Sexuality Happens

Now that Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and that I’m back in the scheme of things (which includes planning for our wedding/celebration of love this October), I have to say that I’m sick and tired of the Love Industry.

What, pray tell, is the Love Industry? It is the capitalism in our society has found that by making people (particularly women, but people in general) feel back about not being in a relationship, not being in a “serious enough” relationship, not having the “perfect wedding” etc, that they will then rush out to spend tons and tons of money on ridiculous things. The worse you make people feel about their relationships (or lack thereof) with others, the more money they will spend.

Look at Valentine’s Day — people spend so much time and energy trying to make sure they have a partner on Valentine’s Day, and then once/if they do, they spend all this money trying to impress their partner and “show their love” by buying outrageous gifts that may or may not even suit their partners tastes. Clearly, every woman in existence wants a diamond necklace, right? I sure as heck don’t.  And then, when people say things like “I don’t think Valentine’s Day is important — I think love should happen year round,” they’re then told that they are just being jealous, petty, wishing they had a partner (or a partner that did better things for them, bought more expensive things, etc) and so on.  And of course, I work in the industry that hops onto this bandwagon — Valentine’s Day is one of our biggest seasons (but at least a vibrator lasts a lot longer than a bouquet of flowers, and can be used together).

This year, I picked up some pre-made food from Whole Foods and we ate it, cause I wasn’t in the mood to cook. Then we watched TV we’d missed, and worked on our duo-presentation for the National Collegiate Leadership Conference. Oh, and drove to the post office to drop off our application for a residence in Denver. Why? Because it was a Monday, and that is what needed to happen that Monday. My best friend and her husband went to Qudoba for dinner, and he wound up buying her a 6-pack of blueberry beer. It had nothing to do with money — they just decided that THAT was what they wanted to do. And that is how it should be.

Don’t even get me started on the wedding industry. Other than the fact that they are totally not queer inclusive (which they need to work on, given all the states passing same-sex marriage and civil unions), but honestly, this industry is vile at times. I keep getting sent wedding magazines, bride magazines, nesting magazines, where the “budget” dresses are one thousand to three thousand bucks. A “budget wedding” apparently comes in between twenty and thirty thousand. a BUDGET WEDDING means keeping it under a grand in my mind. We’re capping ours at $5000, and that includes outfits, locations, food, flowers, DJ, cupcakes, pumpkins for decorating, etc. We’re doing a cheap wedding of sorts, the way we like it (whether or not a burgundy ball dress is traditional, whether or not a DJ with a Rainbow Mohawk is appropriate, etc). But clearly, so many people buy into this fantasy that they are selling, this concept that with out an expensive white dress and prince to sweep you away, that we are nothing. Why? What is it that says this is “right” thing, other than the companies trying to sell it to us in the first place?

One of the most hurtful things F told me when we were together was that I was “always in my head, and never in my heart.” She’d follow this with ending a conversation, having sex with someone else against the rules of our relationship, or a torrent of judgemental things about me. That was her way of telling me I wasn’t emotional enough, that I didn’t feel. In her mind, feeling was superior to thoughts and logic, and because I was a planner, and wanted to talk out our issues instead of fighting about them, or worse yet (to me), ignoring them, I wasn’t good at relationships, that I wasn’t emotional enough, that I had no feelings.

I know now that this is bullshit. It’s true, for a long time after my father died, I did hide my feelings. I wrote a few years back about how I couldn’t cry, how it was only through a totally irrevelant conversation with K that I was able to finally break down and cry. I was so scared that if I showed myself crying, I’d be seen as weak, or worse yet, that I wouldn’t be able to stop crying, that everything I’d built up in my life, all my independence and stability woudl come tumbling down with my tears, and that I’d be back at step one.

However, I was beyond that point when I met F. I was an emotional person. I felt. I hurt. She hurt me. I felt hurt by hurt. And because I also have anxiety and a little OCD, which makes me a little more logical at times, she told me that I had no emotions, that I didn’t feel, that I didn’t have a right to ask for my needs to be met in our relationship because I wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth having a relationship.

Now, if you asked Q if she thought I was more in my heart or in my head, more emotional or more logical, I have no doubt the answer would be the former of each of those choices. True, we joke about me being tender and delicate, but at times, it is true. From losing my father to losing multiple close friends throughout my life (some through death, some through their choice), I have a lot of fear and hurt inside me. Sometimes, so much that I don’t even believe I’m worth it, that I don’t believe I deserve to have someone as wonderful as Q in my life. Every now and then, something triggers me, and I burst into tears, convinced that this is the point where Q figures out that I’m a fraud, that I’m nothing, that I’m not worth it.

