Sexuality Happens

I just got back from Las Vegas on Sunday night, very late. I’d been gone for five very long days.

When I got home, Q had left that morning. Because she’s awesome, she’s facilitating this amazing social justice leadership retreat up in Prescott all week, and won’t be back until Saturday night. The apartment felt so empty without her, the cats all crowding around me for attention that they hadn’t gotten all day, demanding pets and love. All I wanted was to curl up in bed with her arms around me, having been apart almost a week already.

I travel a fair amount, but with my disability and relationship, I try to keep it down to less than a week a month. When it’s longer, I try to come home in the middle for at least a night so that we can regroup and reconnect. This almost two week period is the longest amount of time that we haven’t slept together in almost a year and a half, and shockingly to me, it’s harder than I thought. I was such an independent person for so long, rarely spending the night or letting others spend the night, that it seems odd to me that just a few days apart from my partner makes me feel weird and lonely. But if I’m honest with myself, which I try to be, it does. It bothers me. I feel lonely in bed without her pressed up against me, or her heavy breathing in my ear.

I never expected to be in a mostly monogamous, long term relationship. When I pictured my future, it was never a part of it. Now, I’m incredibly happy to be in one now, with such an amazing person, but it certainly goes to show how much you never know, and how different the future may be than what you expect it to be.

7 Days down and 4.5 more to go until I have someone to hug and cuddle with, someone else to cook for, someone to laugh at my jokes and swat my butt while I’m cooking. I never thought I would miss that, because I never had it to begin with…but now that Q is such a huge part of my life, the space that is there when she is gone is so much more noticable than I ever would have thought.

-Essin’ Em

A couple of weeks ago, Q and I got in our first “big” fight. With her being a social worker, and me having a background in counseling and communication, our fights usually consist of;

“I don’t like XYZ.”

“Don’t you think you’re projecting on me a little bit?”

“Maybe. But even so, I want more ABC in order to feel more fulfilled in this relationship!”

“Ok, what does more ABC look like to you?”

And then we talk a little more and our “fight” is over.

However, a few weeks back, we had a real fight. Over something relatively stupid, but on going, so it kind of built up into more of a blow out. We had a house guest at the time, so there wasn’t any yelling…but it was the first time Q got up in the middle of our intense conversation and left. Now, she was just going out of our bedroom into the living room to sleep on the couch…but that wasn’t what it seemed/felt like to me. I have a HUGE fear of abandonment; my dad died when I was 13, I’ve had friends from over a decade stop talking to me and pretend they don’t know me, and significant others who just peaced out. When someone walks out of the room, who has never done it before, in the middle of a big arguement, it feels to me like they are walking out of my life.

I tried to remain calm. I sat in bed, waiting for her to come back and finish the conversation, like we always do. She didn’t come back. So I left the apartment to walk around the complex. She didn’t come after me. I couldn’t believe it — I had once told her that if I ever left out of hurt or anger, it was incredibly important that she come after me, because I needed that from her to show me she still loved me and cared enough to come after me. She didn’t.

Finally, I headed back to our place. I hung up my keys and coat, and told her to take the bed, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to get any sleep that night, so I’d take the couch where I could read/watch TV. I then asked her when she wanted me to move out by…because in my mind, her leaving our conversation, walking out of the bedroom, and not coming after me had morphed into her ending the relationship. I then prompty burst into tears…which turned into sobs, and ended up in her arms.

Eventually, I calmed down enough to have conversation with her. We both talked about things that had been bothering us and might have fueled that argument, even if they hadn’t been brought up. We made a better game plan. And eventually, we went to bed together, after midnight, said I love you to each other and went to sleep.

I KNOW fights happen. My best friend is married to a guy that she used to have pretty big fights with bi-monthly, calling me in tears. She seems happy now, and tells me that they have tiffs, but that it makes it a stronger relationship. I KNOW it’s supposed to be normal to have the occasional big fight.

