Too much reality

There’s something that happens to a woman after a certain age.  She has to shed her skin and become a new woman.  Reinvent herself.  So many think that reinventing should mean “re-claiming”.   I did.  That’s what I was trying to do for such a long time.  I was trying to reclaim myself.  Reclaim the sexuality that I had not just flaunted but frankly earned through all those years.  But instead, I am trying to keep the door open a redesign, a reinvention.  But in order to do that I have to lose that part of myself.  I have to shed that skin.

(If my mom were reading this she  would be mortified that I’m using a snake analogy to make my point, but I think for women it makes sense.)

I wish I knew when I first felt this slipping away.  I used to kid with my lovers that I hit my sexual peak at 27 and it was all downhill from there.  It wasn’t.  But add a good coat of shaming and a weekly dose of disappointment and you find yourself asking what is sexy anymore.

Take these images:

  1. Being fucked doggy-style while being fucked in the face by another cock.
  2. Strapping on a pink cock and fucking a woman silly with it.
  3. Smearing chocolate sauce on my skin and having it licked off slowly.
  4. Being suspended by my toes and having my back and ass set on fire.
  5. Having a group of 8 or so men drop loads on my face and tits
  6. Being backed up against a car, with a hand wound tightly in my hair and kissed passionately
  7. Being ordered to stand in a corner and masturbate until Master is ready for me.

Any and all of these things could be sexy.  Absolutely. But the question is…is it sexy to me?  Sometimes it is. But for me over the past 5 years, reality has been getting in the way.

Number 1 has happened in real life.  Ordinarily I would relish in the old memories and relive them over and over again as fantasies, but while most of them are great memories, there hasn’t been talk for 3 years of anything like that remotely happening again…so, it makes me sad to think about.

Number 2 has happened in reverse.  Being fucked silly by that strap-on.  But I don’t relish taking control over a woman like that unless it’s the right woman.

Number 3 happened in high school with my boyfriend and again in college.  It was contrived and not as sensual as it sounded.  Seeing it happen at a recent fundraiser left me feeling envy for that experience to happen on a much more intimate scale.

Number 4 has not happened.   While I have a lot of rope and fire enthusiasts in my life, I get dizzy easily and immediately panic when dizzy.  There are only two or three people I would consider doing this with.  One is gay, one I’d have to pay and the other isn’t as experienced with ropes but I’d trust him to be there while we figured it out.

Number 5 almost happened except I backed out for a number of reasons.  I couldn’t guarantee safe sex.  I couldn’t guarantee that none of the men would make a comment about my body or my weight or that I wouldn’t be called “dumb slut” (emphasis on dumb)

Number 6 happened a few weeks ago.   It is real and it’s happened with only a handful of men in my life.  Always organically. Always with intention.  Always with passion.  And always with love.  However, there was one time when I expected it to happen and it didn’t.  My disappointment and resentment was so all-consuming that I block this moment out when I fantasize or relive anything for fear of ever reinforcing it as an expectation ever again.

Number 7 did not happen, but was discussed with men who were my “Dom”s so often that you think it had happened.  There is not anyone I would call Master, even in a play setting.  And frankly the humiliation part of this image turns me off greatly now.  I’m still trying to figure out why.

I’m not a voyeur, kids.  I don’t like standing by the sidelines watching the action take place.  But I also can’t seem to get a handle on anything that turns me on so much that I feel qualified to jump into the fray.  I hear about amazing scenes, I’ve watched people having intense sex and play.  I’m happy for them, truly.  But envious as well. And yet, the only porn that really works for me these days is gay porn.  Porn where there is no woman, no part for me to play, where I’m distanced and detached from what is happening on the screen or the page.

A few weeks ago, we had an opportunity to go to a party where the theme was “sybian-a-thon”.  Neat concept, but difficult to execute.  I have only had one major orgasm in public ever and while sex machines and sybians in particular fascinate me, it’s from detached viewpoint and e where I’m jumping up and down hoping for this new experience.  In fact, my husbands had to spend over an hour talking me into going (which I had been obligated to do).

The first thing that goes through my head is “why are you acting like this?”  “Is this the same woman who fucked x number of men and has seduced countless others?”  “What is wrong with you?” Then comes the guilt and the self-punishment for all my botched relationships, all the bad judgment calls…

and then the worst judgment call of all.  Had I not lost my job because of writing about my sexuality then everything would be great.  M would still be here. I would still have a job I could  have respected.  I would not have wasted so much of my professional life.  I blame myself more for that failure than I do for most anything else in my life.  And all that blame got internalized to attack my sexuality.  To make everything I did back then unsafe, unclean, un-professional, juvenile and a reflection of such poor judgment and self-esteem…

I cry even writing that.

I’ve realized that there were reasons why that job would not suit me and I wouldn’t give up what I’ve gained in growth and strength. But that’s the thing.  Each woman grows and develops, discovers more of what she wants and doesn’t want.  And the skin I wore back when all these experiences happened or at least were envisioned is too tight around me.  It’s constricting and it doesn’t fit the fluid being I am right now.  The one who passionately cares for LGBTQ rights and is attracted to gender fluidity.  The one who stands tall with her gay leather brothers.  The one who took the risk to leave a job and start a business of my own.

Recently I was made into a sex object by someone very close to me.  Objectification at it’s most basic level.  It creeps me out.  Makes my skin crawl.  Makes me want to puke thinking about this person jacking off to thoughts of me and images of me he easily obtained without my consent and knowledge.  It’s tainted the depth that I crave.  It’s started up the process of attacking myself for what has happened and I live with it everyday.  Each day is a struggle to determine whether I am doing the right thing by trying to hold onto my sexual identity or whether I should just continue the cycle of shame that my mom and others think is required for my perverse lifestyle.  It reinforces the attack and internalizes it even further.

Look, it has become even more important now for me to feel, in reality, what I am capable of sexually.  I don’t read stories that involve a prescribed list of traits in order to get off.  I want to know, truly know, that what I read, what I fantasize about will actually happen for me.  I want to feel the energy in my bones and the tension in my muscles.  I want to smile silly when it’s all over and I only want to read and view things that bring me closer to that possibility.  Things that will deepen the experiences I’ve already had.  Will make me shed tears of joy when I finally reach that sweaty orgasm.  It’s not the images, it’s not the words, it’s not the repeated memories…I need a space without shame and without expectation.  I need a place where there’s not a set pattern for what we do or how.  I get off on intensity.  On feeling the pull toward someone and resisting just enough to create tighter tension until neither of us can take it anymore.  I get off on hearing myself grunt and moan because i’m so engaged that I don’t worry about anything else.  I need experiences that make me feel present and alive, adored and wanted on the deepest levels possible.

The answer, the solution I am experimenting with is to walk away from the girl I once was.  The one who had a repitoire of skills and abilities that she could bring to anyone.  The one who would accept a bad experience and make it into something bigger than it was.  But keep the value of finding joy in the interactions I have and of bringing out the best.  All without further swallowing disappointment and resentment.  Looking for the depth of the experience and not the image or likeness of that.

I’m rambling.  It’s 2:30 in the morning and I’m no closer to resolution.  I started out somewhere awesome and ended up in quite the same place that put me here.  Exhausted.

Posted on August 14, 2011, in Real Life and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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