all that just sort of... bullshit? Yeah, yeah. Somebody should do something about that. Start a movement or something...

* I recently took "the slut test" on okcupid. And while there's... a lot of shitty things about okcupid, this test was... particularly bad. I'm not sure what else I was expecting, but it asked all kinds of questions - not only about your sex life, but about your childhood, your relationship with your dad, etc. Pret-ty gross. And the worst part? I only scored something like 65% Slut! Somehow, I think maybe, we're using the word differently... and that okcupid doesn't know what it's missing with my particular brand of slut-hood. Oh well. Their loss.

I think my favorite part of that wikipedia article was reading about the different names for sex-positive feminists. I'd like to take this moment to identify as a sex-radical feminist, mostly because that word makes it sound like I have super radical sex. Which, most of the time, I do, but... well, it's nice to have it in a title.

Anyway. That's sex-positivity, now defined, in case you were wondering, or curious, or think these things are interesting like I do. And it's good to define the things we talk about, both because it helps in discovering new ways it all fits together, and because it serves as a reminder that words do, in fact, have meaning. And if you're using a word like it's important to you (which admitedly, sex-positive is, to me), then you're going to look pret-ty dumb if the hunky guy at the bar asks you for a defintion, and you blabber on for a while about something vaguely related but ill-articulated.

So that's the moral maybe. Learn your words! It makes for better flirting!

- The Good Girl, Feminist Sex-Radical since 1987.

Like The First Time

Announcement! For heretoforth until the end of the blog, my partner, Sir, shall be known and reffered to as...

Jamie!

It fits in lots of ways, and has lots of good connotations. Also, it was the only one that I thought of, and I really want a name to use, so I'm using this one. It might change if I come up with something better in the future.

So, Jamie and I have been talking about/starting to dip our toes in the water of this whole nonmonogamy business. We made OKCupid profiles together, which was super fun, if a little daunting. "Hey world, here I am, my very own presentation of myself by which you can judge!" The questions are super hilarious, although I got hung up on the herpes one, which was... a good precursor to talking about herpes with potential partners, I think. The question was something like "How would you feel about dating someone with herpes?" And they give you a yes/no/maybe kind of option, and then a place to explain further. I went back and forth between all the answers, and tried to type out why about five times before I just gave up and logged out. How to say "Yes, but I have HSV-1, so having sexual contact with someone with HSV-2 is a bigger risk for me," or "Hell yes, herpes is nothing to be ashamed of! Not that I think it's great or anything, but really I'm a cool person and stuff still," or "Yeah, I've got herpes, here's what kind, and a millllion facts about it," or "Yeah, I've got herpes. Deal with it." How to seem informed, accepting of myself, but not overbearing or overly neurotic.

All of which I am...? Working on, at least?

It comes back to the whole presentation-of-a-person thing, on the internet. Because perusing other people's profiles, you start realizing that yes, these people seem really cool, but also that these are the things they picked to share on the world of interenet dating. Not that that makes me necesarily uncool... it's just a head trip.

And it's exhausting. Plus, there's the occaisional "hey sexy how you doin'" message, which makes me want to hit things.

So, for the most part, I've stuck the world of real-world dating. Errrr, real world flirtateous friendships, as it were. Jamie and I met this guy at a party the other week, he was cute, he flirted with me, etc. etc. And so, in the spirit of recent developements, I e-mailed him, and we went out for drinks. Because fuck it, the worst that could happen is that the drinks were boring and bad, and I (basically) never see him again.

But as it happens, it was great! Although he's not so much available for dating (he's married, and at the moment, basically monogamous in that marriage), which is sort of... strange, because he wants to be? I'm not going to go into much detail, because I haven't actually asked him about that yet, but at this point, I'm putting it in the friend bucket. Which isn't such a bad bucket, I don't think, for my first real foray into this dating-other-people-thing.

The most surprising, out of all of it, is how fucking giddy I am about my current relationship. Like, I just want to hear about the cute people and get excited about the making out and come home to him and giggle like fucking teenagers on the couch. I think the only reason I haven't jumped him multiple times a day in the last week is that my vagina has decided, once again, to be unhappy. The rest of me? Nonmonogamously thrilled. My sex organs? Angry and red and not in the fun-torture kind of way.

But it's really wonderful, actually, to be this happy about things. Sure, there are points of misgiving I still have, and the boundaries at the moment are super small (baby steps, as they say). And when those happen, I talk to him, and we check in, and it's okay. But for the most part, I'm just... over the moon about loving my dudeman. I want to dote on him, go on dates with him, I think about him all the time. And I mean, I always think about him all the time, but this is like... it's like the beginning, in a way.

And so, in honor of that (and his new namesake), I've got a tape I want to play for you:

Upload MP3 and download MP3 using free MP3 hosting from Tindeck.

(the audio is crap, but the partner in question who has all the audio knowledge isn't home, so... this is it. and because really, what other song would do?)

I have the coolest fucking boyfriend ever.

Corset Time!

I really like corsetry. Like, I'd go so far as to say it's a fetish (as far as you can say anything that's linked to sex already is fetishizable). Here, then, are three of my favorite corsets. I have a few more, but they're cheapo-type things, not made with any real... staying power. Har har!

