Yes, YOU.

You know a sexual assault survivor…in fact, you probably know a whole bunch.

It doesn’t matter what gender you are, what your orientation is, how many friends you have, where you live, or even whether you have assault/harassesed/raped someone in the past, or whether you spent time working against sexual assault.

You still know people who have been assaulted. Don’t be an ostrich and pretend that you don’t. They could be friends, family, co-workers, lovers, partners, former partners, teachers, students, dog-walkers, etc. You know them.

And if you’re a good person, which I assume you are (or at least, want to be), you’ll want to support them in some way.  There are so many ways to help people who are victims/survivors (I prefer survior, not all people do), so why not give it a go.  Here are some ideas:

*Believe them. So often, people talk about false reports, how people make stuff up, how unless a penis went in a vagina while she struggled and shouted no that it’s not assault. All of that is bullshit. If someone shares a little or a lot of their story with you, BELIEVE THEM.

*Be there.  Be there whether they decide to tell you or not, whether they tell you just one sentence or the whole story comes pouring out.  Just be there.

*Ask what you can do to help. Some people need a shoulder, others need a place to crash, some just want you to hold them while others don’t want you to touch them. ALWAYS ask, whether this happened yesterday or ten years ago.

*Do NOT try to tell a survivor what they “should” or “have to” do.  They want to regain strength and control.  Be there to help, but let them make their own decisions, like who to tell (or n0t), what charges to file (or to not do so), etc. There is not right way to be a survivor.

*Do NOT add more violence to the situation, by saying things like “I’m going to kill that fucking asshole” or “that bitch is gonna die.” Violence is scary period. It is MUCH scarier after you’ve been intimately affected by it.

*For those who are dealing with legal or medical rammifications, help them.  Whether that is driving them to a court house, helping them film out school/police reports, googling info on local laws, statutes of limitations, finding them a SANE (sexual asssault nurse examiner) to help them find evidence, etc. It doesn’t have to be an all day event; any little thing is a show of support.

*Donate money, time or both to your local or national sexual assault organizations, whether they shelter surviors, run hotlines, train college campuses on how to change the climate towards sexual assault prevention, etc.

*Help compile lists of good therapists; get recommendations from friends, online, from sexual assault survivor support sites.  Make copies, or put them online.  If you’re in a more niche community (queer, kink, etc), help find kink aware therapists, and queer friendly professionals.

*Make lists of local sexual assault support organizations.  Have these available or hand or email to survivors.

*Speak out. On facebook, change your status to say something against sexual assault or that you support survivors. On twitter, tweet about it. Put up a blog post, or relink to posts like this on tumbler. In the real world, stand up and speak. Be part of Take Back the Night. When someone touches someone inappropriately, or says something that is harassement, speak out against it.  There IS strength in numbers.

It is only if we all band together that we can make change. Don’t be part of the problem, but worse, don’t be a bystander.  Bystanders are how people get killed because no one spoke up, or how sexual harassment becomes an acceptable norm, because no one spoke up. Don’t be that person.  Do whatever you can, however little or however big, to support sexual assault survivors, and to work together to eliminate and eradicate sexual assault.

-Essin’ Em

I will write more about support survivors and such this month, but for now, here is my story.  Same as ever, I just get a little bit stronger each and every time I tell it and realize that I am stronger than he could ever be.  Last year, he moved back into Denver, to a neighborhood right by mine. How do I know this? Because he found me on facebook, and messaged me to tell me he was living near me.  Asking me if I wanted to hook up.  I called Q in tears, terrified I’d run into him at the park or the grocery.  He never realized how much he fucked me up.

But I won. I decided not to be afraid to go out, not to change my schedule.  Because I am stronger than him. And always will be.

This is my story.

This isn’t the story of someone walking home in the dark and getting jumped by a stranger from the bushes. Most sexual assaults don’t happen that way.

Nor is it a story of me going out and drinking/hooking up with someone who had been drinking and it just going too far. Some sexual assaults happen that way.

It also isn’t a story of my partner not listening to me, and doing something we had done before even though I said no this time. Sexual assaults happen this way a lot more than people realize.

No. This is the story of how friendship of sorts can lead sexual coercion and how that can lead to sexual assault. And how that can lead to survivor blaming.

I was 17, and it was the second semester of my first year in college. I had this friendship/crush thing with a guy from a different hall on the same floor all year, and it had been completely unfruitful. Occasionally we’d listen to the Smashing Pumpkins together (he let me burn all his CDs), occasionally we’d sit together in the dining hall, occasionally, I’d run into him at parties. He was always sarcastic, but also quite witty…and I liked him.

Winter break came, and I went home to Denver. One night, quite late (2am or so), he IMed me, which wasn’t abnormal. However, what *was* odd was how he was acting. He was being flirty and coming onto me….and of course, since I liked him at the time, I was the same way back. The conversation ended, and that was that.

Then I came back to school in January for the half-block (two weeks of a short and fun class before regular classes started again. He was there too…I saw him around occasionally, but there was nothing different about our interactions. Lots of sarcasm and wit.

One night, I was on my computer, and he IMed me again. He was being flirty again, and told me to come over to his room…he had a book he thought I would like. I walked over to his room, knocked on his door, and he told me to come in…I did, and he was sitting at his computer, naked as a jaybird. I turned around and high tailed it out of there, running back to my room. I was so confused; what the hell was that supposed to mean?

He was online again, telling me to come back, and that he was sorry, and clothed again. Stupidly, I decided to go back. It was half block, and no one was there, and he was being flirtatious, and I had liked him for months. So I went back.

