Sexuality Happens

Since I came back from Florida, it’s been non-stop. Q’s sister was in town visiting from Long Island. Jamye Waxman was in town to speak. Q started her first day as a grad school professor. I still haven’t had time to process all the emotion and family drama from my Florida trip, and Q is on a meditation kick (which I’m trying to do daily, and seems to give me headaches).

The result? Right now, we have an incredibly mercurial relationship, almost bi-polar. One minue, we’re holding hands, looking into each others’ eyes, sharing frozen yogurt, being all lovey dovey. The next, we’re arguing with each other about little things, being nit picky, almost ignoring each other.

People keep telling me it’s Mercury in retrogade. I don’t normally believe in that, but we all like to cling to something to explain why our lover and ourselves have suddenly started acting bi-polar towards the relationships…and I mean hell, Mercurial (the temperament/actions) and Mercury sure sound alike, right?

But it’s made me realize, along with some posts on Alphafemme’s blog, that relationships constantly require work, even if they’re working out just fine. Being complacent about the relationship leads to things getting stale, or issues not being worked out. However, I’m also realizing that working on and improving relationships takes a lot of hard work.

This is the longer sexual/lover relationship I’ve ever been in. I mean, I’ve made friendships work for years. My best friend Annabelle and I have been friends since 2002, and my best friend E and I since 1999. Clearly, I can handle long term relationships/friendships, including their natural ups and downs.

However, I’m new to making long term lovers/partner relationships work. I didn’t realize how hard it can be, how much effort need to be involved in truly communicating (instead of just saying yes and no, or I like this/don’t like this), how much it can hurt as we work through our issues, as well as personal issues that get brought up.

I’ve never been a highly emotional person before, but I am often with Q, because I just have so much love and trust for her, which seems to bring out this side. I need to work hard not on pushing them down, but not letting them run wild. I let little things hurt more than they should, and I feel a lot of my OCD-ness and anxiety returning, something which I would like not to happen.

Then there is the disability thing. As things get worse, and I have more bad days, and hospital visits, I always get worried that something will be the last straw, and she won’t want to deal with me anymore. I’m trying to figure out how to even phrase this feeling. I’m not sure yet.

I have a huge fear of being left/abandoned by those I love; friends and partners alike. It happened with Julius, and with Nikki, and with the Kinky Whore, and I’m terrified it’s going to happen with Q. It’s not logical, I know, but I have a history of people I love leaving me. Can I trace it back to daddy issues, and my father dying when I was 13? Possibly. Who knows? Regardless, no matter how much I trust Q, I still have this voice in the back of my head, especially whenever we’re aruging or trying to improve things, telling me that “if you don’t do it right, if you mess up at all, Q is going to leave you, just like everyone else.” I need to figure out how to quiet that voice, and trust in Q and in what we have together.

Q pointed out to me that relationships cannot thrive and grow unless we ourselves thrive and grow. Whether that is through writing, therapy, meditation (I’ve decided I’ll try it daily for 3 weeks, and then decide if it is in fact helping me), etc, we have to, as individuals, work on ourselves in order to work on our relationship.

And so, I’m working on harnessing my emotions, learning to let things go. I’m trying to not attach so much importance to little things. I’m trying to re-create more of my own life here. It’s hard. I don’t really have friends. I strongly dislike the kink community, there is no queer community, and most of the lesbians we’ve met drink a lot and do drugs, neither of which is for me. I’m having a hard time creating my own life outside of Q and my relationship because I’m in an area where I don’t fit, where I don’t belong. I think that’s part of the issue.

And I’m going to work on, I’m not sure how, but I’m going to work on this fear of abandonment. I’m open to suggestions, ideas, etc. How do you convince yourself to leave your past alone and trust in the future and in your parnter, completely?

-Essin’ Em

Part of this post is part of my 30 Days of Letters blog endeavor. This would be Day 2, a letter to my partner/crush. However, it also just so happens to be Q’s 25th birthday, and so I’m combining it.

First of all, today is Q’s 25th birthday (she likes the TMNT a lot, hence the graphic). If you feel so inclined, leave a comment here, or head over to Q’s Twitter with your birthday wishes. Happy birthday baby! No more young driver costs on rental cars — w00t!

And now, my letter.