However, we’ve been together almost two years, and it’s the first BIG/REAL fight that we’ve had…which made it seem like an anomaly to me, and scared the wits out of me. Luckily, because we love each other, because we pretty much get each others’ communication styles, and because we both care about making this work, we made it through. And while hopefully the next “big” or “real” fight is months or preferably years off, I’ll be a little less startled and feel a little less abandoned by the next one.

-Essin’ Em

I just found out from my doctor (a voicemail, no less) that my thyroid? Which the blood work came back negative on, but felt enlarged, so he ordered lots of test? Well, it’s covered in lots (aka “dozens”) of cysts. Apparently, no nodules, which the message said was good, but lots of cysts. Which may or may not be benign. I have to call an ENT on Monday and try to get in for biopsy.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m cursed. Like I did something, as some point in my life, to set me up for all of these health issues. So far, just this year, I’ve dealt with my usual knee pain, arthritis, bursitis in my hips, allergies, migraines, and chronic pain. Fine. But I’ve had to add on a rapid weight gain (30 lbs in 6 weeks) all in my stomach for not apparently reason (no change in diet or exercise), a blown up knee filled with fluid, a 5-day-long almost unstoppable migraine, a cervical cancer scare, and now this.

I’d just like to go six months, SIX MONTHS for mooses sake, without any NEW health issues. Not no health issues at all, just no new ones. I can’t afford it, they are completely depressing, and I have no idea why or how to make them better. I’ve tried Western med, herbal remedies, acupuncture, massage (which does help migraines but is super expensive), reflexology, cranial sacral therapy, etc. My next thing to try is reiki  and energy work, if I can find an affordable practitioner. Nothing seems to help, and these issues just seem to keep coming at me. I don’t know what to do.

End of mini rant. You were warned, by the title.

-Essin’ Em

This summer, Q has been playing on a softball league with people from work.  It’s every Sunday night, and I have gone, sat at, and watched every single game she has played in, except for one when I was recovering from my knee drama. Everyone. I am the only partner of a team member that has attended more than one game, and I’m the one people use to guilt their partners into coming to watch (“But Q’s partner comes to every single game — you can’t even come support me once?”). Before and after the game, we hug and kiss. During the game, I cheer for her (El Guapo) and the rest of the team, and make snarky remarks about how good her ass looks while batting. We’ve gone out to eat with the team after a game, and talked a little about wedding plans, held hands, etc.

Last Sunday, someone was looking for a pen. I had just lent the coach one, and he’d given it back.  The coach looked at the pen-less guy and said, loud enough for me to hear from the bleachers; “Need a pen? Q’s ROOMMATE has one.”

Roommate. Yes. He said that. Thank the mooses for Q, who quick said “Um, she’s my partner. PARTNER.” Now, the coach didn’t hear it, and he didn’t really care…but Q is usually not that assertive, and so her saying that made me feel better, and so much more validated.

Ok. Now if you had *just* met us, I could see using the term roommate, if you didn’t know. But wouldn’t it be more poignant to use “friend” if you weren’t sure of some one’s relationship status? Calling me her roommate is so fucking 50s. It completely discounts our relationship, which you have clearly seen, heard, and know to exist. It’s telling us we’re not good enough to have a relationship, that we can’t really be in love. We’ve been delegated back down to roommates.

Now, we almost exclusively use the term partner, and prefer people use the same when referring to us. However, in certain circumstances, we use the term “girlfriend” if that is the best way for someone (like our grandparents) to wrap their mind around our relationship. While I don’t particularly like “girlfriend,” if that is the best way for you to understand us, then fine, use it.

I don’t really like fiance either, because that boils everything back down to the wedding, and our relationship is so much more than a celebration of love. She is my partner every moment of every day…she’s only my fiance when we’re planning/talking about the wedding. But if you call her my fiance, or vice versa, fine. I can deal. At least you’re validating our relationship.

