Sexuality Happens

When I was in San Francisco, I had four classes and one reading planned. The reading went off without a hitch, and two of my four classes (Vaginal Fisting for One and All and SexAbility) had particapatory, albeit small audiences, and were awesome.

However, two classes just failed. My BDSM 101 class failed because no one had shown up, and I’d gone through all the trouble of lugging floggers, canes, crops, knives, vampire gloves, wartenburg wheels and more from Phoenix to San Francisco, and then from the hotel to Femina Potens.  Alas, these things happen.

But what has shaken my confidence a bit, and taken a while to get over was my Relationship Mapping/Poly 101 class schedule first, on Wednesday night. 

First of all, no one showed up to open the door till 5 minutes till 6. Which really didn’t matter, since no one had shown up by then.  Finally, two people, a couple showed up. I waited a little longer to get started, and then I did. With a class of two.  One of whom told me he’d been around paint fumes all day and was in not mood to be interactive or participate.  Which was great, since this is the class where we all draw relationship maps of our own lives, and figure out what they mean, how they change over time, etc. Ok, fine.  Q was there with me, so she, and I, and the volunteer, and the woman in the couple participated. And then! My friend from Denver who is now going to school in SF showed up. Yay! Another friendly face. I continued in my talk when suddenly, 25 minutes into my presentation, the woman stood up, said “this is way too basic for us. I mean, maybe if you’d been here last year, we’d have gotten something out it, but we’re not interested.” And she and her partner walked out after taking my handouts (that I save for the end of the class).

I sat there in shock for a moment, and then, to my chagrin, I burst into tears.  Thank goodness for the volunteer, and Q, and my friend, and the next speaker, Catherine Toyooka, who all comforted me, and said that they were clearly just looking to pick up another poly couple, and that they were rude, and that some of the questions they had asked indicated they might be a bit homophobic.  None of these answers made me feel much better, but having a little group of people, only half of whom I knew, trying to comfort me, that in and of itself was comforting.

Did it shake my confidence? Oh yes.  I have NEVER had anyone walk out of a class/workshop before…regardless of whether there were 50 people or 5.  I was a little angry, because purposely put 101 in the class name, so that people who have all the basics don’t accidently show up (likely why no one came to my BDSM 101 class). But more so, I was hurt.  Was I really that bad a presenter that people couldn’t even hang on till the end of the presentation to leave? Was I so bad it was worth being rude to me?

The next day, I did my fisting demo.  I had almost 15 people, which again, while small, created an interactive and intimate audience that was wonderful. I was a little nervous and shakey to start, but I had Q and the lovely Alphafemme in the audience, and a plethora of strangers asking great questions and being really engaged. I felt revitalized and excited and so happy to be educating again.  It helped that Roxxie of Cyber-Dyke was my brilliant demo bottom.

So where do I stand now? I fly to Brown University on Sunday to present 4 classes/workshops on Monday and Tuesday.  I’m doing a cunnilingus class here in Phoenix in April. I was on Kink on Tap last weekend and felt that Sarah Sloane and I rocked the casbah. So clearly, some people/groups like me and want to hear what I have to say.

But every time I present now, I know I’ll have that tiny little worry of “what if?”  What if people walk out? What if people want to walk out but are too polite to and just sit through a horrible class? What if I can never “make it” as a sex educator?

And that, my dear readers, is my most recent story of sex educator fail.

-Essin’ Em

Was linked to this picture below via a friend who found it on this here blog.

Half of me finds it really funny. Why? Because I’d heard all of these, and had all of them done to me/used on me.  Far more often than I’d like to admit.  And I think that in many cases, humor catches people, starts conversation, etc.

The other half of me wants to find a better name for it. Because not all straight men (not even all stupid straight men) say these things…and honestly, dykes say really bigoted things too, like knocking down “breeders” and kink people often tell “vanilla” people that they just haven’t found their kink yet. I wrote about this type of discrimination here on my professional site.

So yes, it’s funny.  But I think that when we share funny things like this, we also need to have some sort of discussion about how we can change this, and how we can ourselves not be discriminatory to other groups because we hold on to our own identities so strongly (as do the “stupid straight men” represented here).

Just my two cents…

-Essin’ Em

I wrote about sex at 2am a few months ago, and I’ve re-edited it to include how my chronic pain plays into my sex life, decsions I make about said sex life, and so on.  This is one of the pieces I read last night at Femina Potens for the Sizzle event focusing on dis/ability.