Dear Q/baby/stud muffin/etc,

I love you, period. I love you more and more every day. I never knew I could love a person so much, and in so many different ways, and more and more and more. I am so happy every single day of my life to have you in it.

Thank you for putting up with me. With my crankiness in the mornings, with my epic fear of bugs (although I did kill that one — I really do hope you’re proud of me, as it was one of the scariest moments of my life), with my messy house style, with my animal print obsession, with our cats and how they get along, with my late nights and travel, with my sex toys scattered around the house, with my pain issues and migraine issues and knee issues, with me being emotionally needy at times. Thank you for working on your communication skills, and for never leaving or going to bed angry (frustrated, perhaps, but never angry).

You do so many amazing things, and I am so incredibly proud of you. The work you’ve done on the campus making it a safer and more inclusive place for LGBTQ students, staff and faculty is just unbelievable, especially given not having a budget, having four campuses, 70,000 students, and the pay check of someone barely out of undergrad. You put your mind to something, and it will be accomplished; that is how dedicated (and at times, stubborn) you are. I just wish your job appreciated you more — you completely deserve it.

I know we have rough patches…whether it’s having to learn to live my my trips to doctors, hospital and ERs, or me learning to live with your sometimes wacky school schedule, we make it work. As gross as it seems, I just can’t even imagine my life without you at this point, so please don’t ever make me have to.

I’m always a little scared. Despite what might seem to be a tough and self-confident exterior, I’m always questioning. Am I pretty enough, am I smart enough, am I dedicated enough, am I good enough. When my knees came to the forefront of our lives, I questioned whether you’d think it was too much, whether you’d give up and leave me because it’s a lot of work, and emotion and scary as fuck to deal with all this. I know it’s hard, and so I will always question how someone can love me enough to deal with it. This has nothing to do with how much I love or trust you; it has to deal with me, and how I view myself. Please don’t let this push you away.

You’re smart, funny, witty, vibrant, silly, deep, introspective, hot, studly, and just over all the best partner (and cat co-parent) that I could ever imagine. Even better, in fact.

<3,

-Essin’ Em

I was a virgin until I was 21 (last year) and because I didn’t have a partner, I had fun by myself. I explored my body and what I liked, but never tried penetration, for reasons I don’t really even know. Anyways, after a long time of trying (seriously, it took a while!!), my (first) girlfriend managed to break my hymen and I started getting used to/liking one of her fingers inside of me – probably around last september. However, the orgasms that I was used to having from my clit were nowhere in sight. By now, I usually enjoy what she is doing to me a whole lot and am even able to enjoy more than just one finger (three at the most), BUT it never feels like I actually come. I can go for a really long time and I get to a point where it’s just too much, but I don’t feel like I orgasmed. I’ve tried getting myself off on my clit with her inside of me, but usually it doesn’t work because I can’t seem to come with her inside of me. When she pulls out, I do actually contract quite often, but I don’t really do that with her inside of me – is that possible or do I just not feel it? Often, I will feel like I have to squirt (I managed to get her to squirt a few times already :D !!), but no matter what I do (relax/push on it/…), I never do. When I try to push or when she fucks me really well, it literally hurts inside of me – I think my g-spot might be what is hurting!?! I don’t really understand why that would be happening or what that could mean, but it bugs me. She is really good in bed and she takes a lot of time and energy to pleasure me, but since I’m not able to fully, completley get off from it, I sometimes just say no to sex because I don’t want to be frustrated. When I have fun by myself, I always come. I have tried using our toy by myself (Lelo Gigi), but when I turn it to a setting that makes me feel like I could come it hurts too. I know that some women can’t come vaginally, do you think that’s what it is? I have tried to show her how to get me off with my clit, but I can only come with the right speed/pressure combination and even with good instructions she doesn’t get it quite right, because she doesn’t feel what I feel. D’uh! So I got tired of trying that, because it just made us both frustrated.

Anything would be greatly appreciated!! I’m out of ideas and no research on the internet has brought up anything useful yet.
Thank you so much!

-Needs Help

Hey N.H:

Thanks for writing.