This time, he had his clothes on. I think he may have been a bit tipsy; I don’t know. We sat and chatted for a little bit, and then we wound up sitting and talking in in his bed. We wound up making out, and I was shocked. I didn’t know what was going on…up until this point, I had kissed two or three people, and dated one guy; the farthest we’d gone was some under the shirt gropage and his mouth on my nipples. And here I was, making out in a bed with a guy who I wasn’t dating or even really close with, and now he had his hands under my shirt.

I told him I felt uncomfortable, and he slowed down for a second, but then moments later, both hands were under my shirt, grabbing my nipples and breasts. I froze for a bit, stopped kissing him, but he didn’t notice, and he dragged my shirt over my head. I was in my PJs, so just a black v-neck shirt and sweatpants. I remember he remarked something about “no bra, eh? What does that say about you?” I was still frozen, not there with my body. It was so odd…I couldn’t move to leave, because, as silly as this may sound, I was afraid of losing his “friendship” and didn’t want to be thought of as prude.

Then he lay back, and took off his shirt, and put my hand at the waist band of his sweatpants. He didn’t have anything on underneath. I told him him I wasn’t ok with this, but he said it was no big deal and I’d be fine. I didn’t know what to do; I had liked him for months and months, and here was my chance…but I was hating myself every second for not bolting. I felt nauseous and queasy, and still, I stayed.

He took his pants off, and put my hand on his penis. It was the first time I’d ever seen an erect one in my life. I couldn’t believe it was soft and hard at the same time, and for a second, I forgot about being scared. It was so interesting. And big. Later on, I estimated it was about 9 inches…which is fairly large, especially for the first one I’d seen. I even asked him if that was average, and told him it was very intimidating and I was a bit terrified. He told me it was bigger than average, and I remember letting out a breath of air and saying “thank goodness.” He laughed it me, and then put his hand over mine, and started stroking. I pulled my hand away, telling him I wasn’t ready for this. He said that a hand job was no big deal, and pulled my hand back. He started stroking again.

I was ok with kissing. I wanted to go back to just kissing. Or bolt out of there, but I didn’t want him and the world to think I wasn’t a “normal” college student, wanting to have sex here and there and every where. He told me he was a virgin, but that this wasn’t anything, and it was time I made a better use of my lips than talking and kissing. He put his hand on the back of my head, and guided it to the head of his penis.

Yes, I could have bitten him. Yes, I could have pushed him off and ran. But I was 17 and scared, and thought that maybe this was how college relationships went. I thought that if I did this, maybe he’d like me, maybe we could date, maybe it would be more than just sarcasm and Smashing Pumpkins. So I stayed.

I started to give my first blow job, not knowing a thing about what I was doing. He kept his hands on the back of my head, pushing me down, telling me what to do. I shook him off a few times, telling him I wasn’t ok with this, that I felt uncomfortable. I had tears in my eyes, and a giant lump in my throat. He told me that since I has started all this, I had to finish, that I couldn’t just leave. I didn’t know what to do, so I figured if I just kept going, he’d finish, and I could leave.

I kept going, his hands pressing on the back of my head…it seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than 45 minutes. He told me he didn’t think he would be able to come, and that it was good enough, and I should go. To have a good night, that he’d take care of himself.

I left, went back to my own room (no roommate yet), and cried. And cried. And cried. I felt violated, I felt as though I’d never be ok again. I curled up into a ball, an cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I started my next class; Human Sexual Behavior. Every mention of penis, oral sex, sex, etc, grated on my nerves. I kept thinking back to the night before, reliving every second, thinking about what I should have done right, how it was my fault, how I should have left, how I should have run, how I should have hit him, how this, how that.

Later, in the afternoon, I called one of my best friends in tears. We talked for a while. Then I sat and spoke with my other best friend. We talked a while too. It helped, but I was desolate for a few weeks. I’d see him in the cafeteria, I’d see him walking in the halls to class, I’d see him out at parties, and worst of all, I’d see him in my dorm. Everytime I saw him, the guilt would start up again; it was my fault I felt this way, if only this, if only that.

It took me months to really get back to my normal life. I hooked up with a prospie (prospective student), and he helped. He didn’t want anything from me; he just wanted to make out, and go down on me (in a study lounge to boot!). Then I had my first college boyfriend, and we took it a bit slower.

Since then, I’ve always gotten nervous going down on people; regardless of their anatomy. While I’m ok with a bit of a neck massage, or hands playing with my hair, I totally freeze if there is any pushing on the back of my head. I try to tell my partners about this first, to make things a bit less complicated…I don’t want to flip out during the middle of sex.

I didn’t share my story at Take Back the Night that year. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even ready to march or to go to open mic night. My sophomore year, I went to Bitch and Animal who played, and then I went to the open mic, and shared my story with everyone for the first time. By then, I was part of the on-campus sexual assault hotline, and sexual assault prevention group. They were the only ones who had heard my story at our retreat…them, and my two best friends. Suddenly, over 100 people knew. Some of his friends were there…they just didn’t know I was talking about him. I was in Germany for TBtN my junior year, but senior year, I was ready to go all out. I was on the planning committee, I made a t-shirt for the clothesline project, I heard Alix Olson perform, I went on the march, I handed out candles, and I spoke up again at the open mic. It had taken me much time to heal, and even more to move on, but then I realized, that it is only when survivors speak out, that people realize what is happening.

My ex from my senior year of college, when I told him my story, told me that it wasn’t *really* sexual assault, but just an unfortunate misunderstanding. This was the same guy who told me rape is only from strangers, and domestic violence is only physical, never mental or emotional. Clearly, I cut him out of my life pretty fucking quickly. It was then a question I ask potential partners; what are your views on sexual violence and preventing it?