As I think back on my relationship with F, and how much she did that lead to me questioning myself, to feeling as though I wasn’t able to be part of a long term relationship, to believing that I wasn’t enough for anyone, I realize that perhaps she was looking inside at herself and expressing the worries that she had about her onto me. Doesn’t mean I feel any less fucked up, but I can only hope she didn’t do it out of malice, and that she just never allowed herself to see my tender side, my emotional side.

And more important, I thank my lucky stars every damn day that I met someone like Q, who gets me, who not only thinks I’m worth it, and thinks I’m more than enough, but is working on helping me to believe it too. Someone who will lie in bed holding me until the tears dry up, who will tell me again and again that she wants to be with me, and who will make me laugh by creating shadow puppets to pull Kinsey’s tail. I’m worth it, and she knows it. And she knows that I’m just as emotional as I am a planner, and that one does not exclude the other. How lucky am I?

-Essin’ Em

This is day 18 in my “30 Days of Letters” endeavor. It is supposed to be written to “The Person I Wish I Could Be.” This is a hard one, because I am who I am, and am pretty ok with that for the most part, and think it is futile to wish you were someone else. I’ll therefore write it to the person I hope to be in the future as I continue to grow.

Dear Self-

You’ve come so far, learning to deal with your depression, to function around your OCD and planner-y-ness. You’ve gone through your list of friends, finally realizing which ones are true friends, and have dedicated more time and energy to staying connected and being a part of their lives.

You’ve finally gotten back to the weight you are happy with (and had been happy with for so many years before the Neurontin had you gain 30+ pounds), and have no illusions about ever wanting to be a a size 6, because you’re happy with who you are physically, and realize that wanting to be something else isn’t worth it.

You’ve become successful, what ever that means. In the field of sex positivity and sex education, people know who you are, respect you, and enjoy having interesting discussions for you. Shockingly, you’re able to make your paycheck(s) based 100% on doing sex positive education and sharing with people, changing people’s lives and improving how people look at sex. You’ve paid off your loans, and your car, and your medical bills, and you and Q are living in a small house that you’ve worked together on fixing up.

You’ve found some good method for coping with stress; congrats. Goddess knows you’ve been looking for that one for a while. Thank the mooses you’ve found it, because stress should never be as big of a part of anyone’s life as it had been for you for so many years. Stress isn’t needed in order to accomplish things; I’m glad you’ve learned that.

Self, I can’t wait to be you in a year, in five years, in ten years. I’m proud of you now, and know I will continue to be.

-Essin’ Em

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

It’s that time of year again, where I’m heading to Las Vegas for the AEE/ANE shows and the AVN awards (think “Oscars of Porn”).

This year, it’s a little tough. I’m heading to Vegas today through Sunday afternoon. Q heads up to this awesome social justice-y leadership program she’s helping to facilitate on Sunday morning…and will be gone for a full week. Then once Q gets back, we have a week together before I’m off to do classes and house hunting in Denver, and then I get back the day before Q heads to Minneapolis for Creating Change.  Usually I’m so good about planning my travel, and keeping it to less than a week per month, but these four weeks, both of us are travelling twice. I mean, I guess it is kind of good that we alternate, so that we don’t have to find a cat sitter…but on the other hand, that’s the most time apart that we’ve spent in a while, which is tough.

But here’s to Vegas, queer porn stars, sex educators, new sex toys, sex positive people, networking, seeing old friends, making new ones, and having a great time!

-Essin’ Em

Q and I have been watching a lot of both “16 and Pregnant” as well as “Teen Mom” on MTV. It began at her mother’s house with “we want to watch something and it’s late…what’s on?” but has morphed into “if we were this couples social workers, what advice would we give? How could this person make better choices? How could their family and friends be more supportive? And so on. Especially given that now some episodes have featured the teens using adoption and abortion as options, in addition to parenting.

The other day, when we were driving home from our trip, I was tired, and said something in conversation about how I hoped we never accidentally got pregnant, because I’d be nauseous all the time, and in a lot of pain. Q looked at me like I was nuts, and it took me a second to realize why; it wasn’t that I wouldn’t accidentally get pregnant because I’m a sex educator and was lucky enough to get lots of info on safer sex…no, it was because Q doesn’t have sperm that could accidentally impregnate me.

I realized how lucky I am. While STIs are always a risk, and so Q and I get tested every year, and practiced barrier sex until we chose to be fluid bound, I never have to worry about pregnancy. I’m on hormonal birth control to keep my periods in check, but it isn’t at all for sexual or prevention reasons. We never have to worry about condom expiration dates, or whether I’m on antibiotics.