First of all, you can always continue to get off by yourself, with clitoral stimulation, the way you like it.  Just because you have a partner doesn’t mean that you can’t masturbate anymore.  You can masturbate on your own, you can both masturbate lying in bed together side by side, you can have her play with your hair, neck, breasts, kiss you, etc while you masturbate. Plenty of ways to make that work.

Not everyone likes penetration, and some people like it, but very gently. Lots and lots of women of all orientations don’t get off from penetration.  So there is nothing wrong with either your or your girlfriend — it’s just trying to figure out the puzzle pieces of what feels good to you, and then practicing. A lot :).

Perhaps have her put her hand over yours while you’re masturbating, so she can see exactly where you put it, for how long, etc. Then have her try, with your hand over hers, guiding her in direction and pressure. You’re creating sexual energy and pleasure together, and you’re getting the stimulation you need while she’s helping give it to you.

It sounds like you may have a sensitive cervix. I have one of those – touch it and I want to punch someone. Q, however, likes having her cerix touched. It’s different for each person.  If you’d like, try penetration with toys on your own, but feel around for your cervix first and avoid it. See if that helps.

If you’re enjoying the sex between the two of you, why not use her enjoyable fucking of you as epic foreplay, and then have her watch you as you get off for her, your way at the end, so that everyone has fun and is satisfied.

Let me know if you try these and how they work for you. I wish you luck.

-Essin’ Em

Guess who is coming to visit me in Phoenix today?

Why, my favorite moose of course! That’s right, my secondary play partner/primadary friend from Denver is coming to visit this weekend.

Did I ever tell you how I met? I was having dinner with two members of the kink community; one in Denver, one visiting, and I mentioned I liked fisting.  The gentleman I was with suggested one of his partners was kind of queer, and would probably like fisting.  I smiled and nodded, and kind of let it go.

Later that night, I went to a play party at the RACK Room, to play pinata with my visitor from Utah. We put candy all over her, and beat it off her.  Afterwards, I met Evey, my soon to be moose.  It was one of those “ohhhh, so you’re the girl your partner wants me to meet and possibly fist, right?” moments of complete awkwardness. Remember, I’m incredibly awkward. 

She let me do a spanking and paddling scene with her. It was fun and entertaining.

Since then, we’ve built our relationship in various directions. We’ve played together, I’ve played tic tac toe on her with a knife, we’ve had sex, I’ve tied her up, she’s cleaned my apartment, we’ve cuddled, hugged, chatted, cupped, fired, talked, and much much more. I love her to death, and view her as a partner, even though we’re no longer sexually active.

I can’t wait to see her, and spend the weekend with her. I have many a plan, and look forward to enacting them.

She writes her own blog; Voyeur on Display – you should check it out!

And with that, I’m off to go have fun with my moose! I have some surprises in store.

-Essin’ Em

PS.  Isn’t she adorable?

A poem for Q.

How do I find you sexy? Let me count that ways…

*When you open the car door for me, and close it after I’ve eased myself into the seat, I find you to be chivalrously sexy.

*When we lie in bed at nice, and you are the big spoon, holding and protecting me, the little spoon, your whole body up against me, skin on skin, I find you to be comfortingly sexy.

*When you make silly faces with me, or quote Glee and How I Met Your Mother, and our eyes connect, and there is that spark, I find you amusingly sexy.

*When you’re fucking me silly, and I look at you, deep in concentration, a bead or two of sweat rolling down your face, I find you earth shatteringly sexy.

*When I’m fucking you, sliding in and you, making you moan and groan and make those noises I love, I find you just fucking sexy.

*When we cuddle afterwards, and we are just a pile of skin and sweat and shakey-ness, I find you handsomely sexy.

*When you talk to our cats although they were our children, I find you fatherly sexy.

*When you are in my life, you make it so much better from making me food to stroking my hair, from keeping the worst issues at bay and celebrating the best. Everytime I see you, my heart jumps just a little bit. I still get those butterflies in my tummy when I see you in a tie, or you kiss my neck. You are, without a doubt, the sexiest person I know, and when I see you, or hear your voice, or get a text from you, I find you sexy. Always.

This will be the third year I have posted it. As with last year, I have tweaked it slightly, but not much. All of the feelings and sentiment remain the same. My father is one of, if not THE greatest influences in my life, and this is him, his story, how much I miss him. Eleven years have passed, but I still feel him with me every day.

