Tag: personal

Header image for a post on being sluttier in theory, featuring a pair of black high heels, some red lingerie, and a condom wrapper strewn across a wooden floor.

Sluttier in Theory: Swinging, Casual Sex and Me

Published on by Amy

I have recently been dipping a cautious toe back into some swinging spaces, albeit almost exclusively very queer ones. These adventures have brought up some thoughts and realisations about the ways that I operate in sexual spaces that I’ve been thinking about a lot. So, because blogging is cheaper than therapy, let’s talk about them shall we?

I’m not sure I was ever really a swinger, to be entirely honest. Years ago, I wrote about things I disliked about the mainstream (read: hetero) swing community, from the weird prevalence of sexual racism to the casual kink-shaming. And I don’t think I’m really a swinger now, either. Or at least, claiming that label feels disingenuous when the last time I did anything more than hand sex with a stranger was literally years ago.

I’m a polyamorous and consensually non-monogamous person who also enjoys some casual sex with lovely people every now and then. (Exactly where the dividing line between “swinger” and “whatever the fuck I am” lies, I am truly not sure.)

Thing is, I’d really like to be sluttier than I am. In theory, at least, I’m a huge Ethical Slut. I love flirting, giving and receiving sexual attention and interest. I love making connections, making plans, making out, that slow but certain escalation when it becomes apparent that yes, this thing is ON. And I love sex. I’m a high sexual desire person (it’s not a drive!), and in an ideal world I’d be having sex several times a week at least. Yes, I’m a horny fucker.

So why do I find it so fucking hard to actually make that leap and do the things in a more casual context?

I’m envious of people who can just dive in. People who can pull a stranger or leap into the centre of an orgy without thinking too hard about it. I wish that could be me. So why don’t I and why isn’t it? Well, that’s what I’ve been trying to untangle.

My Sexuality is Complicated

Being very sapphic certainly complicates things. The overwhelming majority of people in swing and casual sex spaces are cis man/cis woman couples, most of whom – as is typical in that community – do things exclusively together. This is tricky when I don’t fancy very many men, though.

I’m not going to fuck a guy I don’t fancy just so I can play with his partner, and I’m not going to tolerate hands wandering after I’ve set boundaries about who can and cannot touch me and where. Realistically, I’m also not going to fuck a woman for a man’s enjoyment. Performative queerness does nothing for me. Less than nothing – it’s an active turn-off.

So where does this leave me? Probably limited to playing one-on-one with other women, playing with very trusted friends, playing with couples where the guy will happily accept “I’ll fuck your wife with you but I’m not going to fuck you”, or waiting for the cases where I am attracted enough to both/all parties to also fuck the guy(s.) The last two scenarios on this list? Well, they’re rare. In practice, my sexuality limits who will be interested in me and how I can play simply because I don’t typically offer much for the guys.

Hitting on women is hard, too, for a simple reason: I don’t want to make other women feel the way that creepy men make me feel. (Yes, there’s a whole other post in this, too.) More than once I’ve noticed an attractive woman at a party and then totally failed to even talk to her. I always kick myself afterwards, of course, but I haven’t figured out a way to overcome this one yet.

Sexual Health Fears

There’s also the sexual health angle. I got an STI about a year ago (ironically, during a particularly non-slutty phase) and it really rattled me. Though it was dealt with, I have no desire to ever repeat that experience. I feel like I’d be absolutely furious with myself if I inadvertently contracted something and then passed it on to one or both of my partners.

I preach open communication about sexual health constantly, but in reality it can be really hard to be the person saying “hey when were you last tested?” when no-one else in the room has raised it.

The reality is that, if we are going to be sexually active, there is a risk of STIs. This is even true in monogamy, because people can cheat and people can have symptomless infections for years without knowing it if they’re not testing regularly. There is no way to be a sexually active human and totally eliminate this risk. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care. If anything, it gives us a greater responsibility to take the reasonable steps we can to mitigate the risk to ourselves and our sexual partners.

In some ways, this is probably the easiest issue on this list to solve. This one can probably be solved with practice and giving fewer fucks about seeming like a buzzkill for being the person to open the conversation.