Sir* helped me out with this (both the lacing and the photos - because although I can lace myself in, it's not fun, and it's never quite right). And although they're mainly about the corsets, I am, in fact, putting suggestive photos of myself on the internet, so it also might be a little bit about... whatever that is. Will it come back to bite me (and not in the fun way)? Maybe. But, risk-aware, I'm doing it anyway.

First, red and black leather:

front

side

back

It came from kinkfest, so it has a bunch of memories wrapped up in it. It's the only real underbust I have, and for that reason, and also because it's leather, I think it's my favorite. It looks a little small on me from the back, but we didn't really take the time to get me into it properly (lace, let it rest, lace, let it rest, lace, etc). So usually, it closes a fair bit tighter than that.

Next: the one I made that's not really a corset yet!

side/back

This one is a work in progress. I'm not sure why we didn't get a front photo (or maybe I lost it?), but I haven't put the boning in yet. It's made from my first pair of backstage blacks - carharrts that I'd patched through a couple times, and finally had the idea to turn into something else. It's underbust, but over-the-shoulder (and you can kind of see... where my boob juts out at the weird angle there? Yeah, that's the underbust part. I thought it looked super funny, in the photo - hello boob! - but that's sort of how my boobs look when they're... well, when I'm bent over, as such, for any number of nefarious purposes).

Anyway. I've got boning for it, I'm just trying to find the time to put it in...

And finally, my first ever corset, and probably a shy second to the red and black leather:

back

front (with bruises :)

This was a present to myself after I'd quit smoking for three months, when I was nineteen. The quitting didn't take, but the corset did. It's black satin. It's missing one hook in the front. I was wearing it the first (and only) time I was ever suspended. Depending on where it sits, it can either give me serious cleavage, or (more like this picture), make my nipples just visible (and playable with) over the top. Okay, maybe this one's my favorite. More likely, they're all my favorite.

So, that's the news from Corsetry Land, where all the women are strong, all the men are feminists, and all the children are yet-to-be thanks to modern methods of birth control.

*Asterix from the top: I think my partner needs a name, like a real name, on here. I mean, he has a name (sh'duh), but I don't want to use his real one, and "Sir" is sort of... formal. And I like that it's formal. In fact, that's part of the reason why he needs another one, in this context, for me: I want to keep it formal.

Options I'm thinking of include: Jamie, and that's as far as I've gotten. Suggestions welcome!

Ethical Sluttery

reading is sexy... especially under run lights backstage

I'm re-reading "The Ethical Slut," by Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy. Unlike the other book of theirs I read, that seemingly nobody's ever heard of (unless they're a nerdy, kinky fucker like myself), most everybody I know has at least heard of "The Ethical Slut." And for good reason. It's sort of considered the polyamory bible by a lot of folks.

The first time I read it, I wasn't really reading it to learn how to be polyamorous, or about poly (I was curious, but I didn't have a how-to goal in mind). This time, although I don't think Sir and I will be running out to orgies or anything, I think I'm coming at it with more of that attitude. With a more practical attitude.

I'm a little uncomfortable writing that, actually.

I've always had a really strong desire to be poly, but for pretty strange reasons. Or maybe it's more accurate to say, I've always wanted to learn some of the things I feel like poly people learn, when they are polyamorous. The regular reasons are still there, I think, but they're not the driving force. Do I find lots of people attractive? Yes. Do I think sex with more than one person at a time is hot? You betcha. But those aren't the reasons I find myself reading The Ethical Slut again, or the reasons why Sir and I get into conversations about open relationships.

I think, at the core of it, I'm trying to learn how to love (and be sexual) with certain people without attachment. And not attachment in the healthy, people-get-attached-to-other-people-because-we're-human way. In the "I don't have an identity when you're not around" way. Or, "I don't know what my life/sexuality/attractiveness/beauty means other than how it relates to you." Not only do I think that's not healthy, but I think it's not sustainable.

I want to understand how to be in love, so in love, with my partner, and not feel really terrible about myself when I hear him say "Wow, she's hot," or "Yeah, she's fucking amazing." I think part of me feeling that way, right now, comes from a bit of a rocky patch in my sex life/romantic life (busy schedules, not a lot of time, not great communication on both our parts, etc.). But part of it comes from this deeply ingrained concept of romance, or love: the idea that wanting/being attracted too (and by extension, kissing/being close with/having sex with) someone else means that he no longer wants any of those things with me.

And that's simply not true.

Sir and I have had a couple of hot dates with a mutual friend of ours. Two, to be exact. Because of all of our schedules (again, busy lives, busy times), they were very far apart. The first was amazing. It was hot and steamy and giggly and adorable and sexy and fun. I didn't feel even a hint of strangeness, or jealousy, or regret. The second was a little different. Still hot, still fun, but I had some serious hang ups about it, especially afterwards.

I think I feel jealousy differently than other people. Or maybe I don't have enough ego to feel actual jealousy; my self-esteem doesn't let me get that far. The second time we fooled around with our friend, I started to feel small. I started to feel worthless, and I started to feel cold and distant. I probably should have voiced these things more articulately than I did, but nothing happened that I wasn't comfortable with. I just wish that some of the things that happened were more fun, without all the rest, like the last time.

Because in the end, that's all I want, really. I want to be able to explore and have fun and push myself and live the stories in my head without all this darkness around it. Or at least, a better way of dealing with the darkness, a more complete understanding of where it's coming from.

