Tag Archive for Change

Why Queer?

Recently I changed my profile on FetLife to state that my orientation is “Queer.” This does not actually reflect a change in who I like to have sex with or what turns me on.  It does reflect a growth in my understanding of myself and how I interact with the world around me. How I got to this place in my sexual identity is a bit of a journey and I would like to take a minute to share that.

My first romantic experiences were with my BFF in grade school. She and I were attached at the hip sort of friends. We fought like cats and dogs, we adventured out and around the little harbor town we lived in, and we stirred up way too much trouble.  I still remember the day, Valentine’s Day actually, that our parents were not paying enough attention to us in our opinions and we embarked on intentionally getting as drunk as we possibly could on the liquor in my Mom’s stash. This all ended with her attempting to walk/jog through the glass sliding door at my house, braking her nose, nearly bleeding out from the huge cuts she got, and having the doctor at the ER tell her mom that she almost died from alcohol poisoning. It was a crazy thing for kids to be doing but life was rough for each of us, our families were broken dysfunctional messes, and we were young and stupid. Aside from our wild times finding trouble, we also touched each other and kissed and cuddled.  All of that seemed natural. We loved each other in our own way and neither of us thought we were doing anything romantic, we were just playing.

Through my younger years, I often had a close friend who was a girl who I would kiss and fool around with but that was different than when I started having sex with guys. That is how I saw it, I was just doing what seemed reasonable with my friends who were girls and having actual ‘real’ sex with guys. I had no frame of reference. I had no internet to tell me what sex was.  I had no class in school that explained what sex between women looked like. I had no friends who identified as lesbian.  I had a few friends who quietly admitted they were gay but again, that sex seemed like ‘real’ sex to me because sex was defined by penises in my mind. I honestly never thought about what sex between two women would look like. It wasn’t a concept I had any framework for.

In my house growing up, being gay was described as a terrible horrible thing.  I had a Great Uncle who had lived in a closeted relationship with his ‘friend’ for 20+ years.  My family was embarrassed and spoke very rude things about him when he wasn’t around. They were not terribly kind even when he was in the room.  His partner was never at any family functions.  My grandmother spoke of him, her only brother, as though he was her dependent child whom she needed to protect from himself. When his partner died, my grandmother refused to allow my aging Great Uncle to attend his funeral because, “it wouldn’t look right.” My father constantly degraded what he called ‘the gays’ and would make terrible jokes about them.  When my older brother was arrested, multiple times, became addicted to drugs, failed and dropped out of high school, and ran away from home over and over again my father would always chase him down and try to get him out of trouble. Hiring lawyers and whatever it took to try to help him. 

Dad always said, “No matter what you do you are always my son.”  That all changed when my brother came home from running away and introduced my father to his lover, Cornelius. Once my brother said, “I’m gay,” Dad never treated him the same.  I remember my Dad saying, “He is so far gone that now he thinks he is gay, he is not my son that I raised anymore.” My understanding of what being gay meant was warped and negative.  I had no actual understanding, only fear and hate taught to me.

As an adult, I had lots of kids very young and became a very isolated radical believer in a conservative religion. For ten years I had no further opportunities to learn about sexuality.  I worked very hard to suppress any sexuality I had that might exist outside of the ‘marriage bed.’ In that bed, our particular version of faith taught anything was fair game.  It never occurred to me to have sexual anything with anyone, male or female or trans person or other, except for my God given loser of a husband. Even in that restricted sexual world I was kinky as hell and had no idea that is what I was.  I really thought all people had rough sex all the time. Choking, getting tied up, watersports, etc…all of that I assumed was normal and just not spoken about on Sunday morning.

When I finally got out of that marriage and came to the community, I really had no tools to define or understand myself with.  I explored swinging and anonymous internet hook ups, BDSM, and power exchange.  It was all a wild rush of freeing sexual experiences. Multiple men in my bed was wonderful and exciting and felt very liberating from the years of blindness induced by my own efforts to follow a faith. Eventually I also shared my body, my bed, my sexuality with a few women as well. Here and there, nothing romantic. Just part of the hedonistic joy I was finding in sex.

Then Master came into my life and we began our relationship together.  Very early in our friendship he had questioned me as to why I identified as heterosexual. We had long talks about it. I was convinced I was straight, mostly because I didn’t have any idea what else I would be. He asked me if I had ever had sex with a woman.  My honest answer was, “No, never.”  He looked at me sideways and asked about several experiences with women that he knew I had had. I said, again honestly, “Oh, that isn’t sex…there was no penetration.”  I thought he was going to fall out of his chair.  I really could not understand what was so funny. He talked with me for a long time about sex between women and asked basic questions I had never considered. Things like, “Well then, how do two women have sex?” and “What is sex?”