“I Shouldn’t Be Doing This”: Internalised Shame

On a less practical and more cerebral level, I think I’m probably still dealing with some internalised shame around casual sex. Like so many of us, I grew up in an intensely sex-negative society and “slut” was one of the worst things someone could call you. (I got called it for having sex with my one boyfriend of well over a year when I was sixteen, but that’s another topic for another day.)

“But Amy, you’ve been polyamorous your entire adult life!” I can hear some long-time readers saying. And yes, I have. However – and this is also going to be the topic of another post soon – the polyamorous community has a massive slut-shaming problem.

Hang out in polyamorous spaces long enough and you’ll often hear phrases like “it’s polyAMORY, not polyFUCKERY” to deride casual sex. You’ll also hear derisive language used towards swingers (and anyone sluttier than the name-caller approves of), as well as assertions that casual sex “ISN’T REALLY POLY.” Mainely Mandy did a fantastic video on this subject. It’s over an hour long but I really urge you to watch it all if you can. Mandy is insightful, engaging, hilarious, and just so right about this topic.

I suspect there’s still some internal work – and probably work with my therapist – to be done on unpacking this shame. I find it so easy to celebrate others getting all the hot sex they want with all the partners they want, as long as it’s ethical and consensual. I’m not sure why I am finding it so hard to extend that to myself. But I do know that once in a while, I get hit with this overwhelming feeling of “I shouldn’t be doing this”. And that’s a mood-killer if ever there was one.

Vulnerability is Fucking Hard

Finally, there’s also the fear of making myself vulnerable. I know not everyone will agree with me here but to me at least, there’s an inherent level of vulnerability to sex (or at least to good sex.) If I stay completely detached, there’s just no point. I’m not going to enjoy it and will probably end up feeling used rather than fulfilled.

But as the title of this section says: vulnerability is fucking hard. Vulnerability, in my experience, often leads to pain.

Of course, on the flip side, vulnerability can also lead to some trancendently wonderful experiences. Vulnerability has brought me beautiful relationships, deeper communication and intimacy with my partners, hot sex, leg-shaking orgasms, the kind of memories that still get me wet when I recall them years later.

But it’s really, really hard to be truly vulnerable and it does not come easily to abuse survivors in particular.

So… What Now?

I don’t really know, to be honest. Maybe I need to just be brave and take bigger leaps into the things I want before overthinking gets in the way and stops me. Or maybe some things do need to remain “in theory.”

I sent a draft of this post up to this point to my girlfriend, having no idea how to finish it. Because she’s brilliant, she made this suggestion: “Imagine someone has written that post and sent it to you asking for your advice.” A lightbulb went on instantly. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The conclusion of this piece will take the form of an open advice letter from me to me.

Open Advice from Me to Me

Hey Amy. This sounds legitimately complicated and like there are numerous different factors at play.

First I want to validate something for you: this stuff is complex. I’ll also let you into a secret: it’s complex for almost everyone! Those people you see at parties, who seem to be having all the casual sex all the time without a care in the world? That’s probably not their reality. Behind the scenes they are likely thinking things over, considering their boundaries and desires, perhaps discussing things with their partners. They probably have many of the same insecurities as you, and plenty of their own unique struggles too. So first, please don’t think you’re alone or weird for feeling conflicted about this. You’re not. What you see at parties is, in all likelihood, the smallest tip of the iceberg.

Next I want to tell you that your sexuality is perfect as it is. We live in a deeply, aggressively heteronormative world and it can be hard when you fall outside of that. You never, ever have to have sex that you don’t want to have. If you want to have sex but only with a certain gender or genders? Awesome! If you’re open to other genders but only occasionally, sporadically, or circumstantially? Great! If some types of sex appeal to you but not others? Excellent self-knowledge, well done.

I would advise simply being very upfront with potential playmates about who you are, what you want, and what you can offer.

Will this mean some people aren’t right for you? Yes, absolutely. And that’s okay! No-one is everybody’s cup of tea, and having incompatible needs with some people doesn’t mean that your needs are wrong (or that theirs are.) If someone isn’t into what you’re offering, you can wish each other well and move on to more fitting connections. If someone deliberately breaches boundaries you’ve set or oversteps your consent? Get up and leave. You deserve better.