When I feel (or see, or hear) my partner being attracted/sexual with someone else, I don't feel the need to pull them back to me. I don't feel possessive and I don't feel wronged. I just feel scared, and I feel like I need to get out of the way. And I don't know where that comes from, and I really hate it. The morning after we fooled around with our friend (who ended up staying over, which probably wasn't the best idea, simply because we hadn't talked about it, and I didn't voice the boundaries that I needed to), I had to leave before either of them. I ended up stopping on the bridge over the river and getting off my bike, because I couldn't breath, because I was so sad, and so scared. I sobbed into the river for a few minutes, got my breathing under control, collected myself, and went to work. I don't know what a panic attack is, but that's the closest I think I've ever come to it.

And what is that? What am I scared of? I really want to figure out the answers to those questions.

Partly, this is because I'm pretty naturally exploratory with my emotional self. And partly, I think it's because I believe certain things about love, the love that I have for my partner, the love that he has for me. If that love can't operate in a world in which we're attracted to other people; or rather, if an attraction to other people undermines that love so easily, and to such a destructive degree - that's not a love with a good foundation. I'm not loving with a good foundation. I want to change that. I want to change my own attitudes about that.

This was a more rambly, journal-ish post that usual. I suppose that's the way it goes, when you [I] have all the feelings. Ohhhh, feeelings.

Love without possession. Independent selves. That's what I want. So, like all things I want, I'm gonna go get it, and I'm gonna read (or re-read) books about it along the way.

Bruised (and getting to the happy) as always,

The Good Girl

How to be A Woman

Finally finished "How To Be a Woman" by Caitlin Moran. There's a funny mix of reactions, for me, finishing a book like this. Simultaneously: I love you, Ms. Moran, please be my best friend; and, this is the book I wanted to write, and here it already is. It's ecstatic tinged with melancholy, which I then battle with thoughts of "well, you'll just have to write your own book like this. You CAN write your own book like this. Do it. DO IT." Sometimes it works. Sometimes I blog instead.

Moran's book is a combination of memoir and feminist theory, hilarious recollections of her childhood and smart, deftly written analyses of those recollections, what they mean to her now, what they might mean to other women. It's the kind of feminism that's entirely accessible, and it's a reminder of how good humor can allow to access otherwise difficult or taboo subject matter. I'd catch myself, sitting on the couch curled up with the book, laughing and laughing and then stopping dead on the page, reading back over the last paragraphs, trying to mine the method of how exactly she went from that funny to that smart with such ease. It's a book that's accessible without being stupid or condescending, and thought provoking, literally: provoking of thought, often provoking further provocative thought, a spiral that continued long after I put it down.

Without sounding too full of ego, I think it's a testament to her skill as a writer that someone like me, a woman well versed in feminism (and to a certain extent, the history of our waves and movements), still couldn't put the book down. None of the theory was revelatory for me (although some of the contexts it came out of were); it was her writing that kept me going.

For all I loved about the book, Moran slips into cissexist or heterosexist language a couple of times, most notably in the very beginning of the book, when she explains:

"Here is a quick way of working out if you're a feminist. Put your hand in your underpants. a) Do you have a vagina? And b) Do you want to be in charge of it?"

And while I appreciate the sentiment (and know that, although feminism can be a whole lot more complex than this, the basic gist is pretty spot on), it's a little alienating to a few groups of people; men who are feminists, trans* people who are feminists, genderqueer people who are feminists. In the context of the rest of Moran's book, though, it's pretty clear that she's sacrificed inclusive language for a bit of glib shorthand; from the overall character of the book, it's clear that she doesn't actually believe much along the lines of cissexist or heterosexist thought. I'm not trying to excuse it, but just to clarify it as an abnormality in what is otherwise a fairly inclusive, sex-positive, progressively-worded book.

Out of everything, I was most struck by her chapters on abortion and pregnancy, and have yet to read anything that talked about giving birth the way Moran recounted her first labor. It was incredible, having gotten through much of the book with laughter and punchy politically-analyzed childhood stories, to be suddenly floored by the power and clarity with which she writes about serious subject matter. It's immediate, physical, and pulled my calloused, feminist heart right up into my throat. It made me want to have children, and it made me want to never have children, and it made me want to hug my partner close against my chest and cry. Which I did, after reading him the chapter out loud.

"How To Be a Woman" is on my favorites list for the year, for sure, and will probably stay there forever. Mostly, though, I can't help fantasizing about what it would be like to meet Moran. After her chapter recounting her exploits with Lady Gaga, I spent hours devising schemes in my head about meeting Moran in a similar context, wanting her to know, for so many reasons, that she was my Gaga, wanting to shout from the rooftops, "Caitlin Moran, you are my feminist hero! Caitlin Moran, I want to make out with your book! Caitlin Moran, I'm star struck and a little giddy, but maybe, if all my dreams come true, we can just get boozy together sometime? And rant about the patriarchy? Or not; or rant about everything else, because they don't even deserve that, especially over such a nice bottle of scotch?"

On that note, it's back to graduate school applications. Here's to modern feminist idols, inspirations, and the generations of them to come.