Some people I’ve talked to blame me; it was my fault for not leaving, that it’s not assault because he didn’t hold me to the bed and fuck me. I tell them I felt that way for the first few months, until I realized I had said no, and told him I wasn’t ok, and I wasn’t ready, and to stop…and he laughed, told me I was too innocent, and to get over it and just do it. He told me I couldn’t stop. He had his hands on my head. He was in frat, and could have told the campus about me. He was holding our supposed “friendship” over my head (literally and figuratively) until I blew him. HE made me do it, HE made me feel like crap for a long time, HE fucked up how I act in sexual situations, and HE is responsible. I am a survivor, and I should not be filled with guilt.

Sexual assault doesn’t have a pecking order. My experience isn’t any less that someone who was forced to have intercourse physically against his or her will, and it’s not any more than someone who has their partner do something that they don’t want to do, or someone who has to hear sexual comments every day at work. We’re all in the same boat. It’s a different experience for everyone; I do not claim to know anyone else’s hurt, their anger, their pain. But I do know that they feel it, and that everytime someone expresses disbelief (“but he’s your husband” “but she’s married!” “but I know him, he’d never do that” “but you were drunk and slutty and asking for it”), it rips yet another hole on the inside of that person.

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Share your story; make your voice heard, and support your friends and family. The best thing you can do for a survivor is believe them and listen to their story. Sexual assault can happen to anyone, and in a variety of ways. Don’t make assumptions about anyone, or their history. And if your partner is a survivor, please, tell them it’s ok to go slow, to talk about things, to not do certain things. Let them know you’re there for them, and that you will do everything possible to make them feel safe.

No one can ever erase our pasts; they are there to stay, whether we ignore them, embrace them, or feel guilt over them. However, we CAN change our future. Spread the word about prevention. Learn your local laws. Volunteer for local hotlines and shelters. Donate to RAINN. Listen. Talk to your friends; let them know what assault is, and how to not be a perpetrator or survivor. Support people. Speak out.

This experience changed my life…and while I would never want to relive it, it certainly change the direction of my life for the better. I don’t know if I would have spent 3 years running the sexual assault response hotline, I don’t know if I would have decided to go to grad school for Human Sexuality Education, I don’t know if I would have been able to speak up and speak out about sex, both in the real world, and on my blog. Things change us, but they do not break us. We will survive, and we will persevere.

To all the survivors; my thoughts are with you.

-Essin’ Em

Here are some ideas I’m already planning on writing about:

*Lube; different types, when to use it, ingredient allergies, social perceptions

*Safer sex; how can we make barriers less icky and more sexy, since no one REALLY loves a condom/dam

*Period sex; pros/cons, how to do it safely, talking about it, etc

*How to talk with your partner about relationships styles (mono, poly, partner but playing, etc)

*How to come out as kinky

*First timers; how to deal with fears, concerns, etc, and figure out the right time

*Toys; introducing them, figuring out what works for you without blowing the budget

*Post sex activities; clean up, peeing (no UTIs), etc

*When you DO have an STI: people DO get them — how do you tell current, future and/or past partners

*Casual sex; how to have it while making it as safe and fun as possible

*Role playing: Types, discussions, etc

*Sex with/as a survivor; how to provide/ask for support, resources, etc

Any other ideas?  I’d love to hear them, and hopefully write about them.  Please comment here, unless you’d like to be more anonymous and send me an email at essinem at GMAIL dot com.  Either way, please, let me know topics you wish you’d learned in sex ed in your school(s), or from your parents, etc. If you can re-post, re-tweet, etc, and let people know about this, I’d really appreciate it!

Thanks!

-Essin’ Em

A huge one.

Domestic violence, and relationship violence, and sexual violence, and all of that? Huge issue, period. Regardless of who is involved. It affects EVERYONE, whether you’re a victim/survivor, someone who knows people involved, family, friends, counselors, etc.  Everyone is part of this.

We have a lot of problems talking about DV/RV and getting everyone to realize that it IS a problem affecting everyone. Our concepts of it are that men abuse women. Physically, mentally, emotionally, with threats.  This is all violence. It’s hard to help people understand that abuse is more than just hitting, yet most people “get it” eventually.

But what happens when it is a woman abusing a man? Suddenly, everyone is skeptical.  Women abusing men? But how?!? Teh men are all so big and scary and…what? Are they going to hit them back and become violent themselves? Are they going to hurt their partners just to get out of it? Why can’t we see women as abusive? Because let me tell you, they definitely can be.

And if people have a hard enough time understanding that women can abuse men, it gets even more complicated in the queer community. Can women abuse women? And men abuse men? Moreover, does it matter on gender presentation?

I have a friend. Actually, the first dyke I had sex with. Who now identifies as either a stone butch or a transguy – we haven’t talked too much as of late. Anyway, this amazing person is a victim of relationship violence at the hands of their Femme partner.  And very few people can fathom this.

Because if women are abusing women, it MUST be the more masculine presenting person doing the abuse, right?

Bull fucking shit.

Anyone can abuse anyone, regardless of relationship type, gender presentation, sex, age, etc. Abuse is abuse, anyway it happens.

It is fucking hard to report abuse, to ask for help, period. It is even harder to leave. Depending on whose statistics you read, it can take 7-12 times of trying to leave your partner before you can actually do it without going back. Ridiculously hard to do, for a variety of reasons.

Now imagine trying to ask for help, to get support, when you are in the minority.  When you’re queer, or gay, or lesbian, or in a poly family, or a butch being abused by a femme. Imagine how much harder it is.