I hear your frustration that suitable connections seem to be relatively few and far between, possibly due to your low interest in men. But a small number of great connections is vastly preferable to a lot of bad ones. You seem to be doing this already, but continuing to prioritise explicitly queer and queer-positive spaces is much more likely to get you the kinds of experiences you want.

Your sexual health concerns are also valid and understandable. They particularly make sense with the context that you’ve had an STI in the past and do not want to repeat the experience. Sexual health is a sensible thing to be concerned with. Most STIs are not a big deal – they are treatable, curable, or manageable. However, some can have a significant or even life-changing impact, and antibiotic-resistant strains of certain infections are a growing concern in the medical community. Even easily curable STIs are, unfortunately, still heavily stigmatised.

I know you know this, but you are not being a buzzkill for raising this topic. If someone rejects you or gets annoyed with you for discussing it, they’re not right for you. By having this conversation before hooking up, you’re being a responsible partner and caring for both your own and your partners’ sexual health.

One possible way to become more comfortable with this conversation might be to have it in advance where possible. Are you chatting to people online prior to meeting them? If so, raise the topic during your pre-party flirtations. Are there online spaces, such as forums or Discord servers, where party or event attendees hang out? If so, why not get a sexual health discussion thread going in those spaces? This takes the “in the moment” pressure off. It also normalises the conversation and allows you to get a feel for people whose risk tolerance aligns with yours.

As a general rule, sexual health practices should default to the boundaries of the most cautious person. If you want to use a barrier, for example, then your prospective partners can either use that barrier or decide not to hook up with you under those conditions. What they cannot – or should not – do is try to talk you out of your boundaries. Trying to change your mind about sexual health protocols is a major red flag, and one you should not ignore.

Internalised shame and fears around vulnerability are, unfortunately, harder to overcome. You’re right that we live in an intensely sex-negative society. It also sounds like you have some personal experience of people weaponising sexual shame against you. Shame is complex, multi-faceted, and unpacking it can be an ongoing (even lifelong) process.

Next time they arise, I invite you to sit with those feelings of shame and ask yourself what they are telling you. Then hold those ideas up to your values and beliefs about the world. Do they align? And if not, where did they come from?

For example, perhaps you realise that your feeling of shame is telling you “people who respect themselves only have sex in committed relationships.” Do you really believe that is true? Presumably not, since you accept and embrace the fact that casual sex can be a positive and joyful thing (and that sexual behaviour is not correlated with self-respect.) Okay, so where did that belief come from? Perhaps it was your parents, your peers, school, the media, or the religion you were raised in. By unpacking the things shame is telling you, you can take more control over which of those beliefs you internalise and which you choose to consciously reject.

On your fear of vulnerability, I want you to know that it makes perfect sense. Existing as a woman or femme in this patriarchal society is hard, and doubly so for survivors of abuse. When vulnerability has been used against you or resulted in pain in the past, it can be incredibly difficult to let yourself go there again.

This fear is your body and brain’s way of keeping you safe. Try to remember that when you’re feeling frustrated with yourself. All those positive things you identified that allowing yourself to be vulnerable has brought to you? What do they all have in common? They all had to happen from a place of safety. This likely meant coming to vulnerability in your own time, not forcing it from yourself. If getting to that baseline of safety takes you longer than it takes other people, or takes you longer in some circumstances than others, then that’s okay.

One vital thing I want to invite you to do is just to listen to yourself. Your body is deeply wise and intuitive. Try to tune into what it’s telling you in any given situation. Try to learn what your personal “yes, more, this” feels like, as well as your personal “no” or “ick” or “I’m not sure about this.” What does safety feel like? What does it feel like when you truly, deeply want something?

Learning to follow those intuitive clues will teach you to trust yourself. It will also help you to come into a deeper understanding of what you really want and don’t want, both in the big-picture sense and in any given moment. In time, you’ll learn how to move towards your “yes” and away from your “no” more authentically.

Finally: remember that there’s no right or wrong here, and you’re not in competition with anyone. You are not less of a non-monogamous or sex-positive person if you’re slower to warm up and get comfortable with being sexual. It’s okay to be a “yes” on one occasion and a “no” on another. It’s okay to be choosy, to be selective, to make sure any given situation is right for you.