It wasn’t that I thought sex between women was bad or that sex between any types of people was bad.  I love sex!  All sex. I just had never stopped to think about the basics and I guess the community around me never thought to say, “Hey are you naïve beyond reason and we just don’t know it.”  Because really who would think a woman in her 30s in the kink community with all sorts of partners wouldn’t know what sex was. Looking back I find myself amazed at how naïve I really was. 

After those talks, I recognized that I had been having sex with men, women, and genderfluid folks for as long as I had been having sex. I realized that throughout my life I had often been assumed to be a lesbian. I could remember half a dozen women who had really gotten confused and pissed when I said I was straight after they had been involved in what they surely thought was courtship and some of them a sexual relationship with me.  I had been chided for being “a breeder” which I didn’t understand. I had held a couple of women in my arms as they cried about me not entering into a ‘relationship’ with them while I didn’t understand what was going on at all.

I wasn’t trying to be mean.  I wasn’t trying to be stupid. I just had no idea what they saw in me or what they wanted from me. I was dense. Well, better put, I was ignorant.

After Master helped me understand what I had been doing my whole life, I started to identify my orientation as ‘bisexual.’ During the past year though I began to feel that wasn’t really right either.  Last year at WIL-Fest I had some amazing energy exchanges with women.  I once again found myself learning what ought to have been obvious to me but simply wasn’t…I was attracted to people.  Not genders.  I was attracted to their energy, how they felt to me, how my body and mind and spirit responded to them.  Gender was completely not a factor for me in who and what turned me on…it is the way they ‘feel.’

Energy and energy-sex are things I have little ability to describe.  After a year of exploring energy-sex and entering into a relationship with someone who really engages in energy as sexuality I finally realized that is what does it for me. I am neither bi nor het, I am something else. Queer fits how my sex orients.

Master was reluctant to allow me to identify as queer for several reasons.  First and foremost, he is a words man.  Words have power and he was not comfortable with the word ‘queer’ because it is a relatively new term and not clearly defined.  Some people see ‘queer’ as a community affiliation, some see it as meaning ‘confused’, some see it as being attracted to all types of people. He wasn’t sure it would be clear.  He felt ‘bisexual’ indicated logically that I am sexually attracted to both women and men.  Clear and clean.

He also was not comfortable with the notion that I might be viewed as taking on some sort of trendy identity that the Queer community would not welcome me to share. He has great respect for the GLBTQ community and would not want to seem to be usurping a word or term that many before us had worked so hard to empower.

That was until we sat on the patio this past weekend at Southeast LeatherFest and engaged in hours of conversations about gender, orientation, and identity. We talked with our friends about my desire to identify myself as queer.  Some said no, that I wasn’t queer because ‘queer’ means “Queer as folk” and “you with him looking like a het couple just isn’t queer to me.” 

Back and forth the conversation went until our friend Master Ian finally said, “Would you have sex with a woman?” “Yes” “A man?” “Yes” “A trans man?” “Yes” “A gender fluid person?” “Yes.”  Master Ian turned to Master and said, “That isn’t a binary…it isn’t one of two choices…she isn’t Bisexual.” Master nodded and smiled.  He recognized that he learned an important lesson about gender and orientation identities and about shaking away all those old enculturated biases we don’t even know we have. 

The lens we each see the world through is never as clear and crisp as we imagine.  Master is always willing and open to learning when he has a perspective that he hasn’t recognized as bias. His leadership over my life is fueled by his own growth and self-exploration.  He is an amazing man. After that conversation he agreed that yes I am queer and I feel happy and centered in my sexuality in a way I never have before. Making that change on my FetLife profile is trivial compared to the journey I took to get there.

I am a slave and I am queer. I am so thankful that I have a life that encourages me to learn and grow.

Dirty Sex

Recently as we sat visiting with some dear friends on their patio, Master and I were talking about sex.  This is not rare for us; we tend to be very comfortable talking about our sexuality and our experiences including the good, the bad, and the messy. This particular conversation turned toward female ejaculation. I suggested that while anatomy and such all likely impact why some women squirt and some don’t, I also felt like part of the cause for non-squirting could be attributed to a woman feeling self-conscious during sex.

As we grow up, women tend to be made very aware of their hygiene and physical appearance.  This is perhaps not universally true in all cultures, but it does seem to be fairly standard issue in the United States.  Think of all the warnings about, “Be sure you always have clean underwear on in case you get into an accident.” Consider that smelling like a human being is considered poor form and so deodorant companies make millions from selling us things to keep us smelling less like humans and more like flowers. Being clean and presentable are part and parcel of most girl’s upbringing, certain they were part of mine.