I’ve looked for resources, because I wanted to share.  In Colorado, we have the Colorado Anti-Violence Program, which has a hotline, but it’s generally geared towards violence against queer people by non-queer people.  I’ve talked to generic DV/RV hotlines, and they say anyone is welcome to call…but having talked with a few of their workers, I can see how hard it would be to be queer and call in.

So folks, I put this to you.  This is a problem in our community. It is.  How do we provide help, support, resources and more? Are the numbers and organizations I don’t know about? Post them here, please share them. Do you have ideas to help make this cause more known, and/or take the stigma away? Please, speak up.

To all victims/survivors of abuse, regardless of gender or orientation, please know I support you. In any way I can. My heart goes out to you…and hopefully, we, as a community, are on our way to creating a better support system for you and your loved ones.

That is all.

Essin’ Em

Some one you know is a survivor. Likely, many people.  You might not know that they are, but statistically, it’s pretty impossible to not know even one.  Depending on the study you read, 1 in 4 college women are survivors, and 1 in 17 men.

Here is one of the largest and best resources for survivors:

Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network.

There are tons and tons of local places; hot lines, shelters, organizations, hospitals, etc. Ask around, google, call RAINN, write me and I’ll figure one for you. You are NOT alone. Your friends, family, and loved ones are NOT alone. There is support there, regardless of your age, sex, gender, orientation, who assaulted you, when and where the assault occurred, etc.  You are never alone.

Here are my posts in the sexual assault category, and here is the story of my sexual assault.  Don’t feel the need to read any of them, but sometimes reading about others stories, and support, it will inspire you in a variety of ways.

Also…

Alix Olson is one of my favorite poets/spoken-word performers, and I was lucky enough to hear her perform at Take Back the Night at Colorado College in 2006. All of her words and lyrics are incredibly inspiring for a variety of reasons. I’d like to share some with you.

Warriors

The paper called me a warrior.
a bad girl. a bad example.
The paper said I smile big,
but I curse too much.
and it’s true. I do
Feel like a warrior just for making it through the day, sometimes
I feel like a fighter. Cause I fight
to keep the fighting away and, sometimes,
Walking down the street is a scientific experiment.
your body laid out, splayed out, just for them
to tamper with it.
But you know, I think it’s those with the scalpels
who are really the rats
They want to dissect your ass cause your brain won’t hold still for them
Under that slide marked:
‘split and fill with bullshit’.
Y’know, my ass don’t fit under that glass
And my brain moves way too fast for that.
Cause if this is a movement we’re making,
we have got to get moving
In this crazy maze we’ve been handed, we’ve got to quit losing ourselves.
We gotta use our big fat mouths to talk,
We gotta use our big thick thighs to walk.
We got to follow those who choose
a different way to knock,
Those who banged with persistence
like the Audre Lordes, the Barbara Lees,
the Leslie Feinbergs, the June Jordans of my existence,
Who chose a different way to walk,
took a chance, didn’t prance, tiptoe,
twirl though this world.
You see, I refuse to slide past
Even if it means coming in last.
I’m gonna stomp and rage and kick,

talk hard, think thick,
Y’know, it don’t take a dick to have balls,
it don’t take balls to knock down the walls
Of this cheap joint.
You know, the point’s hard to find with all these
ground down passions.
But we’ve got a chance if we sharpen our visions
with our voices.
It’s a choice to make noise, it’s hard to be heard
They’ll toss you a muzzle wherever you go.
But baby, it’s the waves that let you know
the ocean’s alive.
So, we’ve gotta go deep.
Down past where your daddy found your key,
unlocked your knees
And took control
Past where your brother cruised your borders
like some kind of nightguard patrol,
Past where the babysitter stuck a pencil up inside you.
So many ways they get you to hide you
From the world, girl,
We gotta go deep
We gotta use our black and blues like a second skin,
Let our bruises thicken,
Then begin again.
We gotta get up when we’re pushed to the ground,
They aint gonna hear us if we’re screaming face down.
We gotta rise to double the size of our sound.
You know warriors are better
the second time around.

The other day, I’d left AIM on.  I got an IM from someone whose screen name I didn’t recognize, so I began the conversation. Turns out it was him.  The guy that sexually assaulted me.  Turns out he lives in Denver now…actually, about five minutes away from me.  Don’t know what I’m talking about? Read “Sexual Assault, My Story.”

At first, I was just shocked that he was talking to me. I can’t remember the last time he tried to IM me.  Sophomore year maybe?  I remember I saw him this year at homecoming, and just froze. He didn’t recognize me.  I’m a little taller now, I had red hair at the time, and I have a fuck ton more self-confidence than I had at all in college, especially my first year.  But now he was talking to me, telling me he lived near me. It took me a second to figure out what was even going on.

I think he’s one of the guys that doesn’t realize what he did, what happened, how much he has affected my life.  There was a video we watched once in college, and this guy talked about how he’d gotten a girl really drunk, how he’d taken her to the special room his frat had for taking drunken and drugged girls, and how he held her down with his arm across her chest as she tried to get away, and how he fucked her. He doesn’t consider himself someone who has ever perpetrated sexual assault. Some guys just don’t get it.  I don’t think this one does.

I signed off. And called Q. I didn’t know who else to talk to.  F hadn’t been very supportive when I told her about seeing him at homecoming. My best friend was asleep. I needed someone.