That’s me on the right, at an ice show rehearsal circa 1995?

Today, April 23, 2010, is the 11th anniversary of the death of my father, the greatest man I will ever know. He was one of the most amusing, inspiring, intelligent, wonderful people to ever grace the face of this earth, and that’s not just my biased view. You didn’t see the number of people at his funeral, the number of people who came out of the woodwork to tell him goodbye and to tell us how much he had meant to them, the kind words written about him online by people all over the world, and so on. He was a great man.

When I was younger, I remember visiting him in the hospital in my Care Bear outfit (yes, I’ve been a nerd since a very young age). He had cancer (non-hodgkin’s lymphoma) and was occasionally hospitalized for pneumonia, or other infections. He went into remission in the early 90’s. Then, summer 1998, when we were in Europe, he started feeling off again. He was re-diagnosed at the end of the summer. My family didn’t tell me until Feb 1999, because they didn’t want to throw off my skating competition (WHAT THE FUCK — I still resent this immensely) or worry my sister and I.

Now I know why he cried at that competition when I put my first place medals around his neck and told him it was all his fault that I’d won. It’s a good thing they told us when they did – my dad ended up in the hospital the next week. It was a hard time – mydad was constantly in chemo, and was in and out of the hospital. I stopped doing my math homework; who cares about algebra and equations when your father was sick and his life hung in the balance? I spent every night after school either at rehearsal for my play, or with my dad at good old St. Joe’s, getting him ice chips, and joking around about the disgusting food, and taking the crosses off the wall.

At the end of March was my last show at the Logan School for Creative Learning (my elementary and middle school). I had a starring role in “The Madwoman of Chillot,” but didn’t think my father in his weak state could go – 3 flights of stairs, and sitting in a folding chair for 3 hours just wasn’t going to happen. My school loved my dad though, and banded together. They were able to help him up the stairs, and put him in the tech director’s special high backed rolling arm chair so that he could keep his neck upright (carried up those 3 flights). At the end of the show, they unrolled a banner signed by every single member of the cast and crew that said “We love you Sol!” and dedicated the show to him. By this point, he was bald (I called him Daddy Warbucks), and had lost more than 50 pounds. He was sunken in his chair, but had tears streaming down his face at this show of love by the people in his life. It was an amazing night, and the best performance of my life, bar none.

He started getting better, and was put on a list for a stem cell transplant. Every night before he went to bed, I told him how much I loved him…that’s just how we were. Until the morning of Friday, April 23, 1999, when I was woken up by my mother at 10am, which was odd, since it was a school day. She took me into my sister’s room, and told us that he had died in the night. She had woken up when he made a noise, and called 911, and tried to give him CPR, but it hadn’t worked. She was terrified that we would wake up with the ambulance’s sirens, and paramedics running through the house. We didn’t.

That day, I missed school, but they held an all school assembly in memory of my dad. I stayed home, cleaning up the house for the after funeral party. It snowed that day, a lot, given that it was April. I answered the door for the people coming by, took the flowers and arranged them. That night, I went to rehearsal for the ice show, because that’s what my father would have wanted, and I didn’t see any reason to not go.

Saturday, I went to the funeral home with my mother (Jews don’t believe in embalming, so funerals happen fast), and she was a wreck. I helped to plan my father’s funeral, to pick out his casket, to figure out how many police on motorcycles we needed. I was 13, and making choices as to how my father would be buried. Try telling me that hasn’t affected me every day for the rest of my life.

We asked for the small, 75 person chapel at my temple. When we arrived on Sunday morning, they had already had to move it to a large chapel, because too many people had already shown up (which was unexpected – we didn’t even publish an obituary with a funeral time). By the time the service started, it was standing room only. I wore a black dress with one of my father’s Hawaii shirts over it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt every day – to work, to skating, to school, etc. So I wore one. I read a poem, and after the service, my mother, sister and I opened the casket, alone. He was wrapped in a traditional Jewish Shroud, but underneath, he was in his $6 goodwill tuxedo he had bought for the father daughter skate, a Hawaiian shirt, and his rainbow suspenders. I left a little pig scupture in there with him.

We underestimated how many cops we would need to get to the cemetery. It was ridiculous – we figured just a few friends would come along. Everyone did. It snowed a little as he was buried. I remember the vase of flowers we left on his grave; we had too many at home already.