-Essin’ Em

It had been a long day. One of those days where I wasn’t sure if I would make it through on my own, whether I should pop a pill or just rely on the ice packs that had become my best friends.

It was supposed to be a romantic day.  We were supposed to do all these things; a walk in the park, a picnic, and then of course, have lots of hot sex.

But like it sometimes happened, today was one of those days. The pain trumped our plans, and suddenly, our romantic evening turned into a night of cuddling on the couch, trying to find just the right position where we could still be entwined, but where the pain couldn’t take over.

She went to sleep before I did, sometime around 11. I stayed on the couch, typing on the computer, watching mindless shows on the TV. The swelling had gone down, and the pain had mostly subsided with it. Of course, NOW I was ready to be romance, NOW my body agreed with me. Thoughts of “if only” danced through my head, but I pushed them aside. Pain is pain and there is no debating with it.  Finally, I started dozing off, and I headed to bed.

She lay there, arms splayed, cuddled up cozily in her sweatshirt. So peaceful, restful even.

God, did I want her.

Thoughts of what I wanted to do to her raced through my mind. It was 2AM; should I slide into bed, ready to sleep, and save my salacious plans for the next day? Or perhaps, just maybe, would I be forgiven for waking my handsome partner, as long as I did it with such good intentions? The questions raced around, and I decided to grasp the moment.  It seems as though there are fewer and fewer times where I’m in a low pain place, and even fewer when I’m relatively pain free.  Carpe diem and all that, right?

Gently, I crawled into bed to lay next to her. Oh so carefully, I draped my arm over her, my fingers gently grazing her nipples through her sweatshirt. No movement.  A bit more intently, I ran my fingers over her breast, concentrating carefully on her nipple. A small sigh escaped her lips. Success. The dice has been thrown, the decision made. I began more ministrations to wake my sleeping lover.

Moving slowly, I slid my hand under her sweatshirt, fingers finally contacting directly with her nipples, hardening beneath my touch. Moans emitted from her throat as I begin to pinch her nipples, playing with them more roughly as she started to come into consciousness. 

“I’m sooooooo sorry to wake you up.” I whispered sweetly into her ear, just before nibbling it softly, rolling her earlobe over the tip of my tongue.

“No you’re not.” Her eyes her still closed, but her chest had begun to heave up and down more; her sleep breathing interrupted.

“You’re right. I’m not sorry at all…you were just…there. And you looked so hot, so enticing, I just had to start playing with you.” Not once did I stop the movement of my fingers. Not once did I even consider stopping and falling asleep. My plan had been hatched, and I planned to follow through.

So I kept playing with her nipples, pinching and pulling them. That shut her up, as she was back to moaning and breathing heavily. 

Carefully, moving very slowly and with purpose, I slipped my hand into her sweatpants, slipping my fingers between her lips, searching and hunting for her clit. A gasp from her told me I was getting close. Running my other hand over the rest of her perfect body, nails scrapping against her skin, I whispered in her ear how hot she made me, how much she turned me on, how much I wanted to fuck her.

I honestly couldn’t remember the last time we’d had sex in the dark, and as her body gyrated to my touch, I felt a bit naughty. It was almost as though we were two random people, hooking up in the dark of the night, exploring bodies with no knowledge of each other. I felt my own clit begin to throb.

Pumping lube into my hand, I slid my fingers into her cunt to elicit a gasp. First two fingers, working in and out, in and out. Then I moved up to three as she bucked up into me, wanting more, needing more.

Wishing I could flip around, knees on either side of her head, I instead worked towards getting between her knees.  In the silence of the room, the crackle of the crepitus was evident, but she didn’t say anything, as my hand was still in her cunt.

She moved as if to take off her sweatshirt, but I swatted at her hands. There was just something to fucking hot about wanting it so bad that all I had time for was to push up her shirt and pull down her pants in order to get access to her. Then I lowered my tongue to her clit, and she pressed up into my mouth as I licked and sucked all over her, my fingers still working inside of her, fucking her almost relentlessly. 

When I felt like she was getting closer and closer to the edge, I slipped a fourth finger into her, her gasp giving me shivers. With one hand rocking her clit, and the other pistoning in and out of her, she was making all sorts of delightful and delicious noises as I fucked her closer and closer to oblivion. 