At first, I was non-chalant.  ”Sorry, I know you’re busy. I didn’t want to bother you. I just was kind of, upset. But I’m fine now.” And then, I started talking. I’d never told her my story…in fact, at our Vagina Retreat, I’d realized that she was the first person I hadn’t told about my assault before we had sex. I thought that was a good sign, that I was healing more, moving on. But here I was, pouring out my heart to her. Less than 4 days after our “not looking to be girlfriends, but let’s be friends who fuck” talk. I sat there, tell her, through my tear (oh yes, he can still make me cry) how I was terrified I’d run into him at the store, or I’d be in the park and then he’d be there, and what would I do? Calmly, she told me I’d turn and walk away. That I could do that. I cried more, explaining that I was so angry there was nothing I could do now. I hadn’t reported him when I was 17…I didn’t know I could, and it took me a while to even realize what it was. I couldn’t report him, I couldn’t hurt him, I couldn’t do anything. I had no control, and that scared me. I don’t like having no control. I was angry, and hurt, and felt like he had just regained power over me, as now I was nervous about going to the store.  We talked for a while. And I felt a little better. I told her part of my story, and about the guilt I felt, how it was my fault for entering the situation, and my fault for not leaving.  She didn’t tell me it wasn’t – she just listened.

This is now six years later. More than that, actually.  And still, this intense reaction, these emotions pouring out of me. This fear, this anger, this hurt.  Right in the middle of the Vagina Monologues, of all times.

It goes to show that it never goes away. It never heals. You can be a survivor, at veteran of sexual violence, but it never ends. It runs through you, affecting you, sometimes without you even realizing.

So this is me, speaking up, speaking out…yet again. Sexual violence is not just creepers in the bushes. It is not just abusive husbands. It is not just a product of war. It is HERE. It is people you know, people you love.  It isn’t then, it is now. It it always. So support your friends, your family, your loved ones, and work to stop to violence.

-Essin’ Em

I love vaginas. I love women. I do not see them as separate things. Women pay me to dominate them, to excite them, to make them come.

Sound like something I’d say? It will be.  It’s from the piece I’ll be doing in the Vagina Monologues, entitled The Woman Who Loved To Make Vaginas Happy (so fitting).

I’ve been involved in the Vagina Monologues before…three times before.  I will be involved in them again, as many times as I possibly can.  The Vagina Monologues are part of the V-Day Campaign.

What is the V-Day Campaign? The V-Day Campaign is a catalyst for mobilizing women and men to heighten awareness about violence against women and girls. By creating this global community, V-Day strives to empower women to find their collective voices and demand an end to the violence that affects one in three women in the U.S and around the world.

I am involved in this not because I am a theater nerd, and feel the call of the stage. I am involved in this not because I’m excited to moan and orgasm in front of tons of people.

I am involved in this because every day, there is violence perpetrated against women and girls. In Colorado, in the US, all over the word. Against cisgender women, against transwomen, against children.  Some of the violence is obvious; it’s physical violence, it’s genocide, it’s rape.  Some of the violence is less obvious; it’s girls not having the same educational opportunities, it’s the pay gap between what women get paid and what men get paid, it’s the sexism perpetuated against women in offices, schools, sporting events, etc.  I will do my absolute best to continue to be involved in this until the violence stops.  And if it never does, neither will I.

Please come hear the stories of women, of girls, of vaginas. Come Reclaim Cunt with us, come cry tears with us, come laugh out loud with up. Come support women. Come.

That’s all.

The Vagina Monologues will be playing in Boulder, Colorado on February 27th and 28th at the St. Julian Hotel, 900 Walnut Street, and March 10th at Boulder Theater, 2032 14th Street. All three shows are at 8pm.  To purchase tickets for the February shows, order them here. To get tickets for the March show, visit the Boulder Theatre. I hope to see you and your friends there.

-Essin’ Em

There is a call out for women survivor’s stories (I am one of the first to point out the plethora of male survivors as well…but this specific project focuses on women). It’s called “Hear Us Roar“, and their goal is to collect the stories of 100 women (not just the story, but how you have recovered, who you’ve grown, and what you want to share with other survivors) by July 31st, turn them into a book by the end of the year, and use that book to raise a ton of money for sexual assault response and prevention charities, as well as to help other survivors get through their experiences, and realize that there is light on the other side.

If you are a woman who has experienced sexual assault, I encourage you to share your story. I know not everyone can…and that’s ok too. However, if you’re at that point please go to Hear-Us-Roar.com, and share YOUR story (by Thursday!), in order to help out women and charities all over the world. I know I submitted mine (and cutting it down to 1200 words was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done!). Please feel to repost, and tell your friends, families, readers, etc, about it.

My thoughts and hopes are with all survivors, regardless of sex, gender, age, orientation, race, religion, ability, or how it happened. We’re all in this together, and we’ll all pull through.

-Essin’ Em

That said, many psychologists believe that people tend to fall into three groups (or just two, depending on who you’re talking to); predators, victims, and those in between. Many self defense classes teach you to take more of a predatory stance; how you walk, how you talk, how you act in a situation.

I’ve been wondering…do I give off victim vibes? Not really in a sexual assault, come jump me sense, but more of a…weak sense? I know that doesn’t make sense.

It’s recent events that have made me think on this. A few weeks back, a friend, C and I were at a queer party. A hoarde of drunken straight guys was there as well. They tried to dance up on some of us…our friend (a former pro-domme/roller girl) stuck them in the bathroom to stop them from bothering us. They came back. I kind of backed myself into a corner so that they couldn’t come up behind me, and kept dancing. Finally, we were ready to leave. I was trying to get to C and our friend, and the guys had surrounded me, and one blocked me.

“Excuse me.”

He didn’t move. I drew up some courage, and tried to be aggressive: “MOVE.”

“Oh really? That wasn’t very nice.” I was starting to get nervous now. Really nervous. In fact, more nervous than I’ve been around men in years. Worried for my physical saftey. My friend was on the other side, I didn’t know if she’d noticed my plight.

“PLEASE move?” He didn’t move an inch, until he went flying into a table and broke a chair.