I think this can also be said of boys and their upbringing, yet I honestly think it is to a lesser degree.  Boys know that getting dirty outside and playing with frogs is allowed now and again.  Men are reared to understand that while there is certainly a time and a place for being gentlemanly and looking dapper, there are also many times and places where men are allowed and even expected to get grubby.  I personally know that a sweaty man is often deeply appealing and very masculine. Think of the greasy auto mechanic or the blacksmith swinging his hefty hammer with sweat pouring off of his hard muscles. These images engender sexual stirrings in many a heart.

Women tend to not have these same freedoms. The wild woman spirit often longs to be out and muck about in the woods, yet this is frowned upon and we are discouraged from being wanton and muddy. Women are expected to trim, pluck, shave, scrub, peel, clip, curl, tuck, lift, squeeze, poke, and iron out all manner of parts of their body in order to achieve being beautiful or feminine. I remember my mother telling me, “It hurts to be beautiful.” She was not making a social commentary on how difficult it must be to bear the burden of beauty but instead teaching me that my role as a woman would require me to suffer pain in order to be desirable.

Womankind often carries this need to be kempt and lovely and so many women find themselves continuing to carry these fears into their love life. Women with these fears of being messy or unclean often shy away from many types of sexual play.  I have had many conversations with women about their avoidance of anal sex because there might be poop involved and how they are too scared to really cum during sex because they might pee by mistake.

There was a pamphlet I got at my OB/GYN’s office about “Urinary Incontinence and Sexual Dysfunction.” In the pamphlet, it described how many women lose the ability to orgasm because they are so ashamed that they squirt when they cum.  The point of the pamphlet was to encourage women to seek help for this via surgical intervention to resolve this debilitating problem. While I agree, not having orgasms would be debilitating I do not think peeing when you cum is anything to be upset about.

I also remember reading several passages in various pregnancy and birthing books that discuss how to bear down when pushing a baby out.  These each carefully instruct mothers to be to not concern themselves with the possibility of having a bowel movement during this process because the staff would be understanding and would whisk any poo away quickly. Many years ago it was standard practice to give a woman in early labor an enema, in part, to avoid having her resist pushing due to her fear of pooping. Good gracious!  Seriously, there you are in the throes of labor about to crown this seemingly impossibly large baby head through your vagina and you are worried about shitting?? Seriously?  Yet, this is a real concern that women have struggled with enough to make it part of labor instruction manuals.

Let it go girls!  Let yourself be free enough of this fear of being dirty to at least enjoy wild dirty sex. I don’t profess to avoid personal hygiene, far from it. The first things I do every morning are shower, shave, brush my teeth, put on deodorant, and fix my hair. I am all for being lovely and clean.  I feel best when I am clean as I begin my day.  When it comes to sex though, I am unrestrained.

Farting because I cum really hard does not freak me out. Squirting is all good, the larger the spot on the sheets the hotter the cumming was. Whether or not the squirt is made up of pee or some other liquid is not important at all. Even if it is 100% pissing while I cum, still all good with me. I have even on occasion said in a breathless husky post coitus whisper to Sir, “I think maybe I pooped, can you check?” Thus far he has always been able to report that I had not actually pooped to my relief but even had he come back with a different report, I would not change the way I abandon self-awareness. Sex for me is about being raw and undone. There is nothing withheld from Master. Sweat, tears, piss, shit, blood, and snot all spring forth without restraint.

As we sat and talked about sex and the issuing forth of various bodily fluids (I know, our conversations are so genteel aren’t they?) something occurred to me.  I was not always like this sexually.  I have always been wild in bed.  Even as a teenager I was a cat in heat whenever I had the chance but I was not always without self awareness during intercourse.

I thought about when did that change and as with so many things in my life I realized it was Master’s doing.  I remember that the very first time we had penetrative vaginal sex I was on my period. Master and I were very new and dating and he had suggested that he was planning on fucking that night. I became really nervous and finally after much prodding as to why I was upset, I admitted that I was having my period and I was scared to have sex because it might upset him.  I remember him laughing and saying, “Even better!”  I was really upset then and started crying and explaining to him that he didn’t understand because he was a man and girls are taught that periods are very dirty and I pretty much had a little emotional meltdown.  Once he saw that for me this was really a problem he stopped chuckling, looked me in the eyes, and explained slowly and sincerely that period or no he wanted me.  Period blood was a part of me and my womanhood and he wanted all of me.  Needless to say, we had some hot fucking in pretty short order.