As she got closer and closer, I was so sweet, so kind, and I let her place her sexy black vibe on her clit. She was almost there, and then opened her eyes for the first time since we started, looking at me, the connection so strong.

“Am I allowed to come?” she asked, her look begging for the answer to be yes.

“Yes, you can. I want you to come so fucking hard for me.”

And she did…oh she did.  Her entire body spasmed, her cunt grabbing and squeezing my hand, working in and out of her, breathing so deeply, moaning so loudly.  She came over and over, almost for two minutes straight. 

We cuddled, my arms wrapped around her, our legs intertwined. We relaxed there, all of our limbs entangled, nuzzling one another, showering gentle kisses down upon smooth skin.  My hips were pressed up against her, one of her legs between mine.

Slowly, so slowly that I barely realized I was doing it myself, I began to work my hips. Forward and back, over and over, up against her leg.  Her leg was nestled perfectly between mine, giving me just a tantalizing glimpse of the stimulation I wanted. Needed. Was craving.

I started moving my hips faster. Hard. With a lot more insistence.  She just continued to hold me in her arms, breathing ever so deeply, almost as thought she didn’t notice me pressing myself against her over and over and over again. As though she couldn’t be troubled by my horniness, and was content to just drift off to sleep.

Sighing, I slowed down my hips. No use in working myself into a frenzy just to have to wait for it to abate as we both slid into the land of dreams.  I held her tighter, and tried to slow my breathing down. Tried to not concentrate on the throbbing making itself very well known between my legs. Tried not the think about all the things I wanted her to do to me, all the things that I wanted and needed and craved.

And then, before I realized what was happening, she had me on my back, her arms pinning mine above my head. Not a word was spoken, but the power had definitely been exchanged in that moment.

Leaning forward, she placed her mouth on my nipple, beginning by slowly licking and sucking, and working her way into nibbling, biting and pulling. First one, then the other. My hips rose up towards her, in hopes of finally getting my swollen clit some of the relief it so desperately needed. Nothing.

However, relief was long in coming.  Putting both of my wrists into just her single hand, she slid halfway off the bed, grabbing a towel to place under me. Returning to the bed, she kissed down the rest of my body, and reached for the bottle of lube.  She squirted some into her hand, and without bothering to warm it up, she reached for my clit.

I gasped at the cold sensation, but before I had the time to really feel the temperature, she was rubbing and teasing me, taking my breath away. It felt so good, but damn it, she knew I couldn’t come just from fingers on my clit. She KNEW she was just firing me up even more. Breath regained, I begged her to fuck me. Begged her for even just a finger or two inside me, something for my aching cunt to clamp down on. She said nothing, just continued to tease my poor, swollen and completely over stimulated clit. Her ignoring my pleas only fuel the fire, and I begged even more, even louder, even harder.

Finally, just when I thought I was going to have to push her off of me, when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, she slammed two fingers into me. I moaned, I groaned, I sucked in air, and then I stopped breathing for a few moments as she just fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

“Breathe.” Her voice reminded me that air was vital to both living, and to not getting panic inducing, hospital visit causing migraines. I sucked in more oxygen. As soon as my breathing was slightly more regulated, she added a finger. And then another.  Four fingers fucking me, not letting up, her thumb drawing circles over and over on my clit.

“We’re not playing any games tonight. You can come if you’d like.”

And I did. Over. And over. And over and over and over.  My cunt clenched around her hand as she never let up, fucking me harder and harder as I came on her, clamping down until she couldn’t move her hand, ejaculating on her arm, her hand, the towel, and anything else in the way. Reaching blindly, I grabbed the Hitachi, turning it on low and placing it on my clit.

I held it there and came more. Maybe another 15 times, who knows.  My hand was sore when I let go, almost in pain from clenching the vibrator so hard. Finally, I came hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and I was done.  I pulled her hand out of me, and pulled her up to me. Koala bear time, I thought as I wrapped my legs around her for cuddling, barely registering the puddle in which we lay.

We drifted off to sleep like that, completely entwined, thoughts of the delicious sex that had just occurred floating through our dreams.  Come morning, all that remained of the sex at 2am was the rumpled sheets and sore muscles. And of course, our memories.