“I heard her say please. You didn’t move.” My friend had gotten pissed, and solved the situation the old fashioned way. I ran outside and left. I was worried…what would have happened if she hadn’t been there?

I was so proud of myself a week or two ago. I was dancing at an after party; C and I had a girl sandwiched between us, and were dancing. A guy came up and put on hand on each of our (C and I) shoulders. “Looks like you could use a little bit of me in there.”

I grabbed it hand, not so gently threw it off my shoulder, and said “obviously, you’re wrong. Back off.”

I was telling this to K, and said something like “you would have been so proud of me” and then told the story. I finished it with “I know it’s not a big deal to you, but it was really a big thing for me.” He said he knew.

Why is that a big thing? Why is it this huge deal for my to defend myself, to keep others out of my personal space? Why do I rely on others to fight my battles for me?

I wrote about post a few days back about the woman who was making me uncomfortable. A couple comments asked why I didn’t leave earlier, remove myself from the awkward situation. It happened with a woman at Roller Girl Karaoke in Philly too. She kept stalking me around the bar, and while I felt that I had shown her I wasn’t interested, she kept pursuing. I have an issue with hurting people; either their feelings, or physically.

I also have an issue with authority, but not the normal “fuck authority” kind. Authority figures tend me make me feel timid and weak. I know that sounds weird. I told my friend (the “I throw men into tables before breakfast” friend) that I don’t take risks. She looked at me, and pointed out that I write a sex blog, I have naked pictures of myself online, I’ve fucked people I’ve just met, etc. She’s right. Those ARE risks.

However, I don’t tend to take risks that deal directly with authority. The two times I’ve been pulled over in my life, I started crying…not to get out of a ticket, but because I was upset. The one time I was called to the office in high school (for a non-celebratory reason), I was bawling. I don’t shout “fuck the pigs” even if I’m angry with the cops. When I get in altercations, I back down, and if I need to deal with it later, I deal with it through writing. While I’ll dance on the table at friends’ houses, and bars that allow it, I hate going out with really drunk people, because I don’t want to get kicked out of public places.

Maybe I do somehow come off as a victim, because I’m scared of hurting people, and terrified of getting in serious trouble (the kind that would come from punching someone in the face). Because I don’t want to seem like I’m over reacting when I’m uncofmrtable, maybe I just shut down, rather than getting myself to a safe place.

This is not good. I don’t want to rely on people to protect me. I can protect myself, damn it. I’ve taken self defense classes, I know how to rack someone, and as I recently discovered, I can call someone an ass to their face. I just worry that I’m going to continue to freeze up in these situations, to not do anything for a variety of reasons, and to set myself up for this treatment over and over again.

But how do I change who I am?

-Essin’ Em

Remember my post about Sex vs. Skin Hunger? Yes, same person. She was at this giant roller derby event I was working this weekend, hanging out with a mutual friend. Friend had to go, I offered to drive her home, if she oh, wanted to stay for the after party and dance it up. See my suaveness? She did stay; we went and saw the last bout of the night (and the Philly Liberty Belles won! Congrats), and dipping ourselves in the pool for a bit.

After party was wonderful; free food, a perfectly made grasshopper, and lots of dancing with friends, and derby girls from around the country. My newly found friend (we’ll call her C. For Crackerjack. Don’t ask, she just wanted that) needed a smoke break (yes, I know, I know. My new list of “nots,” but sometimes, it’s just worth it), and we wound up hanging out on a stoop outside, lying on each other again. It just felt good, and if it feels good, I say do it. I found out later that between the outside, and leaning on her shoulder inside, there were all these rumors abounding through the derby league, many involving us having sex in the bathroom (did not happen), or making out on the dance floor (also, did not happen).

Finally, it was late, and I was rocking 3.5 hours of sleep, so I drove her home. Due to a key mishap, we had to go meet her roommate in the woods, and then we finally got back to her place. Where she asked me if I wanted to come up. No one ever asks me that. But I (of course), said yes, and braved two flight of steps.

It was nice, hanging out. She’s incredibly talented in an artistic sense; I was just floored by some of her work. Beautiful. We talked, and chatted, and looked at interesting things, and by this point, it was really late. She asked if I just wanted to stay over…and after remembering that I’d left out extra food for the cats in case I wound up crashing at the event hotel, I agreed (of course). She handed me an extra t-shirt, and I change, and went to the bathroom. When I came back, she was in bed, toppless, and asked me if she could turn out the light.

I settled into bed with her, and took her arm flayed to the side as a sign that I could rest my head on her naked breasts.

Let me take a break from the sequence to remark upon her breasts. They were honestly the most perfect set of breasts I’ve ever seen. This is not hyperbole, it is the truth. They are the right size for my hands, they sit perfectly on her chest, they are soft and grabbable, and the shape that when people paint breasts, that they paint them. I’ve never really been a huge fan of breasts (other than my own) before….but by god, I wanted to just grab them. All the time.

Back to the story. So I lay next to her, head on her breasts, and ran my fingers slowly over her arms, her stomach, hips, neck, face, etc. It felt so relaxing, so safe, it was just wonderful. And then I asked her if it was ok if I took my shirt off too (I am all kinds of about consent), and when it was, I did.

Skin on skin contact is phenomenal. People who don’t get it on a regular basis (myself included), are missing out. It just feels so wonderful. We were there together, gently running hands over each others bodies, skin bonded together, and it felt so calm and peaceful. I didn’t have any plans to try and get her to sex me up (weird, I know), I was just enjoying being there so much.

I wanted to run my fingers over her breasts. I wanted to touch them, to hold them, to feel them. I didn’t know quite how to ask. I ran my hands through the middle, up her sternum, around the bottoms of them, but I wanted to be feeling them.