There are a lot of fights to fight being queer, and a lot of struggles and battles. About rights, about being recognized and validate, about family and friends and careers. About language. About gender. About this and that. But one struggle we’re lucky enough not to have is having to worry about the possibly of an accidental pregnancy, and making the choice between abortion, adoption and parenting.

We have talked about kids a lot, and another lucky for me, we’re on the same page. Neither of us wants kids. We could see perhaps fostering in 20+ years, but we have high maintenance cats and both work jobs with crazy hours and not outstanding pay. We don’t have the time, money or energy for kids, and nor do either of us feel the need to populate the planet anymore…and both of us are VERY against carrying a child, so it would be adoption, regardless. I feel lucky that this will always be our decision, that I will never have to worry about having to make that choice, nor will I have to worry about my fertility, looking into IVF, etc. Every cat shelter is always full of perfect kitties waiting for adoption, and right now, we have the best three in the whole world. My family is complete, for now, and I’m so happy and lucky that I’m able to say that.

I’ve never wanted children. Never. I never thought about how I’d dress them, how many I wanted, who I wanted to have them with, whether I’d give birth or adopt, where they should go to college. Never. Now, I did pick up names I really liked, and said “oh, I’d totally name my child this one day” and then quickly went on to name a cat Ava, a beta fish Trisana, a Russian Dwarf Hamster Niamara, a hedgehog Ambrose, etc. Pets and stuffed animals fulfilled my need to name things unique and creative names with easy nicknames.

However, as much as I’ve always know I didn’t want kids, I’ve known I wanted cats. There was 9 months in my life with no cats, between our house burning down in May of 1999 (killing our two kitties), and moving in to the rebuilt house and adopting Phoenix and then Anastasia in spring of 2000. Even when I lived in Germany, my host family had two cats. As soon as I got my own apartment my senior year of undergrad, I adopted Kinsey. Cats to me are my children. I treat my kitties as members of the family, and when they depart, like Athena dying December 2008, my heart breaks for them (and I sat Shiva).

My cats are a part of my family, and when I was freely dating, they were a good measuring tool. If someone didn’t like cats, they were out. Now, if they were ambivelent, all they had to do was meet Kinsey, and usually their mind changed. If they met my cat or cats (depending on when), and the cats didn’t like them? Done. My cats like most people, and so I took them not liking someone as a sign of things to come. It only happened twice, but I found out later on that it was a very good sign to stay away.

And then I met Q. Q had a cat already (Jasper), and was more co-dependent with him than I was with Kinsey. Moreover, when I adopted Kali and had the whole traumatic experience of her in the ER for 3 days, Q let me call, text and rant, even though we were all of just a few months (if that) into dating. Q didn’t mind that the cats were allowed everywhere except the counter and the kitchen table, and embraced both cat hair and Kaili claiming Q as her own. When Q would go back to New York to visit, I’d come take care of Jasper, staying over to watch a movie with him, or reading out loud. When I was gone, Q would text me pictures of Kinsey and Kali missing me.

This sounds silly, yes, but I realized that the perfect kitty parent was a non-negotiable for me. And the other night, as I watched Q carefully scoop a certain amount of dry food into a dish, and then add the right amount of wet food, with a little extra water, and mash it all around to make it as appetizing to them as possible (they’re on a new UTI prevention diet), and then soak a cranberry pill, and gently give it to Jasper and stroke his throat until he swallowed…I realized that Q fit the mold. Q was the perfect kitty daddy (we like to play with gender, obviously) to me, the kitty mommy. Between the two of us, the cats always have someone to lie on, someone to pet them, someone to dangle a toy in front of them. We sit together, making up stories about what each cat is saying when they meow, about how they feel about leopard print, about Kali’s royal throne, about Jasper’s queen-y walk, about Kinsey’s rubber and latex fetish. We curl up in our bed, two of us and three very spoiled cats, and it just feels right.

Q is my kitty daddy, and is a better fit for me and our family of fur kids than I ever could have imagined.

-Essin’ Em

Today marks the 2nd full year that Q and I have been together (it also is the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers — I can’t think of anything more appropriate for two sex-positive and social justice oriented people).

For a long time, I thought I was going to be alone forever. I viewed myself as unloveable, as broken, as not worthy of love. I didn’t think anyone would find me “worth” dealing with, putting up with my insecurities, my disabilities, my career, my snarkiness, my messiness, my anthropormorphisizing of my cats.