Pain is in my life. It ebbs and it flows, but I can barely imagine what it would be like to live completely without pain. It interrupts my plans, dominating my life and I can’t call red to make it stop. I can’t stop it, but nor can it stop me. If my plans have to change, so must they, and if that means sensual, lights out, barely a word spoken sex at 2am, then that is when I’ll have it.

The other night, after my Let’s Talk Sex workshop at Fascinations, Q and I were cuddling in bed. I can’t remember why, but we started talking about vagina. Not about vaginas you see, but about the WORD vagina.

Q doesn’t like it. I personally think it’s an awesome word, and while I prefer cunt, I think vagina is just fine-a. Q disagrees. She thinks it is an uncomfortable awkward word, and wanted to know where it came from. I explained that it came from the Latin word for sheath. She quickly poo-poohed this, and went on to ramble on and on about how they should take the Latin word for “loving, granting,…”

And then she trailed off.  She couldn not quite articulate what she wanted the word to be, but she knew she just plain ol’ didn’t like the current term of vagina.

Now, I personally dislike most terms for vagina. I’m ok with pussy, but it’s not really sexy to me. No-no place is a no no,  hoo-haa makes me cringle, snatchula is awesome but only in a funny “oh, did you fall down and accidently kick your little snatchula with your skates” (at roller derby practice) way, snatch and crotch seem so high school, cooter just makes me want to gag, and so on. Both of us love CUNT, but there are times and places where it’s not quite as appropriate to say.

So we talked about it, trying to figure out what she didn’t like about the word vagina. I may have rapped about vaginas. Really. And sung some vagina opera for her. Yes, yes I did. But nothing could sway her mind. She did NOT like the term vagina, and nothing I said or did could change her mind.

I asked her what type of term she’d like to replace vagina.

“Something either awesome and powerful, like cunt, or more soft and flowy and nice.”

I asked her again, like what.

“I don’t know like gorgonzola.”

I started at her for almost a full minute, eyes big, and then we both burst out laughing.  Once we regained our breath, she explained that she had no idea why that came out, and she didn’t like it at all, especially for vagina, since it’s a strong smelling cheese, but it’s now a fabulous inside joke.

That said, what word SHOULD replace vagina, if we were going to make up a completely new word? Cave of wonders if pretty awesome, but it’s a bit long…

-Essin’ Em

Photo Source

Having a partner who identifies as “GQ” on Fetlife, and many friends that identify publicly as genderqueer, it is amazing how difficult it is to definite the word.

In starting my new group, I mentioned (when talking about what a safe space looks like),that instead of making assumptions, it’s always better to ask.  The example I gave was that instead of just staring at someone genderqueer identified, wondering what the hell it means, it’s always better to just ask.

So some awesome, open-minded person messaged me, and asked me just that. What IS genderqueer?

I get asked this question a lot. And it’s hard everytime. How do you define something that, in essence, is trying to be outside of definition.

This was my quick answer to her:

Genderqueer is an identity that is pretty fluid. It usually goes for someone who doesn’t identify as male, female, or trans (in that they are not transitioning from one sex to another). They may identfy as more masculine or more feminine, or neither, or they may have days where they feel more masculine, and then days where they feel more feminine, or they may even reject the gender binary completely. Instead of saying “well, I guess my gender is ____” and having to check a box, they’ve decided that their gender is exactly what it is, how they feel it is that day, and so on. Similar to the orientation of “queer” this is the gender version of it.

And it works as a quick answer. Yes, genderqueer is queering the gender binary, in a similar way that queer is queering the orientation binary/trinary.  But I just feel a little unsatisfied. Really, how do you explain gender queer?

So I’ve decided to open it up to the interwebs at large. Y’all are smart people. I mean, yes, you can google it. You can look at the wikipedia page, you can read all you want.  The internet is a wonderful thing.

But that doesn’t always put forth an answer. I’ve found that the definition of queer varies immensely depending on who you ask, so I can only assume that gender queer is the same way.

I ask of you: WHAT IS GENDERQUEER?  Whether you identify as such, or have partner/friends/family who does, or have no correlation to it, I want to hear your thoughts and definitions as to what genderqueer is/means/is defined/etc.

Ready? GO!

