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."