It is okay to explore, try things out, surprise yourself. To like things you weren’t sure you would, and do dislike things you were sure would do it for you. And it’s okay if some things need to remain “in theory,” for now or forever.

Breathe. You’re doing fine.

Amy x

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Woman clutching the sheets as though cumming. Header image for a post on faking orgasms.

On Faking Orgasms

Published on by Amy

[TW: this post makes brief reference to sexual intimate partner abuse]

Sometimes it’s hard for me to cum.

And sometimes I can get there, but it takes a long time. Or what feels like a long time to me, though I think I’m actually fairly average. According to the International Society for Sexual Medicine, one study showed that the average person with a vulva (they said “woman” but let’s use inclusive language here) takes around 14 minutes to climax during partnered sex. It is a little unclear whether the researchers were using “partnered sex” synonymously with “intercourse”. However, I’m assuming they are referring to any kind of partnered sexual activity since anything from 50% to 80% (depending on which study you believe) of people with vulvas don’t orgasm solely from penetration at all.

After the first time we slept together, my now-girlfriend and I discussed the orgasm difficulty thing because I was feeling a little self-conscious over how long it sometimes takes me to get off. During that conversation, she asked me to please not feel any pressure to fake it. And I hadn’t realised how much I needed to hear that explicitly until she said it.

Why Fake Orgasms?

I’ve definitely faked orgasms in the past, and for a few different reasons. At the absolute worst, when I was in an abusive relationship, faking it was sometimes the best way to get things I didn’t like and didn’t feel comfortable with to be over. In those relationships, even if the sex itself was consensual, it wasn’t necessarily safe to ask for what actually felt good and would help me to get off. Abusive men don’t take well to any threats to their egos.

On a less sinister note, I’ve had a lot of consensual-but-bad sex in my life. Whether it was partners who couldn’t be bothered to learn how to please me, or just my own insecurities and unwillingness to speak up, lots of factors played into this. Half way through I might realise that I wasn’t going to get there no matter how hard we tried. At those times, faking it sometimes felt easier than saying “can we stop?”

I’ve also faked orgasms in group sex situations before. Those spaces are typically less about the actual orgasm for me. I often won’t cum in a group situation, though there are of course exceptions to this generalisation. They’re more about the overall sensuality, shared sexual energy, and just the feeling of being in that erotic space. Even so, it can feel like the goal in those situations is “everyone has an orgasm” and like I’m letting the group down if I don’t. In those circumstances, it has sometimes felt easier to fake it than to draw attention to it.

Why I Decided to Stop

Quite a few years ago now, I swore off faking orgasms. So what changed? A few things.

First, I realised that I deserve pleasure as much as my partners. I was primarily sleeping with men and masc-of-centre people at the time, and the orgasm gap is a real phenomenon to which I have no desire to contribute with my sex life.

Ironically, discovering that I have an orgasm denial/orgasm control kink helped, too. This means that if I’m having fun but not getting off, I can eroticise the build-up and the unreleased sexual tension in and of itself. Enjoying the process freed me up to enjoy sex more fully without needing to chase a destination that can be highly variable in its reachability. (And yes, I also appreciate the irony that someone growling “don’t you dare fucking cum” in my ear will often get me close faster than almost anything else.)

I also realised that faking it just begets more frustration and unsatisfying sex. If a partner believes that what they’re doing is making me cum, they will (reasonably) continue doing those things when we have sex again in the future. By faking orgasms, I was literally teaching partners to continue touching me in ways that didn’t work for me. What’s the point of that?

I recently saw this article about why faking orgasms “may not be as bad for your relationship as we thought,” and… it made me kinda ragey. This part, in particular:

If your partner feels insecure about their sexual ability and you don’t have an orgasm during sex, sometimes telling them you did is an easy out from having to console them. As much as you love your partner, having to reassure them their sex skills are top-notch can be taxing. That’s why, in these situations, it’s fine to spare their feelings to avoid having to comfort them for hours on end.