-Essin’ Em

Since moving to Arizona, I’ve tried to get involved in many communities, including multiple facets of the kink community here in Phoenix.  Within the first two weeks, we’d joined three groups, been to a kink carnival and orientation, and a women only play party, not to mention a munch or two. I tried to meet people, to make things work, to fit in.

While we made a few select friends, for the most part, we didn’t fit. There are very few queer identified people out and about to start, and even less in the kink community. In several groups, we’re the only queer identified couple.  At the women’s only event, I received a little bit of femme bashing, and Q felt incredibly out of place. And queerness aside, we felt very out of place because we not attach a D/s dynamic to our relationship, and it seems as though almost everyone here is very staunchly identified as top or bottom, Dom(me) or sub, and we don’t.  We don’t even identify as switches.  While occasionally she’ll call me Mistress during sex, or I’ll call her Sir while all tied up, we don’t play with power much. We’re just kinky, and that doesn’t seem to be an option.

I decided to start a new group here; AlternaKink. For those of us who don’t play within the typical power structure of BDSM, those who are queer or have different gender presentations and don’t feel comfortable in the current spaces, for those who like to laugh while playing, and who are alternative.

And cue the storm of “oh my god, you’re a horrible person, you’re not community oriented, you’re fracturing the community.”  Never mind that I specifically noted that I respected the other groups, planned to stay of member of them, and was just trying to create a safe space and additional options.  There aren’t even parties every weekend here, none the less a choice of “should we go here, or here.”

Apparently, everytime someone has tried to start another group here, they’ve been shouted down, told that they’re community wreckers, and been sabotaged in a variety of ways. Well, that actually comes after the guilt trip; I had comments, messages and wall posts telling me that the current (and only) public dungeon in Phoenix IS a safe space, is queer friendly, has no problems, and that I should just shut the fuck up (essentially). Then, there where the offers of having my new group meet at and rent space from the current (and only) public dungeon.  Why branch out? Stay here, with this dungeon, in the community. Don’t do your own thing. Don’t create a space. Here, come, drink the kool aid.

Please don’t tell me a space is safe if I don’t feel safe there. If I, who am stubborn and annoying and go out of my way to meet people, feel uncomfortable, judged, and unwelcome, don’t tell me that is invalid. If when I suggest going to a play party, my partner tells me she does not feel comfortable going there, do not tell me that I’m just “making things up” or “haven’t tried.”

Communities thrive when there are lots of branches of the same tree. In this anaology, the tree is kink. If there is only one big branch weighing down the whole tree (said public dungeon), nothing new grows, nothing thrives, and eventually, the tree falls over and dies.  If there are lots of groups, that create new opportunities and spaces (both physical and conceptual), their is constant growth, and the tree continues to grow and thrive over time. New buds come (new members joining the community), old buds bloom, and everything is well and good. I can be a member of and support a community by creating a new place for people who feel they don’t fit in the old one.

Sometimes I meet people who have been to one kink event, and hated it. They don’t want to go back because they don’t identify as D/s, or as part of a leather family, or because they got stared at for having full sleeves, or short hair cuts, or for appearing gender queer.  Instead of just telling these people (myself included) to fuck off and kick them to the curb, why not create a new space in the community, and welcome them with open arms.  While they may not be on the same main branch of the tree, they are at least IN the community, instead of feeling like outsiders.

I know, I’ve set myself up for a lot of crap coming my way. Yes, it’ll be a struggle. But our first coffee/tea meet up is tomorrow, and I have hope.

Why? Because I WANT to be part of this community. I don’t want to feel like I don’t fit in. I want to grow and change and have fun and play and light people on fire and beat them up, and hope is what makes change happen.

I have a kind of confession. It’s only kind of a confession, because my friends all know this about me.

I LOVE taking care of people.

In college, I’d drive around on many weekend nights (before I started going to the Rocky Horror Picture Show weekly) in my mini van and then Stratus, blaring 80’s music, picking up my drunk friends and driving them back to campus. Then, when I was an RA, I was the person that would make tea for sick residents, give chocolate to homesick/broken hearted residents, tuck in drunk residents with a Nalgene full of water.

I love taking care of friends who are sad, hurting, broken hearted, sick, recovering from surgery, etc.

Weird? Yes. It’s just who I am.  Someone told me it’s because I’m a 2 (enneagram something?), others because I am a caretaker personality, and some because I’m counter-dependent.