“What can I touch?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Anything, except I don’t want pressure of any kind on my neck.”

That wasn’t a definitive answer. Anything could mean anything that the average person wouldn’t consider sexual. Not enough consent for me to grab them. I kept on moving my fingers over her curves. I moved my hand closer, and tried to look at her questioningly, to get approval, but eye contact in a mostly dark room is iffy at best.

Finally, I asked. “Um, is it ok if touch your breasts?” Not the most eloquently phrased question I’d ever asked, but at least I’d have a straight answer. When she replied in the affirmative, I slowly moved my hands up. God, they felt just as wonderful as they looked. If I had breasts like that, I’d be groping myself all the time, every day. Seriously.

I’m always worried when I play with a new person who I don’t *know* to be kinky. I know what I like on my breasts and nipples; firm pull, pinching, twisting, biting. Most people aren’t into that, but I never know how hard is hard. Which is why I’m all about communication. So I asked her.

We were there together, moving, running hands and fingers over each other, my reaching over, and gently grabbing each breast, her running her hand down my back, making me shiver. It wasn’t even overtly sexual, it was just this…I don’t know how to describe it. It reminded me of a play I was in during college, called (interestingly enough, oh Dan Savage) “Savage Love.” It was a variety of poems and words, and each within a scene, and people moved throughout the building to see the different vignettes. One involved a group of us lying on the ground, entwined completely, gently removing each other’s clothing (not all the way), breathing heavily, writhing almost snake like. I felt almost the same way; the touch, the movement, the comfortability you feel with a cast you’ve been working with for weeks. It was similar.

I don’t remember who started it. I think she kissed me on my forehead or cheek. I don’t know. Suddenly, it was more sexual. Not overtly, not a hand shoved into my underwear, or lips pressing against each other. It just was. My breath intermingling with hers, both of us breathing heavily, I could feel her heart beating in her chest.

We actually didn’t kiss for a while. When we did, it didn’t feel like I’d been waiting forever, it just felt right. Our hands still moved over each other’s bodies, fingers occasionally intertwining with each other.

Again, I asked what was ok, what she liked. What was ok, because consent, even in a non-kink based scene, is so important. I wouldn’t kiss someone on the neck without asking (or at least asking what wasn’t ok), I wouldn’t put my fingers in their hair and grab, I just wouldn’t. What she liked because I was getting so turned on, watching how she reacted to what I was doing.

C liked having her hair pulled. And her nipples tugged, and licked and slightly bitten. She liked having her ears and her neck kissed…and bitten. Mmmm. Biting.

I was allowed to leave marks.

Some people bring out more of my dominant side. She is one of them. I wanted to bite her and leave marks. I wanted to wrap my fingers in her hawk and pull. Hard. I wanted to grab her breasts, and then, I wanted to do whatever she’d let me.

So I did. I kissed her, and bit her, and left these beautiful marks. I like leaving marks. A lot. Not sure why…but I do. Which is weird, because as much as I like getting marks now, I used to totally not understand the purpose of hickeys or wanting to leave marks, in general.

Her nipples were sensitive, but just the right amount. I do this thing with my tongue that she seemed to like, and her face, and the slight noises she was making set my clit throbbing. I really enjoy making people feel hot and bothered.

I asked if I could touch her over her underwear, and then eventually, I asked if I could take them off. With them gone, I had access to her completely.

I wish I’d had lube. I’m not used to playing with people without it. I need to keep a bottle of Aqua in my purse or something, just so I have it. That would be a good plan. Genius in fact. Anyways, I worked without it, and all I wanted to do was (after a while), shove my fingers inside her, feel her grip onto them, and fuck her.

Finally, I asked what I could do to her, and she asked how I felt about putting my fingers inside her. Perfect. I slowly entered her with one, and worked my way up to two, and was fucking her, and enjoying her reactions…

When she suddenly sat up, and grabbed my hand, and told me to stop. I did, of course, but was confused. Ok. My nails are currently ridiculously short (done to prove a point), so I didn’t think I’d somehow scratched her. I’d asked if the two fingers felt ok, and there had been a positive response. What the fuck had I done wrong?

She told me it was just something that had struck her in a not-ok way, a mental reaction, a trigger. I didn’t ask her what; people will tell you if and when they want to. I gently pulled out, and she had her arms around me, and I was doing ok, although slightly disappointed, but that’s my problem, not hers. We sat there, and got back to talking. I went to put my hand on her cheek, gently, the same way we’d been doing all night. She flinched and jerked away from it.

Yes. I understand that this is something that has nothing to do with me. Yes, I get that.

However, I don’t know if I’ll ever get that picture out of my head. Reaching towards someone, and having them jerk away from me. I felt dirty. And horrible. How could anyone ever think that I, nick named in college “Queen of Consent,” would ever hurt someone? I know that it was a natural reaction, and that we all carry our pasts on our shoulders (I’ve written about this a lot before), but I just felt this incredible frustration that it seemed that no matter what I did to try and make things ok and comfortable, and safe, I always did something that fucked things up. When I was with J, there was the issue during his period. With Dana, Miss Avarice’s girlfriend, it was accidentally making her cry (which turned out to be not my fault at all, but it still felt awful), and now I was making someone wince when I tried to touch her. I felt awful.

I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to roll over and go to sleep, to try and get the water filling my eyes to go away. I told her I was fine. She said my eyes (although how she could see in the dark, I don’t know) said something different. So we talked about some of it, about how everyone has issues, and sex fucks up people at different points, and we always learn about new triggers.

