The title alone would likely draw all kinds of traffic, if I didn’t have search engines blocked. Not that I want traffic. I write for myself, blah blah blah.
I’ve got these thoughts swirling about in my mind that I’ve never had the courage nor taken the time to ponder very deeply, let alone put to paper. But I think it’s time. I’m not sure how cohesive it will be, but I’m going to give it a shot.
…why I don’t like …
I don’t like to give or receive oral sex. In general. Or at least not much. Maybe if the moon is waxing gibbous and the planets are aligned just right. It’s been a matter of contention throughout the better part of my sexually active life. Why is this so? Simple. It’s because of negative associations that are embedded in the memories of predatorial coercive experiences from my youth. It’s very difficult to release such associations, and it’s not particularly easy to talk about them. Why would I want to talk about them, anyway? Avoidance is so much easier. Just don’t go there. I don’t want to think about icky things that happened long ago.
…keeping numbers low…
I, as a human, am a sexual being. I, as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent, am a sexual being. I yearn for connection, for a fullness that is hard to describe. And I don’t yearn for variety. Dear God, no. I don’t get that, about people. Wondering what it would be like with this one, that one, or the other one. As if people are flavors of ice cream to try. I find it gross. Icky. There are many icky connotations when it comes to me and the ideas that are trapped in my mind revolving around sexuality. So sex as a sport, sex as recreation, are icky to me. I’m so not interested. Ick, icky, pfthtft, blech.
I have no interest in the dating scene. I’ve been terrified of it all along, from the very beginning when I found myself adult and single. Because, as far as I could tell, dating meant having sex with various people. It shouldn’t mean that, but somehow I ended up harboring that interpretation. Maybe because when I was young, it seemed that the male prime directive was to get laid, not married. They wanted to play the field. I wanted to settle down.
I don’t want to go on exposing myself to others in the pursuit of Mister Right For Me. Enough is enough. I want to keep my numbers low. Or as low as possible. There is too much at stake, with such frivolity. Not just physical, with the risk of disease, but the emotional toll is steep. And I’ve never been frivolous, really. Serially monogamous, as they say. But I suppose it’s all relative. I suppose I could be considered a trollop in some circles. Because my numbers… My number is 13, I think. (I don’t really want to count any more. I think it’s 13.) Anyway. In my own estimation, I have not been frivolous. I’ve only ever wanted to be with just one.
…in an ideal world, there would have only ever been one…
My number would have been low, in an ideal world. My number would have been one. I would have settled in to life with my person, and we would have learned each other, grown with each other, and built a life together.
I know people, my age, whose number is one. I applaud them. It’s hard to fathom how they were able to manage it.
…letting go…
It’s not an ideal world. I have my issues that constrain the relationships I find myself in. I have a yearning, a hunger, an ache to let everything go and immerse myself in the moment. I want to release all the constraints and let them flow away so that I can breathe and move and honor each sensation that my body can feel. How much of this depends on another? How much of this depends only on me? Has anyone ever truly let go with me? Have I ever truly let go with anyone?
…ripped off…
For so much of my adult life I’ve felt like I’ve been ripped off, sexually. Negative associations aside, I still have a hunger for intimacy. The man I married was more interested in who-knows-what-until-3 am than going to bed at a reasonable hour and enjoying some midnight magic with his wife. I literally had to ask him for a deposit when I thought I was ovulating, and that was pretty much the sum of it. A deposit. Pathetic. But I do have two wonderful children now, so it wasn’t for naught. And therefore it was worth it. Worth every miserable minute.
I suppose that most of the feelings of ripped offedness (I don’t care if that’s not a word, I’m using it anyway) stem from the marriage. He probably felt ripped off too, because I wasn’t into giving blow jobs. That, and he favors big booty and little bustage, and my endowments are exactly the opposite.
It was a chapter. I’m glad it’s over.
