Huge Disclaimer: If you are a family member who likes to think of me as innocent, please don’t read this blog. Love you mom. They’ll be other blogs. That goes for you too, Uncle Steve.I’m rating this blog 18A because I can, and because the subject matter is not for kids.
A few weeks back, Andrew Gayness and I were having our usual conversation–which, if by some flaw in the universe you are unaware of Andrew and my routine–consists of mutual bitching about our lives, then competing (in a friendly way) over our recent successes, and then more comiserative (<–apparently not a word. Definitely should be.) lamenting with some angsty laughs and half-joking insults throughout. It’s positively magical and entirely thriving.
During this specific bitchfest, Andrew and I were broaching our favourite topic–sex (with other people; even if Andrew were straight, it’d be disgusting and impossible. Not because we’re both wheelies you ignorant bastard, but because we hate each other so deeply it’s admirable). I was talking about my most recent romp, complaining mostly, something about how I suck at sex and men aren’t very patient with me, when Andrew said something that surprised me:
” I know you’re feeling rejected on 5 levels, but dude, you don’t even like sex.”
I felt myself inhale, but I couldn’t exhale. He was right.
“Wha–no. What do you mean?” I swear, when people realize things about me for me, before I do (always), it feels worse than realizing the 90s were pretty much a decade and a half ago.
“Sex is painful for you at best,” he added patiently.
Even though Andrew regularly makes me vomit in my mouth, he has wisdom that is like a splash of cold water. His explicit grossness is kinda like cold water too though–today he explained to me the sexual act of feltching–.For all you kinky curious cats reading this, Don’t look it up. You can’t un-know it, and if you’re cursed with the knowledge of it, 1)I’m so sorry for your loss of innocence and 2) You can now fully appreciate how Andrew’s gross depictions are a dose of ice water.
Like always, because this is a blog and i don’t care as much as I should about writing style, I digress. From here on in, Drewsies and I deconstructed this idea of me not “liking” sex, arriving a different end points. His end point sounded very similar to his life mantra lately, which, if I may be so bold, is something like embrace your difference wherever applicable. He’s very much of the mindset that sexuality should be as much a sensual experience as a “standard” sexual one (whatever that is). If this cannot be achieved, le coitus should not be had. My endpoint looked something like a confused mix of denial, uncertainty, conformity, and a whole bunch of other garbledeegook I’m too emotionally constipated to write about.
It’s common knowledge that sex is everywhere, but the internalization of sex because its sex, despite possible discomfort, is like this little tiny secret that is not even a fully formed thought and yet somehow has the power to change my behavior. Excuse the run-on sentence. What I mean is, sex is multi-layered, for me and maybe for other people, and depending on which layer wins out on any given day, can change my course of action. The layers look something like this:
- Layer One: I’m a sexual being, attracted to pheromones, symmetrical faces and abs, with good personalities as a super bonus.
- Layer 2:I’m a sexual being who’s got this motive for “love” crashing smack into it on my hierarchy of needs chart. Recipe for disaster.
- Layer 3: I have a sex drive (just kidding, mom).
- Layer 4: conventional sex hurts me.
- Layer 5: I’m so focused on ideas of fun sex, acceptance and living it up that I actually manage to block out that most typical sex is somewhat unpleasant for me.
The layers go on and on for ever, but I’ll spare you the full-blown diary entry. The reason I write this is because I know I’m not alone in this huge, murky pile of denial and carefully constructed standards. I’m standing here wading the the swamp of my own making, wondering how and when I’ll leave this denial. I like sex, but I don’t like sex in the way most people typically think of it. And I was so delusional about this fact that I’ve written an entire post discussing how everyone needs to stop assuming disabled woman can’t have sex. Don’t misunderstand, the stereotype of disabled people being asexual or unable to have sex does need to be destroyed, if for no other reason then that generalizations serve no positive purpose in a context like that.But I wrote that article with no thought to the intricacies of what I’m fighting for–to be viewed as equal, or the same, in many respects. In doing so, I totally just ignored the fact that sex is, for me and some other wheelies, always going to be different. Denial to the max.
I think I’ve got a lot of exploring to do.