So it’s been frustrating to me that in the over 14 months we’ve been together, Q has never been sick. I’ve been sick multiple times, plus pain days, plus surgery recovery. She’s had to take care of me a lot. I never got the chance until know to do it for her. 

I mean sure, I’ve had nights where I’ve cooked of her, brought her everything she needed, given her a back massage, and fucked her silly for hours. Yes, in a way, that IS taking care of her. I’ve also been there for her during gender breakdowns and other cry sessions, but those are few and far between; she’s not one to really show her emotions.

But this past weekend, Q got sick.  It was sad, as we had to cancel plans with friends, and the couples massage I’d scheduled. Plus, she’s not sick very often (we’re talking a cold once every two years), so she was sad and grumpy about being sick.

However, it was so nice. Because it was the weekend, I was home, and I could take care of her. I made her tea regularly (interspersed with Emergen-C, Jamba Juice and Theraflu), I went out to get her lots of foods that she wanted, walked over to get more Nyquil, tucker her in, forced her into hot showers, cleaned up her tissues, rubbed Vicks vapor rub on her chest, scratched her head as she fell asleep, etc.

And I loved it.

Obviously, I don’t WANT her to be sick. I know how much I hate being sick, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. However, it’s nice to know that I’ve still got it, that I still have that Jewish mom (without kids) vibe that I enjoy getting to rock out with so much!

-Essin’ Em

Lots of people have been asking me about how my new job at Fascinations as their Resident Sex Educator and Online Media Specialist is going. The answer? Just swimmingly.  As you can see above, they got our sex ed department a full sized vulva puppet, who we’ve named Vivian the Vivacious Vulva. Side note: a reader bought me a mini vulva puppet, who is ADORABLE, and who I’ve named Veronica, for when I do my own sex ed classes.

Anyways, the above picture is at a Let’s Talk Sex open house. We’ve been doing some sex ed classes, with Tristan Taormino and Oh Meghan, and are really looking to expand this spring.  We’ve got a whole list of awesome educators that I can’t tell you about till they’re confirmed, but it’s going to be super cool.

Obviously, I went to Vegas for the AEE and AVNs.  It was awesome. But we’ve already talked about that.  Let’s talk about new things.

We’ve stopped selling anal eaze, shrink creams and numbing balms on our site. You can read about it here.  Taking it out of stores will be a longer process that involves educating the customer, but we’re on that too.

We’ll be working with Sex 2.0 on sponsorship of this awesome event.

We’ll be doing video reviews on our blog.

We’re sending out other items to be reviewed and or given away on other blogs.

We’re consistantly rocking out on our facebook and twitter, including giveaways.

In many of our stores, we now carry Good Releasing titles, and will have them online soon!

Soon, we’ll have an awesome new affiliate program where we’ll have a 30% commission payout! (info coming on that).

We’ve brought some great sex education writers on board as well.

I got to go give an awesome safer sex/general sexuality talk to a dorm on the ASU campus…including tons of free condoms, lube, some dams, and toy giveways.

I also got to go with Q (not pictured obviously) to the Arizona Fetish Ball, as seen below:

Plus, we’re giving members of local kink organizations in AZ and CO 10% off of all in store purchases.

Yeah. While the whole getting up ridiculously early to get to work thing is frustrating (my ideal work schedule; 10am-7pm), I do love this job, and I’m so excited about the change we’re enacting at FunLove.com.

-Essin’ Em

This post is based on thoughts I’ve been having for a long time, and then inspired by a post over at Alphafemme about the Markers of a Queer Femme.

She talks about goals she has that to her, seem very Femme.  However, if taken out of the context of her being queer, would there be any difference between a queer woman (femme identified) and a straight woman writing it.

Q and I were having a similar discussion the other night when out with a straight friend.  Q said something to her about being a Femme, and I took a little offense, but before speaking up, I asked our friend if she identified as a femme.

“Well, I like wearing heels sometimes, and make up, but it’s not like I do it every day.”

This then lead into a conversation of what does femme mean, and the different between femme and feminine. Etc.  This discussion I’ve had a lot, both online and in real life. I myself had a lot of trouble choosing the femme identity at first; I had confused it with feminine, and at the time, I was very anti the concept of feminine.  People talked to me about being a femme, and I’d answer with “but I don’t wear heels or lipstick, and I hate pink. Ergo, I can’t be a femme.”  Then, after much conversation, I realized that femme is not about skirts, or make-up, or shoes.  It’s about embodying an attitude.