The Women-Improvement Super Store

At first glance, I was pretty appalled at this oh-so-obviously "female" version if a power tool. At second glance, I realized that it was pink to promote breast cancer awareness, and that a portion of sales went to research and charity.

So now I'm slightly less appalled. Because while the pink isn't *as* offensive if it's "for a good cause," it's still pigeonholing women's health issues into the women-marketed objects (and that's not even getting into the fact that breast cancer isn't the leading cause of cancer deaths in women). Pink tools for breast cancer? I'm all for it; so long as Mikita and Black & Decker have a line if man-sized drills, also available in the dashing Pepto-Bismol shade.

light weight and designed for comfort in smaller hands!

Shhhhh, it's a secret...

Opening night, first one of the season, and so I got it in my head to buy a new dress. And by "buy a new dress," I mean I realized I hadn't bought a new piece of clothing in about a year, so I went on my dinner break to the second hand shop a few blocks away, tried on about twenty different things, and bought the two that were least offensive. They actually turned out pretty great - one is little and black, and the other is little and black with polka dots. But with the polka dots came a distinct lack of strappadge, what I do believe they called strapless in "the business" (and by "the business" I mean, I know they fucking call it strapless). I'd never bought a strapless dress before. I'd never liked a strapless dress before.

Post second-hand store, I realized that, unless I wanted to look like a 90's flashback with the clear plastic bra straps snaking over my otherwise bare shoulders (and yes, I do still own that bra), I was going to have to buy a new one. A strapless one.

Usually, my bras come from Costco. And they're nice, really nice, Calvin Klein I think, a two pack for thirty bucks. Can't beat it, and I've bought them for years. But this time, I both didn't have time to go to Costco, and didn't think Costco would have bras of the san-strap variety. Walking around downtown, on limited time, with a dress I really wanted to wear and no bra to wear it with, I had only one option. It was off to Victoria's Secret I went.

would you like some pink with your pink?

Now, I've been to Vicki's before. With my mom, growing up, that's where we'd go when it was a special occaision to buy bras, and not just the standard I-need-new-bras time. But I hadn't been in years,  and... well, some things have changed.

For one, they now have (or maybe have always had, and I missed it as a teenager) these people called "Bra Specialists." That's the official title. I got the impression that, along with learning to measure a person and becoming familiar with Vicki's selection, Bra Specialist (heretofore known as a "BS") training consists of a) pitching your voice an octave higher than is natural for you, b) learning to speak to every customer like they're your best friend, who you're trying to appear very interested in, but secretly don't care about at all, and c) learning every synonym for "sexy," and maybe even making up a few of your own.

(Examples include: cute, fun, pretty, classy, cutesy, adorable, adorbs, darling, nice, fun fun, and various high pitched squeak-like noises meant to indicate general approval).

For another, the customer service is aggressive, yet really unsatisfying. There seems to be this strange idea in modern salesmanship that over-friendliness and a kind of fake "personal touch" is going to sell more product. I get it mostly from women, at women's shops, like they're trying to convince me (badly) that they like their job, that they're interested in me personally, etc. It manifests in things like the Vicki's lady asking me how to spell my name, saying "Oh, that's so unique!" with a kind of half smile, her hand on her hip, listening to her radio (yes, they have in-ear radios. In Victoria's Secret. In case of Bra Disaster during the Zombie Apocalypse, I can only assume). Or in how she referred to everything as "hers," as in "I've got this one in a 36C, which is your sister size, but I think I'm all out of the 34D." She handed me a card, when I finally picked a bra, indicating which styles and colors I liked. I'm supposed to keep the card, and bring it back with me when I "come visit them again."

I don't think it was my BS's fault, but there's this strange stream-lining of the personal that has never, ever felt real to me, and that never, ever makes me want to buy anything. I'd much rather a salesman either be interested in me, genuinely, or simply be efficient and distant, and do their job. The patina of pretend-to-care just gave me the heebie jeebies, and I wanted to leave, but by god, I needed that bra.

I spent double on the bra what I did on the dress, figuring it would be something I'd own and use a lot (for everything that's wrong with Vicki's, the quality is really top notch). I took it to the cash register, paid for it, and they handed it back to me in a little pink bag. Or rather, The Little Pink Bag.

Which proved to be the most hilarious part of the whole endeavor; everything that happened in the store was fairly expected, but I wasn't prepared for what it would be like to carry a bright pink tote back across downtown. I didn't get heckled or hassled, but I did get looked at a lot. Returning to the theater, the new stagehand was (of course) waiting in the greenroom, and I got to introduce myself to this forty-something ex-NY dude holding my new lingerie. I didn't try to hide it, but I'm nervous enough about supervising someone who's both older and male, and if someone had let me know he'd be there, I probably would have left it upstairs.

And that kind of sums up the strange, secret-but-not-really-secret philosophy that blossoms from the The Little Pink Bag. Everybody knows what it means. Everybody knows (within range) what's inside, and unless it's a guy carrying the bag, the things inside are probably intended for the person carrying the bag. But the title of the store? Victoria's Secret. Get that, ladies? Wearing underwear is a secret, that nobody should ever see, so you're supposed to feel a little ashamed and embarrassed about it. But we're going to give it to you in the most obnoxiously obvious packaging ever, so everyone who sees you will know about your secret, without you telling them, just to double up a little on the shame.