A few weeks later, his doctor called, and told us that his last tests had shown the cancer had spread all over his body – nothing could have stopped it, and nothing could have prevented him dying. Funny you know, because non-hodgkin’s lymphoma is considered a generally non-fatal type of cancer. A week or two after that, we got a message from the hospital – my dad was now at the top of the list for a stem cell transplant, and could he come in the following day? That was hard. As were all the calls from solicitors…especially the one when I said “No, I’m sorry, he’s deceased” and he said “when would be a good time to call back?” I asked him if he believed in reincarnation. What can you do?

My dad was a wonderful man. He was born in Sweden, moved to the US at age 1, and learned to speak Yiddish. English was his second language. He was kicked out of several schools for making mischief after he finished his school work before everyone else. He was in the air force for 3 years, stationed in Germany. He came back and got his bachelor’s in 2.5 years by working the hell out of the system. Then he got a Master’s in geology. After years with the government (BLM) as a geologist, he went back and got another degree as a computer scientist and stayed with the BLM. And did a lot of fancy computer programming stuff that I really don’t get, but he’s been called a pioneer in the field of meta-data analysis, and there is an award out there in his name.

He was a field trip parent for my classes – he had a giant suburban with a CB radio, and would show up for almost every trip. He came in to read stories to my class. Every year, we made latkes for everyone. At our roller skating parties, he’d be out there teaching every kid how to skate. Around Channukah, he’d dress up completely like a traditional Eastern European Jew, and re-enact (with my help of course) “Herschel and the Channukah Goblins.” Everyone knew and loved my dad.

When I took up figure skating, he did too, so that he could stay a little ahead of me, and help me learn things. After a while, I by-passed him in skills, but he kept skating. He even got a few jumps (he took this up at 44 or 45!), and quite a few bruises to prove it (never skate with a pocket knife in your pocket). One year, my sister and I skated to “the Sorcerer’s Apprentice” in an ice show – she was Mickey, and I was the Sorceress. Well, my dad put all on brown, tied some grass skirts around his knees, grabbed some buckets, and he became the brooms. I’m so not kidding. It was hilarious. In the father daughter skates in the ice shows, he had found a $6 tuxedo at goodwill, and wore it with a giant sequin bow tied and matching cummerbund, every year. And every year he’d try to throw some of his cool moves in (a little bunny hop here, some backwards skating there), and every year he’d get yelled at by the ice show director.

We used to see the circus every year, and one time, it was like our personal family at the circus day. My sister and I got picked from the audience to fly in a toy plane from the top of the coliseum, and then my father was picked for a clown skit. It involved “lay-people” tossing plates at each other, that broke when caught, and the audience people were supposed to just look confused and upset. Well, my dad started juggling them, throwing them under his leg, clapping them together, etc. He even followed the main clown around, mocking him (to the amusement of the crowd)…he told us later the clown told him in a heavy Russian accent to “cut it out! This is my show!” Later on, everyone was asking him if he was a plant, because he was that funny.

In 4th grade, I was farther ahead than everyone in my Hebrew class except for one girl. He volunteered to teach, and came in every weekend to teach special lessons to the two of us. Didn’t get paid, and got a lot of crap from me, but he did it, Sunday after Sunday.

When my girl scout troop was without a leader, he stepped up, becoming the only male leader in the Denver area. We learned knot tying, macramé, fire starting, archery, etc. I used to go to the “parent-daughter” girl scout camp weekends, and he’d go with me – usually one of only 4 or 5 dads (so we’d get the nice cabins with plumbing!).

On our own, he taught me to use a bow and arrow, how to play catch, how to carve words into sticks and trees. He made his own fireworks with steel wool. He took me with him to work all the time, not just on the official day. We had matching beanie propeller hats, except his had a little pig, and mine had a frog. He drove me religiously to dance and horseback riding lessons, and we’d listen to NPR on the way. We used to go thrift store and garage sale-ing every weekend spring-fall, and in the winter, we’d go to the lumber store sometimes. He built a two story play house for my sister and I in our back yard…that never got finished because of his death. It’s still there.