…surrender…
There is something to be said about surrender. When you carry the weight of your world on your shoulders, the burden is heavy. How can you let it go? It takes a certain level of trust to be able to let go, to surrender. Such moments, however fleeting, are sweet and glorious. Like honey, smooth and amber, flowing gently, covering everything with a soothing glow.
…mid life…
I’m no longer young. These thoughts and feelings have been with me for most of my life. When better to address them, if not now? I could rue the waste of years and moments that could have been spent loving more fully, or I could gird up and say it’s better late than never. So now is a good time to address these things. Or at least try. I’m on a journey inward, looking for myself. Finding myself. Revealing myself. Unearthing myself. Discovering myself. Healing myself. I must. Because life beckons. And I want to live.
…morality, what is it?…
The question of morality has quite an impact on thoughts and feelings revolving around sexuality. What is morality? It seems to vary from person to person, and it seems often to be steeped in religious background or upbringing. What is it to me?
Is it immoral to go through life, one partner after another, in a seemingly endless quest for ‘The One’? I would generally say no. That is, unless the partners overlap against their will. In which case it’s unkind and unfair to the unknowing partner. In other words, unfaithful. Not good. Not good at all.
Is it immoral to have sex outside of marriage? I’m thinking along the lines of damage control, rather than religion. Generally, religion provides rules, guidelines and boundaries designed for our safety. Not that the intent is never butchered and what results is a far cry from any of that. The intent of religion is noble. The execution thereof, not so much. So I think in terms of damage control. Sex is personal, intimate and emotional. It just is. Well, maybe not to testosterone crazed men. I’m not a man. I speak only as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent. For me, sex is personal, intimate, and emotional. To share it with another means sharing intimacy and emotion with another. It opens a channel of vulnerability. It seems best, logical even, to keep the impact minimal. Keep the numbers low. In an ideal world, my number would have been only one, and I would be married. But that’s not my world.
Is it immoral to take one’s sexual needs into one’s own hands? I had a friend who once said, “Better to cast your seed into the belly of a whore than spill it on the ground.” I’m surprised at myself that I would actually remember a statement, verbatim. I generally only remember nebulously, without the clarity of detail. Yet I remember that particular statement. Distinctly. Probably because I wholeheartedly disagree. One, because the attitude propagates a profession that is demeaning to humanity, and two because in so doing, more than one person is involved, hence the possibility of hurt or anguish is amplified. Masturbation makes complete logical sense. Nobody is hurt, nobody else’s emotions are involved, no diseases are spread, and a physical need is addressed. It’s merely taking care of business. There is a physical need, a tension that grows and can lead to distraction. Best to nip it in the bud rather than let it lead to something destructive.
That said, I sort of struggle with my Catholic upbringing and the sense of shame associated with such unmentionables. Masturbation. It’s hard to even voice the word in thought, let alone write it down. Religious upbringing aside, it still makes logical sense to me, so truly, at the end of the day, I have no problem with it.
…loving…
I think about loving. About making love. I imagine two people, fully immersed in each other. Skin on skin. Touching. Tasting. Nibbling. Fingers gliding gently and slowly along curves of limbs. Bodies tangled up in each other. Breathing each other’s air. Feeling everything. Every point of contact a distinct sensation. I imagine drifting off to sleep in the warmth of each other’s presence, waking, but only barely, and moving again with each other, tangled up again in semi-consciousness. Loving each other in waves. Surrendering completely to each other. Falling asleep in peace. Comfort. Safety. Waking up in harmony. Warm.
Smooth.
Honey.
Love.
Is such a thing possible? If I can imagine it, it must be so. It must.
…running out of steam…
As is so often the case with me, all these thoughts that are milling about, that need to be sorted and pondered and placed, are sketched in outline and I find myself winded, unable to think further or write further. All these important thoughts on the verge of clarity. Lost again in the quagmire of my harried mind. All these words penned, and yet no epiphany.
At least it opens a door for more thoughts to process. At least I’ve mustered the courage to mention the unmentionables, so maybe next time, when I can put some thoughts to form, I just might get somewhere.
But not tonight.