It would be fine if the act of buying underwear and the displaying of that act both fell into the same category. As in, you buy underwear, don't really want to share it with the world, and thus don't. Or, you buy underwear, want to share it with the world, and do. But the "secret" coupled with the The Little Pink Bag makes for a confusing, double-speak kind of message. It isn't really surprising, just par for the patriarchal course.

All that said, the bra looked great, the dress looked great, and I looked great. I probably won't be going back to Vickie's (ever, if I can help it). But going strapless? Most definitely. And I suppose, for that, I owe a thank you. Much appreciated, BS.

Lichen Planus, and other things that (unfortunately) don't mean I'm a Werewolf

mmmmm, vagina peas

Healthy insurance kicked in again about a month ago, and so back I went to the doctor, with the all-too-familiar-and-frequent symptoms of general vulvovaginal discomfort. I've mentioned it a couple times in past posts, but just to be clear: this has always been an issue for me, and something that despite various precautions (probiotics, neutral PH and free-of-everything soaps and lotions and laundry detergents, white or no underwear, restricted diet, etc.), I’ve struggled with for many, many years. More so some years than others, and sometimes it's BV, sometimes it's yeast, but pretty much without fail, my vagina gets unhappy. Sometimes (like this last time) it’s to the point where I'm itching and scratching in my sleep, sometimes when I'm awake, and sometimes it's so bad that I have to sneak offstage and cry, etc. This tech, I actually ended up jerry rigging a lady-parts ice pack (frozen peas and a double ziplock with gaff tape around my underwear, in case you were wondering), because I literally couldn't focus enough to do the show.

(trying to figure out if your production manager/stage manager/actors/director can tell if you're waddling/have frozen labia is... not the best for focusing either. But think in the end, it was better to have pea-ed and waddled, than to have never pea-ed at all).

At the doctor, they poked around like they usually do. And were mystified as to how I had this again, like they usually are. I don't generally have crazy discharge (which is common with yeast), and most doctors are surprised when they do a culture, and it comes back positive.

But this time, things went a little differently. This time, my doctor posited that maybe, possibly, there might be an underlying cause to all this. That maybe, sure, my tests for yeast came back positive, but maybe it wasn't the yeast causing these symptoms (candida can and does live in the vagina, the butt, the mouth, etc., without causing any adverse side affects. It's the growing out of control that causes problems).

She suggested, looking carefully at the skin, that it might be something called Lichen Planus. It’s a strange experience, to be spread eagled on a doctors table, nitril gloved fingers pressing gently on your vulva, and hear a word who’s first connotation (for me, anyway) is silver bullets and wolf’s bane. As it turns out, I think I might prefer a beasty moon-related transformation to what Lichen Planus actually is.

She hands me a piece of paper as I'm leaving, telling me it’s not necessarily LP and I need to see a specialist, but she suspects. And then I read it and then I go home and then I google and google and google. There should be some sort of mandatory blackout time on google image searches post doctor visits. Caution: side affects of reading this handout may result in compulsive staring at images of sick vaginas, and premature coming to terms with what may prove to be a very grim fate indeed.

Lichen Planus is not a fun thing, and it's not a curable thing. I'm pretty nervous about it, but doing my best to put those nerves in a little box, because we really, really don't know anything yet. I haven't been tested, and I haven't been to a specialist. It could be any number of things that are a) not yeast, and b) also not Lichen Planus. But there’s a little part of me that is… well, pretty scared right now.

On one level, it's nice to know that there might be an underlying cause to all this, one that I can get accurate (and hopefully more affective) treatments for. Although it’s all couched in knowing that the side affects are much, much worse than if it were simply recurring (or not-ever-really-cured) yeast.

Here’s the part of the blog where I would list all the side-affects of LP, how bad they could get, and what I'm worried about with each one. But I’m not sure about anything yet, and in an effort not to hype myself up, I’m going to let you google it yourself, if you really want to.

Caution: may cause moments of loss and premature, serious bummer.

Sex Drive Drivin'

About six months ago, I went off of hormonal birth control. I'd been having issues with recurring yeast infections, and although I'd been on it for a long time, there's some research linking estrogen levels and yeast, so we thought, hey! Let's try this other thing.

It has, for the most part, be awesome. I don't take a pill every day, I lost a few pounds, and my moods are better (I think...). I invested in an IUD which, for the most part, has been great. But the side effect I wasn't expecting? Sex drive.

Holy cow, I have one. Who knew?!

I've enjoyed sex and masturbation since I figured out how to have an orgasm (I was about fourteen, I think). But going on the pill at sixteen and not going off of it until recently, I didn't really want sex very often, like, out of the blue. Sometimes, sure, I'd go home, jack off, fall asleep. When I was making out with someone, or dancing with someone, I'd get turned on. But it didn't just... happen. There was no un-triggered desire.

That has all changed. And wow, does it... wow.

I'll be going about my day, pre-setting for a show, doing paperwork, whatever it is, and all of sudden find myself flushed, nipples perking up under my bra, swelling happening all over the place. I'll be standing in line a the supermarket buying milk, and will suddenly, inexplicably, need to have sex right now. The other day I walked home from work (it's a good walk - maybe forty five minutes), and the entire way I was throbbing, pulsing, thinking gotta get home to jack off gotta get home to jack off. I tried pretty much everything to forget about it; I listened to This American Life, I concentrated on what I had to do the next day. But it wouldn't go away.