When I wanted my hair French braided, he went to a hair styling for kids class with me at Kazoo and Co. He was the only male there, but volunteered to practice for the demos, etc. We used to build hyped up remote control cars together for the critter crunch – trying to demolish our opponent’s cars. When I ever wanted a “new” computer, we’d build it together from spare parts, just the way I wanted it, even if that meant 3 floppy drives (totally pointless by the way). He got me games for DOS from all over the world. In NM, he used to take me shooting with my uncle, and was so proud of me when I turned out to be good at it. Once, we made our own wine…from a jury-rigged distillery we made in our kitchen. He taught me how car engines run, how to use a power drill, and how to waltz and summersault. Even our cats liked him best – always following him around, sleeping with him in his arm chair, leaving mice under his chair.

My father was my everything. He taught me so much, even when I didn’t want to learn (like the one summer he made me fill in a blank multiplication table every day, or the next year, when I had a daily long division problem). His crazy shirts, bolo ties, and tucan hats (as well as the rest of his antics) made me realize how important it is to live life to the fullest every day, because you never know what might happen. I even wrote my college essay on him. I got into my first choice because of him.

He never got to see me do my bat mitzvah, even though I wore his toucan hat during it (which miraculously survived the house fire we had a month after his death). He didn’t get to see me go to high school, to see me win any awards, to see me graduate high school, college or grad school. He never got to see me direct my first play, or sing in a musical. He would have been astonished that I was the President of the Jewish group at CC. He never got to threaten my partners with his .22 like he always promised. He would have LOVED Kinsey and Athena and Kali and Jasper, and would have played with them more than I do.

That day, not only did I lose a wonderful father, a great friend, a teacher, but the world lost a great man. It’s only in the last few years that I realize not only how much he influenced me, and how much he brightened my life, but that he did the same for hundreds of other people. It’s hard now – none of my current close friends, or my partner Q have ever met my dad, so they don’t know what exactly I’m missing, what piece of me is gone…I reacted differently to his death than most people react when they lose a loved one. We had never left anything unsaid, and I had nothing to feel guilty about. But the farther away I get from him, the more sad I am. I don’t remember anymore exactly what his voice sounds like. I don’t always remember his wry smile. I don’t believe in heaven or hell – I believe that when you die, your body is done, and your spirit goes into those whom you loved. I feel that as life trucks on and on, there is less and less of him in me, and that’s so hard.

Q often reminds me of him. Not all the time, but just here and there. Don’t they always say that girls go after guys that are like their daddies? I guess I found one like my dad in Q.

People ask me how long it took to move on. I tell them you never move on, you only work on healing.  How can you ever move on from someone who created who you are?

Here we are making potato latkes in my middle school

If you feel so inclined, wear a Hawaiian or brightly colored shirt today, in honor of him and his vibrant life. Or please donate to the American Cancer Society.

Thanks for reading that huge diatribe.

-Essin’ Em

Hey you.

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 post this story in April every year. Why? April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and I am making people aware. My assault doesn’t fall into what most people think of when they think of rape or sexual assault, but what happened in January 2003 has impacted so many areas of my life. I share it so people know that assault is multi faceted, and it affects everyone. And that you can get through it. And that everyone’s story is different, but that far too many are so similar.

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

Q is genderqueer. For the most part, she identifies as a butch dyke.  For the most part, she uses feminine pronouns. When we’re in public, and there are no gender neutral bathrooms, she chooses to use the women’s bathroom, if she really really really has to go and there are no other options.  So yes, she is a “woman” by many cultural standards.

But she isn’t one. She’s genderqueer.  Everyone morning, I watch her put on two sports bras (or the new Frog bra/binder I got her) to try and squish down her chest, and every night I watch as she takes them off, angry red lines around her ribcage the only evidence of how hard she tries to hide what she feels doesn’t fit her gender.

There are times where it takes us an hour or two to get ready to go out, not because we have to look perfect, but because that day, her hips seem to show too much in outfits, or her chest isn’t flat enough for the shirts she wants to wear. I look at her and tell her how handsome she is, how much she looks like a frat boy (minus the popped collar), but it seems as though nothing I say can convince her.