Master spent many an hour expressing in clear and direct ways that every part of me was acceptable to him, desired by him, and owned by him.  Finding out that his pleasure was secured best through my willingness to be exposed and vulnerable to him in all ways was the key to finding myself completely unaware of my fears about my body during sex.  I never think about my body as unattractive or dirty when he is fucking me.  Now I feel only lusty sexy open desire to be consumed in his lust.  Perhaps that is unseemly in some way, but it is not unseemly to him and he is all that matters in my sexual world.

Are You Ready Boots? Start Walking!

When I was a little kid I owned four pairs of shoes.  The first pair was the sneakers that I wore all day every day.  I would wear them to school where I would play in the playground (assuming of course that I wasn’t in trouble for failing to follow some arbitrary rule that I didn’t create). My sneakers were not just for walking.  They were also excellent brakes when I rode my bicycle, rain boots when I splashed in puddles, hiking boots when I went to the woods that I was most definitely not supposed to play in, and so on.  Their many uses were endless. My second pair of childhood shoes was the worn out version of the first pair, kept in case I needed to “get dirty.”

My third pair of shoes was invariably some random child dress shoe whose wearing involved an event that required me to sit still and be quiet. As sitting still and being quiet were the two most impossible tasks for my childhood self to tackle, I knew that if I was wearing dress shoes I would be miserable and uncomfortable.  My fourth pair of shoes was the cleats that I wore when I played soccer. Given that I enjoyed playing soccer only marginally more than I enjoyed sitting still and being quiet, I hardly enjoyed wearing cleats.

Recently, I have started going to the gym to exercise.  While I suppose that I should be gleaning some great insight about the importance of fitness and health to one’s mood, the biggest thing I have learned whilst at the gym is that Fox News is just as annoying without any sound as it is with sound.  As I generally avoid watching Fox News with or without sound, I had never considered the over/under of how annoying Fox News is while muted versus with the sound on. It turns out that reading the crazy is just as frightening as listening to it.  The only bonus of muted Fox News is that occasionally the closed captioning doesn’t exactly match what is spoken.  For instance yesterday there was a big hue and cry about whether President Obama committed “tree son” because of his declaration that he supported gay marriage. I’m not sure what “tree son” is exactly, but I suspect the folks that oppose gay marriage are against it (which makes me for it, though again I don’t know what it is and indeed it may be a wholly bad idea).  I suspect that they were debating the merits of whether the President committed treason, while just as asinine as “tree son,” it is a smidge more congruent with their perverse view of the world.  Again, there was no sound for me to compare to the closed captioning, so I’m speculating here.

But I digress.  As I have started going to the gym, I discovered that I did not own a pair of shoes appropriate for working out in.  This surprised me because as I have grown older my collection of shoes has expanded geometrically.  Off the top of my head, my shoe count includes the following: two pairs of fetish boots, cowboy boots, work boots, rubber boots, leather casual/going out shoes, two pairs of casual work shoes, five pairs of Converse in various colors, two pairs of dress shoes, a wingtips, swimming shoes, shower shoes, pool shoes, and probably two or three other pairs of shoes designated for some activity that I’ve never actively engaged in.

How on earth did I go from really only needing one pair of shoes to having so many?  While I am sure that some of that change can be attributed to growing up.  In some ways I still feel the dread I felt as a child while wearing dress shoes because wearing dress shoes often involves activities I would rather avoid like court appearances, job interviews, or funerals.  Still I have grown and recognize their importance and the fact that these events require a slightly different pair of shoes than the shoes I might wear while puttering around the house or attending a leather conference.

Some of the shoes I own simply puzzle me. Like my swimming shoes.  I don’t go snorkeling or scuba diving, so I don’t own any fins.  As nearly as I can tell, swimming doesn’t actually require wearing any shoes. Yet somehow I have come into possession of shoes that I would only wear while trying to avoid the rocks and beer can detritus that one finds at the lake.   I also own shower shoes that I wear to the pool.  Again, you don’t need shoes to swim yet I own two pairs dedicated to that activity – an activity that I rarely engage in.

I also own a pair of rubber boots that I can wear if I have to walk in the mud. I walk in the mud even less often than I go swimming, so their utility is minimal and my ownership of them slightly more mystifying.

Thinking about all of my various shoes, I realized that taken together they tell a story of about me. Or at least they tell a big part of it. Together my shoes represent all of the things that I do and all of the things that I am.  My life, like my shoe collection, is composed of various parts that serve different functions. My shoes tell my story and I realized that if you wanted to know who I am you wouldn’t need to walk a mile in my shoes, you’d need to walk several miles in all of them.