Call her my “special friend” (or me hers), and you’re in for a snarky comment like “yes, she is my special friend. My vagina’s special friend to be exact.” What the hell does special friend mean? But at least, with that, you’re implying special, as in more important that ordinary relationships, and friend, as in a chosen relationship.

With roommate, you have 100% completely invalidated our relationship. How dare you. I would never ever ever refer to your wife of however many years as “that lady you live with.” Not ever. So how can you, seeing our interactions, hear the terms we use and our wedding plans, relegate us to “roommates.” Fuck you.

She’s not my fucking roommate. She’s my lover, my partner, my friend, my fiance, my confidant, my muse, my kitty co-parent, my salvation, my amusement, and oh so much more.

Looking at my history, pre F and pre Q, I’ve realized that for the most part, I don’t have one night stands very often; I have two-night stands. And you know what? I find that I like the two night stands much better than one nighters.

Why?

When you have a one night stand, you only get that night to figure out what your new (and very short term) partner would like, what they enjoy, how the two of you are sexually compatible. When you have a two night stand (two nights of sex fairly close together, although they don’t have to be back to back), you get to have a bit of a learning curve. The first night, you treat like a one night stand; you’ve just met, or perhaps you’ve known each other forever, but it’s your first time having sex. You get to learn a little bit about what this partner likes, what you like them to do to you, what each of your communication styles are, etc. Then, you return for a second night. This time, you know the basics. You know some of these things they like, and don’t like. You know what you can improve on from the last night you spent together. You get to communicate what YOU’D like more of, less off, harder, softer, in a different way.

Then it’s over, like a one night stand. Maybe you’re on vacation, or maybe it’s a two-night doozy with a long time friend that just wouldn’t work as a relationship, or maybe you’re not interested in a long term relationship. Whatever it is, you’ve gotten the thrill and excitement from the concept of having a one night stand, but it’s also likely that you have much better sexual interaction than if you’d just done it for one night.

I had a two night stand with the hot one I met at Dinah Shore…the one who helped me discover both my queerness and femme-ness. 48 hours of what was up until that point the best sex of my life.  We explored by body, I learned how to orgasm with a partner, I learned how much I liked queer sex (and that it was more than just oral and a finger rubbing a clit). By the second night, this person knew my body so well, and I was coming dozens and dozens of times, like I’d never come before. Their learning curve? Ridiculously short.

When I hooked up with C in Philly, the first night was a lot of communication, a lot of talking, and exploring each others’ bodies. While there was sex, it was almost secondary to the connections we were creating. Then, the second night, I fucked her for hours, my last night in Philly, plus lots of hot make out time. Second night, yet again, better than the first.

With K, we played twice before I left Philly; once at the Submit party in New York, and then one day where he had me wear nipple clamps to the art museum, and tried out canes and paddles on me in New Hope. It was fun and light hearted, and far less scary than the first time we played.

When M was in Denver the summer I moved back, we hooked up twice…once, it was everything but sexual activity. Making out and grinding and desire. The next night, hot sex and lots of orgasms, all night long. Two night stand? Definitely a winner.

Then there was L. While we went on a few dates, we only made out/had grope-age twice, and the second time, far more comfortable and easy and enjoyable than the first time.

So I am a fan, a proponent, a supporter of the two night stand, the double hook up, the back to back boogie. I’ve found that it worked incredibly well for me, and like my rules of my manifesto, the two night stand has definitely led to better sex.

-Essin’ Em

The other day, as we lay together in bed, I asked Q if she’d be willing to be a bit more romanctic. I told her that while I knew how much she loved me, and that I loved her an incredible amount, that we’d settled into a routine, and that I needed to be romanced more.