Sometimes, there are mini (or maxi) gender melt downs.  Something usually triggers it; something someone said to her (like calling us ladies), something I said that I didn’t realize. Or maybe it’s looking in the mirror, or not having clothes fit the way she wants.  She’s start crying, and she’s inconsolable. I understand why…but I WANT to fix it, and feel completely powerless and inept that I can’t.  It’s similar to when I have disability melt downs; there’s nothing anyone can say to make it better; it’s both an internal issue and a social contruction, and nothing can just make you feel better or make it go away.  So I lie there with her, and I hold her.

It’s hard. I wish there was an answer. When I was in Denver, she called me in tears; someone, a high school student on campus for some conference, had called her out in the women’s bathroom, asking her what she was doing in there.  Half of me wanted to tell her it was going to be ok, tell her to fuck ‘em, tell her that I loved her (which I did), but the other half wanted to say CONGRATS! You’re getting viewed the way you want to be.  You’re making people think outside the binary.  But I didn’t. Why? Because that doesn’t make it any easier given that she’s going to have to go to the women’s restroom at work every day. She’s the only genderqueer appearing staff member in her building (and one of very few on campus). She’s very alone.

While I have issues with Femme Invisibility, I know my frustration with that doesn’t even hold a candle to this. I just can’t imagine how she feels. I wish I could hold her and fix it and make it better. I wish it was “just” an issue of money; I’d say up, and get her top surgery, and it would all be better.

But this runs so deep. It is entrenched in many layers of herself, and in many aspects of society.

So what so I do? How can I be there? What does support look like? I’ve aksed her…sometimes she answers, and sometimes she tells me that she doesn’t even know.

I don’t know what I’m asking here. Tips? Ideas? Empathy?

-Essin’ Em

I want trying to talk to Q the other day about one of my two best friends.

See, I have two BFFs, if you will.  One, E, I met in high school when I chose her out of a pile of applications to be my costuming assistant for Charlie’s Aunt (in odd news, the guy who played Charlie’s Aunt in this play is the guy I made out with New Year’s Eve 2009. I know, right?). She lives in Denver, is getting married this summer (hence why I was trying on bridesmaid dresses) and while we aren’t much alike (she teaches yoga, likes dogs when I like cats, and enjoys florals and pastels), she’s been an amazing rock in my life. The other, A, lives in Seattle, and I was bemoaning having not heard from her in a while. We met the first day of orientation in college, at auditions for a show we both wound up in.  We’re a lot more similar than E and I; she’s also very nerdy, kinky, a writer (better than I am), social justice-y, etc.  However, she lives far away, and we’ve been having issues with touching base as of late. I miss her.

Regardless, I was talking to Q about A, and how I missed her, and wished we could be back at our “best friend” level we’ve maintained for so many years. She was having trouble understanding why I was upset at having not gotten to talk to her much lately (read: several weeks, where as E and I talk on the phone at least once a week, and text/facebook much more), so I asked her how often she talked to her best friend, who I assumed to be one of our mutual friends in Denver that I met at the same time I met her.

But it wasn’t.  She met me with a blank stare. “What do you mean?”

“You know, how often do you talk to ___ or ____?”

She looked at me again. “But you’re my best friend. They’re not. I talk to you everyday.”

I hadn’t ever thought about it that way. I mean, I tell her everything, we share so many things together (from the good to the bad, funny to serious). But I mean, she’s my partner. And that’s different than a best friend, right?

So I thought on it.  I mean, what is a best friend?  Someone you can share parts of yourself with that you might not be able to share with anyone else?  Someone to support you when you have successes, and someone to pick you up when you fall? Someone with whom you can laugh at silly things, and discuss serious subjects with? Someone who will actually tell you when something DOESN’T look good on, and when you have spinach stuck in your teeth?

Q is all of these thing to me, and more. She accepts me completely, whether that’s being in the adult industry/sex education, or prancing around the house, naked but for my leopard print snuggie. She sends me links to things that will make me smile, and to things that will make me thing. She cooks for me. She fights for me when I need help. She validates me. These are all things I expect from (or have expected from) E and A…so how is Q any different?

I’m not sure. Can your partner be your best friend? If so, can you still have other best friends? And if they can’t be your best friend, then what are they?  What IS a best friend, and how do YOU define it?

I’m leaving this open ended, as I’d love to hear thoughts from others.

-Essin’ Em