Don't get me wrong - I love it. But it gets really... distracting, a lot of the time. And because I haven't ever had to deal with this kind of sex drive in my adult life, I'm very new to learning how to deal with that. Like hey, no, you can't go get yourself off in the bathroom right now. You have to stay on book in case the actors call for line. No, you cannot touch yourself walking down the street. You, instead, have to sit with this feeling of being extremely turned on, and... that's it.

And it's not that I don't like feeling turned on, I do. But I'm learning how to deal with my body demanding things of me that I can't give it all the time. It's not like popping out for a sandwich when you're hungry (but oh dear, if it were, I'd never get anything done).

I love wanting sex more, most of the time (and so does Sir, especially because it takes less time for me to get to the please-fuck-me-now place, which can both extradite things if we're in a hurry, or make the denial all that much more entertaining). But I also have so little experience with it, that I'm not very good at handling it when it does come up conveniently. Because here's the kicker:

I never really learned how to initiate sex.

I was always up for sex; but looking back on my past relationships, I was usually in a take-it-or-leave-it sort of mood (until the making out started, usually, at which point, I'd be all in). But I have no idea, with this new drive, how to go from sitting on the couch eating ramen to humping profusely. And I'm sort of stumbling along with it, but sometimes, it's hard. Sometimes I don't know a sexy way to say "No, I don't want to watch TV right now," or "No, I don't want to go out to breakfast," but instead "I'd like to fuck your brains out a few times before we do."

It came up for Sir and I as an issue, partly, because he was feeling (sometimes) that I didn't really want to have sex with him, but that I just wanted to have sex. I think that was, in part, a fascination with the new oh-my-god-all-the-sexy-feelings, and partly because, again, I'm not so good at initiating. But I thought about that a lot, and I think he's right. I think sometimes, totally consumed with my lusty lusty, I just really want and need to have sex. The leap that isn't obvious to him (but is to me, so to aggravate things, of course, I don't feel like I need to clarify it or make it obvious to him) is that he's the person I like having sex with best in the world (that's including myself), and that I really, really enjoy making him all lusty lusty too. But I think the way I was expressing it might have seemed a little... careless.

Part of what's been hard, to, is our rule about me asking permission every time I masturbate. It was difficult, especially when we were having a hard time around wanting to have sex vs. wanting to have sex with him, when I couldn't satisfy myself because I felt guilty asking him about it. So I asked for that rule to be put on hold for a bit. I'm hoping that we can go back to it soon, if for no other reason than it's really, really hot.

That being said, I've been masturbating more frequently than ever, but it's started to feel... utilitarian. Not all the time, but sometimes. Like, I have this (sometimes insatiable) sex drive, and masturbating is just staving off the tidal waves until I can really have the kind of sex I want to have. And thinking about that, thinking about what really, really gets me off, in the thighs quivering, can't move, barely breathing kind of way? The answer to that is, simply, sex with Sir.

Nothing else compares (not that we need to get into comparison). He is incredible in bed, we're incredibly compatible together, and he just... turns me on to notches that don't exist otherwise. He takes me places I can't go on my own, and, I hope, I take him places he can't go on his own either.

It makes me think about this sort of... reductive way I've been looking at sex and sex drive. As in, desire of one person + stimulation = desire of another person + stimulation == mutual masturbation == sex == masturbation separately. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but it's sort of like... like, there are things you can experience by yourself, or with each other, but they're all just more weights on the scale, so the speak. No matter what the combination or circumstances, the things happening are always the same, and therefore the sum is always the same.

As it turns out, that just isn't true. The whole scale gets thrown out the window when we get together, and I don't want to get too hippie woo-woo about it, but there's some sex magic that happens when he touches me, and when I (if I'm good) get to touch him back. It's not even more than the sum of it's parts; it's a whole new fucking recipe, and it's awesome.

So, do I want sex? Yup. Can I ask for it when I want it? Yup. Do I need to get smoother and better and more clear about how I ask for it? Yeah, but that comes with time and practice, and it's okay if I'm a little fumbly now. Do I also want sex with my partner, specifically, because it's one of my favorite things to do on the planet? Yes, a thousand times, weeping, pleading, begging, yes Sir.

It's Easy Peasy

Sitting on the couch, happily consuming Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman (which I'm going to do a whole entry on sometime soon), I came across some stupid misogynist crap on the internet. Surprise surprise, I know. But there's a specific point about this instance of hooey balooey that I'd like to address, especially in the context of reading Moran.

The article, by one Mark Manson, entitled "Why I'm Not A Feminist," begins with the following paragraph:

"It’s with much trepidation that I wade into the rough waters of gender discussion. Few subjects bring out as much impassioned accusation and irrationality as discussing the state of gender relations in western culture. And I’m sure I’ll be digitally tarred and feathered regardless of what I say here."

There are many, many things wrong with the article, including a wash of what-looks-like-feminism, MRA-twisted theory, as well as the title of the blog it's hosted on, "Post-Masculine: Because Fortune Favors the Bold." But those are too obvious and too many to deal with today. Instead, I stopped reading after the first paragraph and really tried to take those words at their face value.