She wanted to know what that meant, and pointed out we didn’t have a lot of extra money running around (and this was even before I was robbed, which cost us $400+ in glass relacement fees, replacing cards, IDs, the cash stolen, my camera, etc).  It was hard to say what it looked like. It was Dylan Ryan tweeting about her partner bringing her a “almost done with your thesis cake.” It was other people talking about massages before bed, or wildflowers their lovers had picked to cheer them up. I had no easy answer, just that it didn’t have to involve money, just SOMEthing romantic.  Big help I was, I know.

Wednesday, she texted me that she’d been driving all around town looking for a sunshade for me. It’s 90+ degrees in Phoenix, and apparently, it’s still too cool for place to sell sunshades for cars. So she went around, desperately trying to find one.  She couldn’t, so she texted me again, telling me that THIS was why she wasn’t romantic, that THIS was romance FAIL.

But it wasn’t. To me, it was more romantic that she cared enough to try multiple places to find me a damn sunshade, more so even than if she’d found and bought one at the first place she stopped. Romance was the fact that she faced adversity and frustration trying to find something for me that would help make my life better.

Romance was when I woke up to find my car window smashed and much of my life (all in my purse) stolen, and she stayed home from work, calling the insurance and glass companies while I cancelled my credit cards.  It was her lending me money to replace my IDs, and still taking me out for Dining Out For Life that night, because she new how important it was to me.  She told me that this is what anyone would do. I beg to differ. I had an ex (F) who wouldn’t even postpone a weekly kink mentorship for an hour to come comfort me when Athena died. Yet here was Q, my knight in shining armor, helping me fill out the police report, and arranging for my window to be replaced within 3 hours of finding it smashed.

So what IS romance? I don’t know. I feel like I sound like good ol’ Justice Stewart when I say “I know it when I see it,” but it’s true. Romance is what happens when relationship go outside of the head, and trickle back down into the heart, when routine is broken, when someone goes out of their way to show their love for you. It doesn’t have to involve a single cent (although I’m still holding out for a bouquet of black calla lilies one day…for now, I buy myself my own flowers), but it does have to involve heart.

And Q is no Tinman. Her heart is there, is beating, and is plenty big enough for me. And her romance? It’s just my style, even if I don’t quite know what my style is.

What is romance to you?

-Essin’ Em

Always Aroused Girl has been blogging a bit lately about the oh so fun game of trial and error with her pills, and I feel so much empathy for her, she doesn’t even know. I actually have to have a spreadsheet now of what pills I’ve tried for which problem, their dosage, why they didn’t work, etc…other wise, I have no idea when the doctor asks me if I’ve tried Alavil, and if so, why it didn’t work.

I take about 8 or 9 pills every morning, depending on the condition of my knees. Then 2 at lunch, and another 3 before bed. This is assuming I’m not in any intense knee pain (up it by one more pill every 4-6 hours), or having a migraine (I get 2-3 a week…then add 3 pills to start, and 1 every hour till they knock me out).

People joke with me that I’m a travelling pharmacy when they see my giant travel pill box. But I have to have it with me at all times, because I never know when something will act up. Plus, of course I keep a bottle of IBprofen in my purse, because that’s my first line of defense for my knees/hips before I add the oxycodone.

I hate it. A lot. I hate having to swallow literally a handful of pills every morning. A whole handful. If you ever meet me, you’ll be very impressed with my ability to swallow almost a dozen pills all at once. I’m like a python or something.  It takes practice. I remember having to learn to swallow pills when I was younger, and I got to practice with M and Ms. Which actually sucked, because you didn’t get the taste the chocolate.

I hate not being able to go anywhere without the clacking of my pills. Without my purse, I get nervous.  What happens if ___.

I mentioned on twitter my frustration with all the damn pills (keep in mind some are not traditional Western medicine; I take glucosamine chondrontine for my knees, and flaxseed Omega-3 for my heart and B-12 cause I’m a vegetarian), and someone said that when they felt that way, they just stopped taking them all for a few days.