And then, I met Q. At a strap on class that I was teaching even. Well, this way I knew that for the most part, sex ed wasn’t going to be an issue. Q is incredibly caring about social justice, about equality (or the lack there of), actually cares about politics and truly works towards creating change in this world. On top of that, Q is witty, hilarious, fun to be around, incredibly smart, and laughs at my ridiculous jokes…and Q is more co-dependent with Jasper (the Maine Coon) than I have ever been with my cats. Although I don’t believe in the concepts of perfect matches (because you have to work on making them work), I can’t imagine finding anyone more perfect for me than Q. I wonder sometimes if I even deserve such happiness. Q says I do.

There are few things more wonderful than waking up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and having loving arms around you, or getting a “hello beautiful” text message in the morning, or an “I love you” sign on the holiday shrubbery, and knowing that the love is actually meant, and isn’t just some trite or cliche message. Few things more reassuring than your partner bringing you ice packs and pain killers when you can’t walk, or calling to see how your neurologist appointment went.

I am not perfect. I am a hard pill to swallow at times. It is hard to love me, and sometimes harder to be with me. I know all of this. And yet, I am lucky enough to have found someone as wonderful and driven and loving as Q, who takes me how I am.

Next October, we’re having our “Queer Celebration of Love” — AKA, the wedding. I’ll have to write about my views on marriage at some point, but the wedding is our celebration for our friends and family, a showing off of our love, a rejoycing in our connection.

Sadly, Q is still in New York for today’s anniversary, but Q’s family is important, and I understand that. Instead, this Saturday I’m making a special dinner for us, and for Christmas, we’re driving to a relaxing resort outside of Vegas to take advantage of their special pricing, and cooked food, and will celebrate there. I love being together, experiencing things together, trying new things together.

So happy anniversary stud muffin. I can’t imagine being happier with anyone else ever, anywhere, any time. Thank you for letting me love you and trust you,

Babycakes.

This is day 16 in my “30 Days of Letters” endeavor. It is supposed to be written to someone from my childhood. Interestingly enough, I had a dream the other night about my elementary/middle school art teacher. My school was lucky enough to have an amazing art department with real chalk pastels, spinning wheels for ceramics, frame stretching for oil paintings, etc. I write this to her.

Michelle-

I’m not sure you know how much of an impact you had on my life. In fact, I’m sure you have no idea.

From the time I was 5 to 13, art didn’t mean cheap water colors gotten from the dollar store, it meant figure drawings in charcol, pieces created out of clay, paintings that still hang on the walls in my mothers house. It didn’t matter if I was any good at it; you were always so supportive, none the less. You had ideas to teach, techniques to show…and even though sometimes we were loud and obnoxious and ridiculous like children are wont to be, you had a smile on your face.

I connected with you more than with any of the other teachers I had. I still have the beautiful picture of a horse you created for me for my Bat Mitzvah. That’s right; I’ve carted it around with me for over 12 years, not only because it is beautiful, but because I like having that reminder of you in my life.

Art was my outlet, especially clay. Whenever I felt sad or lonely or frustrated or depressed, there was something amazing about smashing clay against the table, pounding it over and over again, only to then create something I saw as beautiful out of nothing. Talk about an amazing life lesson.

I’ve been inspired to start up with the creativity again. I honestly haven’t done anything artsy since I left that school, save designing some costumes for plays and doing theate make up. No painting, no drawing, no clay. I miss it. I still remember the first water color I did for you, when I learned that real water colors come in tubes, and that you can use salt as a technique, and how we put random items in a normal scene — I did fast food french fries in a park. I loved that picture, and kept it till our house burned down. Because of it, and my memories, and your inspiration, I want to start up art again.

Thank you for creating such a wonderful safe haven for a kid, and then for a teenager. You have no idea how much you’ve given me, and I hope you know I appreciate it.

-Essin’ Em

Somehow, I am always grouped as a sex blogger…but as many of you have probably noticed, I honestly don’t blog about sex that much. I mean, yes, I do talk about toys sometimes, or how sex is or isn’t affecting my relationship…but I as of the last year or so, I haven’t written/published as much erotica, I haven’t shared very much of my sex life, haven’t posted any nude pictures. There are many many many reasons for each of these decisions, but regardless, these topics are no longer part of my posting.

So am I still a sex blogger? I mean, I’m writing about queer weddings and relationship drama and letters to people throughout my life. Is sex and sexuality a part of it? Oh yes. But I feel like I’ve become more a life style blogger, perhaps a relationships blogger, I don’t even know.

Ergo, my question to you; what defines a sex blogger? Is it sex toy reviews? Is it erotic stories of past times? Is it deep conversation into gender identify and presentation? How does one know if they are or aren’t part of this whole “sex blogger” community?

And with that said…where do I fit?

-Essin’ Em