First off, yes, few subjects bring out such impassioned debate as gender in our modern society, and for good reason. I have a problem with people who, like Mr. Manson, feel that something is detracted from the pristine, logical basis of a debate when a person in said debate feels passion, or emotion, for what they're talking about. I don't know if it's a privilege thing (although it might be), or if it's an inherently anti-feminist thing (and wouldn't that fit in nicely), but there's this sense about the internet that, especially in debates about gender, emotions have no place. Impassioned arguments get dismissed, exactly as Manson dismisses them above, as "irrational," simply because of the presence of feeling.

Maybe it's because, when arguing about gender, lived experience (something also rampantly dismissed) is a big part of why many women I know (myself included) feel so strongly about the importance of talking about feminism. Maybe the men who I so often find myself on the other side of the proverbial table from don't have that same experience, and so don't understand (and, as a reaction to not understanding, decide to cut down at every opportunity) the enthusiasm and rage that comes from that lived experience.

Or maybe it's because, based on the gender stereotypes we've operated on forever, men aren't really permitted to examine their feelings much, or give them any credence. Emotion isn't considered a player int he gender war, based on the very thing the gender war is fighting about. How's that poetical?

It goes back to that old saying, "The personal is political," and flipped around the other way, that the political is personal. Yes, I care about feminism. Yes, I'm going to argue with said care and said emotion. No, that doesn't mean my facts are wrong, or that the simple presence of fiery rhetoric somehow washes away the logical basis of my argument in a waterfall of womanly tears. I might get frustrated, because... well, arguing with people who are, at the basis of their perspective, telling you that your beliefs are pulled out of thin air: that's a frustrating thing. But it doesn't mean I'm somehow inferior, or less academic or intellectual, than you are.

And even in my own language, there's an assumption that emotion, or passion, as an ingredient to argument is somehow invalid; that to have passion without the über logic behind it would be some kind of blasphemy. And while I know a good argument is based in fact, emotion and emotional experience, have their place as well. The ancient Greeks knew it, but we've somehow forgotten: there's more than one way to appeal to audience, to make an argument, and while logos and ethos are key, pathos has a place in there too.

It goes back to the whole idea of emotion as, in general, bad or biased; this modern idea that the "objective perspective," when backed up with logic, is somehow infallible in the face of all other types of plea (as is, in fact, preferable to any other type of plea). No, the world doesn't care if you've been offended or hurt, as, based on it's calculated analyses, you have no logical reason to be. Well, guess what? Human's aren't machines, and yeah, we all have feelings, regardless of the genitalia between our legs or the names we put on our gender identity.

So yes, logic is important, but emotion, passion, and lived experience get a seriously short shrift in the whole gender-war thing; as a result of this, there tend to be big disclaimers at the beginnings of articles like Manson's. A sort of "Okay guys, I KNOW this is a super touchy feely subject, and I KNOW you're probably all not gonna wanna talk about it, but let's grit our manly man teeth and wade through this mess with some manfacts."

To which I say, especially to Mr. Manson: the waters don't have to be so rough. If reading Caitlin Moran recently has taught me anything, it's that feminism can be very, very simple, and that by using things like humor and emotion as appeals, discussion of feminism become all that more accessible (which is, greatly, the point of all this: having communities and safe spaces are important, but I'm most ecstatic when I can be accessible enough to bring somebody around on the topic). Beginning an article with a big "WARNING: GENDER DISCUSSION AHEAD" is like never saying Voldemort's name; yeah, gender discussion can get emotional, but the way that we view that emotion as somehow invalid: that's the bullshit part. I like the rough water; that chop can be pretty fucking fun, and just like feminism, it can be pretty easy to get into if you try.

So I'd ask you, Mr. Manson, to go ahead and try. Tap into your pathos; I know it can be hard, especially with all the pressure that masculinity puts on men not to feel anything (and yeah, challenging that is a part of feminism too). But it's not so scary, Mr. Manson, and you don't have to be tarred and feathered unless you set yourself up to be.

You might get challenged on the internet for the bogus assumptions you make about theory and philosophy, but... well, that's your logic failing, not other peoples' pathos getting out of hand.

Off to read more of Moran. It's a seriously great book. Previews for up and coming entries include:

- The Finale of the Fifty Shades is Bullshit series
- Why Fifty Shades of Grey is Specifically Anti-Feminist
- What's up with the whole Gorean thing
- Baby's first kink, part three
- My Corset Collection (pictures included)

Here's hoping I find some time to actually write them.

Until next time,

The Good Girl

I Have Herpes, part trois

It's been just over four months since I first found out I have HSV-1 on my genitals. It's looking up. Considering where I started with this, it's looking way, way up. I think, in part, I owe a thank-you a crappy doctor, and even, maybe, to the virus itself. Positivity and activism start in the weirdest places. Here's that story.

Shortly after getting my results from Zoomcare, I made an appointment with my regular doctor to go talk to her about what I could do, what kind of meds I could take, and how (after being tested so many times over the course of the previous months) I could possibly be positive. My regular doctor is great; she owns and operates her own clinic in North Portland, is very naturopath/alternative medicine friendly. She believes in quality of patient care, and usually allots double the appointment time per patient as most doctors. She takes her time, she's sex-positive and friendly.