While this may work for some, please note how dangerous this can be with many drugs. In college, I was on Paxil, mostly for my insommnia.  I got sick of taking it, and so in my 16 year old mind, the best option was to just stop taking it, ignoring the fact it had taken 2 weeks to ramp up to my current dose.  4 days of cold turkey and I ended up in a severe depression and tried to kill myself. PLEASE be careful with your drugs.

The point of this post? There really is none. Just me bitching about the ridiculous amount of medication I have to take on a daily basis, and to please warn people about going off any med (prescribed or OTC or natural) suddenly. Your body needs time to adjust.

I don’t need any more migraine med recommendations. I’ve gone through the list. The med my current neurologist wants to put me on has been refused by my insurance (like my allergy medication), and costs $160 for 4 pills. FOUR PILLS.  It’s cheaper for me to go to the ER ($150 copay) than to pay out of pocket for the migraine pills I need to keep me out of the ER.

So I just up the doses of what I have, and hope it works.

People wonder why I don’t really care about gambling…it’s because I do it every day with my health. Trying to figure out which pill fucked up which part of me, trying to avoid taking pain killers, but guessing whether the pain will become unbearable. It’s all roulette…just with me, instead of red and black.

-Essin’ Em

I know everyone thinks of me as this sex craved, kinky as fuck, can’t get enough pervert.

I am  very much about to disillusion you. If you want to continue to think of me as such, stop reading now.

Still reading? Fair enough.

Over the last few months, a lot has happened. A LOT. I got sleep apnea from swollen tonsils and was a walking zombie. Then I had tonsil removal surgery. Then we moved to Phoenix. Which involved Q and I moving in together (the first partner I’ve ever wanted to lived with). Then I was unemployed and depressed. Then I got employed and was exhausted from getting back into a fairly regular work schedule. Then I had a cancer scare (still need to write about that). Then I had a 5 day long migraine where I ended up in the ER. Add to that the nerve/wrist pain I had, the back pain I have, and the knee and hip pain that never goes away, and is better one day and is HORRIBLE and excruciating the next.

Is it any wonder that my sex drive seems to have taken a vacation? No, but it pisses me off.

Why? Because I LIKE sex. In my head, I still want to have it 6-10 times a week like we used to. I see Q, and she’s so hot, so sexy, so much deliciousness and I want her all the time. But physically, my sex drive has gone out the window.

Do we have sex? Yes, although definitely not as frequently, and not for as long of sessions. Do I wish we had more? Again…my head says yesyesyesyesyses, my body say whatever. 

When we do have sex, things have changed. I don’t ejaculate as much, so I guess that’s a good thing, since the bed doesn’t end up as wet. And my orgasms are a whole different animal; they feel different, they happen differently, etc.  Plus, where as I used to need about 2 seconds of kissing and maybe some nipple play for warm up and was then ready to fuck for hours, I now need foreplay. A lot of it. And the problem is, I don’t even know what type of foreplay I need, because this is a whole new and different journey for me as well, as I’ve never really been in this boat.

I feel horrible for poor Q.  While her sex drive has decreased slightly too, it is nowhere near as minimal as mine. I don’t want her to think that I don’t find her sexy (because I do! And I tell her that all the time), or that I don’t want to be with her any more (I can’t imagine being with anyone else — I love her so god damn much)…but how do we make this work?

Sometimes, she’ll masturbate, and I’ll help out with kissing and touching and scratching and all of that. Sometimes I’ll fuck her, but then she wants to fuck me and I’m just not in the mood and I feel horrible and gross and like a bad partner and a failure as sex educator and at life.

So we talk. A lot. I tell her where I’m at, she checks in with how she’s feeling. We try new things. We reach outside the box.  And hopefully, slowly, my sex drive will come back, and at the very least, we’ll figure out a way to make this work for us. Because really, what do you do if you ARE the sexuality educator, you ARE the pervert, you ARE the person that people come to for answers…and you just don’t have them?

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

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