Later that night, once our friend had gone home, Q and I were still talking about it.  She asked me if straight woman could be femmes (similar to a convo had online with other as to whether straight women and men could be butch).

I don’t have an answer.  But I want to say no. Why? Because *my* identity is developed around the concept of femme.  About being a strong queer woman who has femme wiles, but isn’t feminine per se. About being able to open the door but loving it when Q does it anyways. About being able to cook and then change a tire, all while wearing either jeans/t-shirt or heels and a pencil skirt.  To me, femme has become an extension of my queer-ness, a bridge between my orientation and my gender.

And it’s really hard for me to envision someone who hasn’t go through some of the things queer folk go through (disbelief as really being queer, having to fight for our rights, having our emotional and physical safety challenged, having our partners made fun of, etc) still being able to understand and embody that identity. To me, being femme is when someone calls Q “lady” and I comfort her and assure her than she is really such a handsome boi.  Being femme is when I can talk to people about gender who would never listen to someone who presents as gender queer. Femme is when someone says “that’s so gay” about his friend at the grocery store, and I tap them on the shoulder and say “no….I’m gay. The end.”

Am I being a gender hog? Perhaps.  I *know* deep down that it shouldn’t fucking matter. I’ve met queer men who identify as femme, and I don’t have as much of an issue. Gender isn’t a line or anything — it’s a schmorgasboard, and you can pick and choose exactly how you identify. If you want to be a glitter slut tranny boi fag, you can do it. So I’m not sure why I have such issues with straight women identifying as Femmes, but it’s totally a hang up for me.

Does it mean that straight women can’t be femme? Of course not. I’m not the gender police.  On the other hand, does it mean I’m uncomfortable with the terminology appropriation, just like I am when I cis-guy tells me he’s “just like all the other dykes I know”?  Yes. Very much so.

Thoughts?

-Essin’ Em

The lovely Thursday’s Child posed a question to me on my formspring the other day. Well, a few weeks back. It took me a while to answer, because I really wanted to figure out how to say what I meant.

And now I want to share it with you.  This was her question:

How has coming out in public as Essin’ Em affected both your personal and public life? Would you encourage other sex bloggers to come out and live openly as you do?

And this was my answer:

I’ve been very lucky.  And some of my luck was lucky (accepting friends/family, finding jobs I like within the adult industry, etc), and some of it was determination/stupidity (I am determined to make things I care about and find important acceptable enough for people to be able to talk about, and I don’t really give a flying moose’s ass if people don’t like me because I’m sex positive).

That said, sometimes it’s hard. When I broke up with F, I lost some readers that were her real life friends. But I don’t write for readers per se, so it was ok.  Conversely, when Q and I started getting serious, she asked me to take my blog link off of networked blogs on Facebook (it would post new content daily) because she didn’t want her friends reading about the sex we had. Now that Essin’ Em and Shanna Katz are much more synonymous, many of them have found my blog anyways. So Q and I talked, and she’s ok with that happening…but I can’t put it on FB now, cause I’m connected to her mother.

I understand that not everyone has the ability to “come out” as I have. Not everyone has a job that reveres (or even understands) their sexuality background. Some people have jobs that would fire them.  Some people have families that might reject them or judge them (AAG has had this issue). There are many reasons not to.

However, I never live in fear of being revealed. I never have to decide who gets to know my real name vs. my pen name. I never worry about what happens if I accidentally sign the wrong name, or if an affiliate program (goddess forbid) gets hacked. I can be proud of all the work I’ve done, including my blog (and as we all know, writing a regular blog IS a lot of work).

For those who can’t come out for safety (mental/emotional/physical) reasons, including family/work/etc, I validate. But to everyone else, if you CAN come out as someone who is sex-positive/queer/kinky/poly/etc, as someone who enjoys sexuality, as someone who talks about it in a non hush-hush way, then please do. The world needs to know that people have sex, and enjoy it, and that diversity amongst sexuality is ok.

I have the privilege of being able to “come out.” So I did. It’s hard at times, when I’m trying to protect Q, or when people who might creep me out add me on my Shanna Katz profile (I’ve since taken off more specific location info). But all in all, it’s worth it.

-Essin’ Em