And then, she told me we’d better take care of some of this…frustration, that I was feeling. And asked if she could leave marks on *MY* body. Of course, as I am not going on vacation soon, the answer was yes.

I loved kissing her, feeling her hands in my hair, pulling my head back, teasing me as I wanted her to kiss me. Her biting my breasts, my stomach, my collarbone. Her fingers pulling on my nipples, her tongue working it’s way along my breasts. I felt her hand between my legs, and bucked up against it. It all felt so good.

I wanted to ask her to fuck me, but felt that might be uncouth. I didn’t know what she was ok with, and after what had happened, I didn’t want to push anything. She asked me what I wanted, but I didn’t feel right asking to have her inside, and I wasn’t really in a position to be thinking deep thoughts anyways, so I think I may have made the curved to finger sign with my hand. She told me that she’d like to be inside, but didn’t have gloves with her, and had a cut on her hand. I must have been really into whatever was going on, because I said something like “do you have cuts on both hands?” rather than just taking that as a no.

She didn’t, and felt amazing as she entered me. First with one finger, then two. Again, I wish I’d had lube with me, as lube makes everything better, but it still felt wonderful.

I was worried. I have only come once or twice without a vibrator or oral stimulation. She was fucking me, and rubbing my clit, and it felt so good, but what if I couldn’t get off? I wanted it so badly, first of all, and secondly, I didn’t want her to feel weird about it if it just wasn’t going to happen.

But it did. And when it did, it was amazing. I came…and every time she moved her fingers again even just a little, I would be coming and moaning and shaking all over again. I don’t know if they were multiple orgasms, because I usually think of those as separate, but it was wonderful. It went on for a few minutes, until I told her I couldn’t take it anymore, and then, even when we were kissing again, and her thigh brushed against me, I was getting set off again.

After a bathroom trip and more talking, I discovered something new I liked, that I hadn’t even considered before; get slapped on the vulva. It’s ridiculous; it hurts, and feels fucking phenomenal at the same time…to the point where I was actually able to come from it (I’ve found that once I’ve come once, I can do it more easily and in a bigger variety of ways). I really liked it, and will have to play with that more in the future.

C told me I was really passionate. I didn’t really understand what she meant…was it that I was loud, and didn’t hold anything back? Was it that my entire body shudders when someone runs their nail down my spine? Was it the marks I left on her chest and neck? It was a compliment I think, but I just wasn’t sure what she meant by it. But it made me think about how many people are scared to be loud, or make noise, or move, or really enjoy themselves. I’ve decided that if I’m too embarrassed to do______ in front of someone, even though that’s how I feel/it makes my orgasm better, than I probably shouldn’t be having sex with them.

We cuddled up and talked for a bit, and then her apartment mate walked in on us, both naked, which was amusing. She was having a hard time, and some guy trouble, so she came in and sat and talked with C. I tried to be help out, but I didn’t know the situation, so I tried to be unobtrusive and blend in, and eventually, fell asleep.

We got a little over an hour for sleep before my cell phone alarm went off. After lazing around in bed, I convinced C that taking a shower together was in our best interest. And it was. Fabulous in fact. Not only did she look simply breath taking with the water pouring down her body, but soaping up each other’s bodies while pressed up against the walls was a great start to the day.

After a quick breakfast in the local diner, I had to run to make a bout I was reffing. I drove her around the block, gave her a quick kiss, and was off.

*This* is the kind of sex I want to have. All the fucking time (well, minus the triggering people part). When I say I can’t really have vanilla sex anymore, I don’t mean it has to be a full blown scene; it just can’t be completely plain. This worked. There was conversation, and communication and consent (my 3 C’s of sex). There was banter, and smiling, and fun. There was hot sex. There was touch. There was cuddling, and showering, and it was good. I felt comfortable sleeping in someone else’s bed (not often the case), and it was actually quite comfy (not always the case). I felt safe talking about what bothered me. I felt like I could ask for what I needed/wanted. I didn’t need it to turn into a long term relationship (not that it could, what with leaving). This was ideal, for me.

Strangely, I was thinking about the sex. It kind of reminded me of this one scene in the queer porn movie “Full Load.” Less fetishy, but more with the playfulness, and dominating-ness of both parties. Lots of fun.

Anyways, I have bruises all over my stomach, one underneath my breast, one on my collar bone, and possibly and hint or two of them on my neck. It’s lovely, and when I see them, I remember how I got them (one of the best part of marks!).

I saw her for a second at the after party last night, but I was tired and cranky and bitchy, and decided to go home and sleep. I hope to see her once before I leave to say good bye (and to be honest, I wouldn’t have said no to a quicky), but at least I got a text that was a nice follow up (that she was glad that I had decided to stay over), because I have this fear that I have sex with people, and they either a) get obsessed and stalkery, like my college boyfriend, or the woman at the sex club, or the derby girl, or b) they never talk to me again (like Julius, although that was just making out and gropage).

I’ve done well these last two months. Two good, albeit very different, nights of sex. With people I trusted. Good job me (although, I was telling a friend, how sad is it that sex is such a rare experience in my life that I get so excited and write about it, and such, pretty much every time I have it, because it happens so infrequently? Yeah).

And interesting people who I would now consider my friends. If only I had met cool friends like this before I turned against Philly.

-Essin’ Em

Note: As I re-read this, I realized that I wrote it without ever once using the word cunt. Interesting…I don’t think I’ve ever written about sex (either erotica or sex I’ve had) without using that word. I wonder why I didn’t use it here. Thoughts?

Note: I am now back from sleeping over with her. I spent my last night in Philly pressed up against her body, running my fingers over her curves. I’m glad I made that choice to drive cross town at 1am. Most certainly worth it. More later.