But my regular doctor was on vacation, and another Nurse Practitioner was covering her appointments. It was the same clinic, so although I wasn't as comforted by the idea of seeing a new doctor, I was fairly sure she'd be as supportive, as sex-positive, etc., as the woman who hired her.

I was kind of wrong. A few minutes into the appointment, the first hints of this appeared. I'd done a bunch of research by then, but like all medical research (even the stuff in hold-in-you-hand-books), I wanted the same answers from an actual physician. I asked her if she had any idea where I'd gotten it, any idea about the differences between types (at the time, I didn't know which type I had), any idea about how to proceed from here.

She asked me, of course, if there's a chance my partner had slept with someone else. Under the circumstances, it was a reasonable question. After I told her "no," she kept pushing, kept telling me that was the most likely way I could have contracted the disease. I asked her if there were other ways, and she answered, pretty simply "I don't know."

And that stayed her answer for just about everything.

"What's the difference between type 1 and type 2, practically, for my life?" 

"I mean, we don't really know that. Probably not much."

That is, very simply, an incorrect answer. But I understand physicians probably feel some pressure to have answers, and when they don't, chalking the lack of knowledge up to the medical establishment at large is understandable.

Wait. No, it's not. This is my sexual health. This is my health health. If you don't know the answer, then tell me that. Or, better yet, go ask a colleague in the office. That's what happened when I went back, after the visit, and that's when I got a really awesome pamphlet that they had hanging on the back of the door that basically answered all my questions. Just ask. I'll wait. Happily, because I really, really wanted all the information I could get.

Up until that point, I felt like she was sort of ill-informed, but I wasn't mad or seriously put off. I was disappointed  but not angry. Up until now, although she hadn't helped me much, she hadn't done anything egregious.

Then I asked her about suppressive medications.

"So, I have a partner, he's negative, we're staying together. I'm wondering what I can do about suppressive meds." I'm tearing up a little at this point, hands in my lap, perched on the paper-covered exam table, because it's pretty touching to me that Sir* is staying, how supportive he's been, how loved I feel, etc. 

"Well, I'm not sure they'll do much." 

"But, I've been with people before who were positive, and they took suppressive meds partly to lessen my risk, and..." I'm tearing up, and I apologize for it (because I was taught to apologize for being emotional, always), and I take a tissue from her. 

"You might want to wait to make this decision when you're a little less emotional."

*He really needs a different name here, one that isn't so kink-related, for when I'm talking about non-kinky things, but when I don't want to refer to him as "my partner" all the time.


And that, right there, is where I sort of wrote her off. That's where the apologies stopped, because fuck you doctor lady, damn right I'm emotional. We bantered back and forth about medication for a while, her saying I should really think about what I put in my body, my saying that the sexual health of my partner and my comfort in my own body were really important to me, etc. etc. Eventually, I sort of straight up told her "Hey, I want a prescription for suppressive meds. Are you going to give me one or not?" At which point she wrote me one, and walked out.

The amount of shame I felt in that moment, having to pry this thing out of her was... staggering. I felt like a prostitute in confessional; I felt like everything, everything was my fault, like I wasn't handling things well, like I was being a child about all of it. I kept asking, kept sticking to what I knew I wanted, but there are few times in my life I can remember when it was so hard.

I don't know when we started discounting emotion so much in society, especially for women. But I lead a rich, highly informative, very intelligent emotional life. My emotions are really important to me. They're how I connect with other people. And even if they weren't - even if I was some über-logical machine (as the redditors would have us believe is the paradigm of debate) - that is not a reason to doubt my adult decision making capabilities.

Sir picked me up after the appointment, and I cried about it some more. I'm really good at crying, and I think most of the time, it's really good for me. But I also felt something else. A small and almost undetectable rage brewing at the bottom of the crying. An indignation, tiny and dwarfed by how much shame I felt about my own body, but an indignation just the same. A part of me that thought: yes, you can do something about this, no, you should not have to feel this way, yes, there is a place for positive change in this new disease. Yes, you should do something about this. Something needs to be done, and lucky you, you get to be the one to do some of the something.

So, since then, I've made a few small changes. I asked my co-worker to stop making herpes jokes during our pre-set (he didn't ask me to explain, and I didn't offer, but he did stop). I display my herpes books right next to my kink books and sex-positive books. These are worlds that interact, for me, and pretending like they don't doesn't do any good.

I'm open and honest about the fact that I have herpes. It even came up in the shower (we were talking about STD scares), with a few friends at the hippie festival (it was a non-sexual situation. Hippies just tend to... get naked together at any opportunity). They seemed a little weirded out at first, but I answered some questions, and explained, and by the end, we were joking and discussing it openly.

Other than that, and the blog posts, I haven't done anything super-activisty about it. But I'd like to.

I think it's important to talk about it, and I think how powerful talking (or not talking) can be is often supremely underrated. This became especially apparent when Sir pointed out, a few months in, that I never said the word out loud. That I always said "this thing," or "an STD." And if Harry Potter taught me anything, it's that avoiding a word gives it all that much more power, usually undeserved and destructive. So now I say it all the time.

Herpes. Herpes herpes herpes herpes. Herpes!

Oh, and that NP who I saw? I asked, last time I was in, if they had any review forms for patient experiences with other doctors at the clinic. My regular doctor turned to me, and in response, said: "Oh, [NP]? Yeah, she's no longer with us."