– Amanda Chatel

What? WHAT!? No! I’m sorry but if someone’s ego is so fragile that they’re going to make my body’s quirks about them, or that they’d rather I lie to them rather than learn about what actually gets me off (and accept that sometimes it might not happen through no fault of theirs or mine), we shouldn’t be having sex.

Another change was discovering the wonderful world of sex toys. Over a decade ago, I went through a period where I was unable to orgasm due to starting new antidepressants. It was a mains-powered “back massager” vibrator that helped me eventually power through that block. I didn’t really start exploring the full joys of the sex toy world, though, until I launched this blog. (And then it all got slightly out of hand… *glances around at vibrators spilling out of drawers, baskets, boxes, and door-hanging shoe holders in my office.*)

Discovering toys gave me new options and avenues for pleasure and orgasm. New ways to experience intense sensations when my body needs more powerful stimulation to break through an orgasm block. New ways to cum and new possibilities to reach for if hands or mouths or cocks aren’t quite getting me over the edge.

The absolute number one change, though? The single biggest thing that turned all of this around? Safe relationships.

When you’re with safe partners, faking orgasms becomes unnecessary. With both Mr C&K and my girlfriend, I feel able to say either “please could we do this different thing that might help me get there?” or “I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight but I’m still having tonnes of fun” and I know that that will be heard and accepted with love. Feeling safe and loved totally removes the need or desire to fake anything with them, including my orgasms.

So sometimes I still struggle to cum. That might always be true. And sometimes I might worry that I’m taking too long. That my partner(s) will feel bad if I don’t get off. That they’ll get bored with the process. In those situations, faking orgasms does still occasionally seem like a tempting solution. But I promised myself and my partners that I’ll never do that again, and I intend to stick to it.

I deserve more than fake pleasure and so do my partners. Because if we can’t be authentic with each other, what’s the point?

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Naming My Sexuality: What is Sapphic?

Published on by Amy

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the words I use to describe my sexuality.

I have identified as bisexual since I was 17, and known I had attractions to folks of more than one gender since much earlier than that. I later realised that I could also consider myself pansexual, since I’m pretty sure I have the capacity to at least potentially be attracted to people of any and all genders (and none.)

Am I Still Bisexual? Yes… and No.

I’ve always liked the term “bisexual” and proudly claimed it for a number of reasons:

  1. It feels extremely important to claim a label that is so often dismissed as “not really queer” or “queer lite”, despite being literally the third letter in LGBTQIA+.
  2. It’s an easy shorthand that most people outside of the LGBTQIA+ community have at least some understanding of.
  3. Claiming an expansive definition of bisexuality (“attraction to two or more genders”) is important in pushing back against the false narrative that bisexuals only fancy cis people or that bisexuality is a trans-exclusionary sexuality. (They don’t and it’s not.)

But lately it hasn’t felt quite right or like quite enough to express what I wanted my sexuality label to express. So am I still bisexual? Yes and no. I’d say that I still identify as under the bi+ umbrella, given that I’m neither a 0 nor a 6 on the Kinsey Scale (“exclusively heterosexual” or “exclusively homosexual”, respectively.)

Taken on its own, though, I haven’t found the label “bisexual” entirely satisfactory and I’ve played around with using a few different ones instead. And the term I keep finding myself drawn to again and again is “sapphic.”

So What is Sapphic, Exactly?

Sapphic is a term “relating to sexual attraction or activity between women” (Oxford Languages.) As a sexual orientation or identity, the LGBTQIA+ Wiki defines sapphic as referring “to a woman or woman-aligned person of any sexual orientation who is attracted to other women and/or women-aligned individuals.”

Fun fact: the term “sapphic” derives from the name of Sappho, an Archaic Greek poet who lived circa 630-570 BCE and whose work described erotic desire and romantic love between women. The word “lesbian” comes from Lesbos, the island where Sappho lived.

Why Identify as Sapphic?

As I said, I’ve played around with a lot of labels over the years and particularly over the last few months. Though I’m definitely somewhere on the bi+ spectrum, I’m also definitely not a Kinsey 3 (i.e. bang in the middle of the spectrum between exclusively gay and exclusively straight.)

I’m probably somewhere between a Kinsey 5 and a 5.5. That is, much more frequently attracted to people with similar gender identities and presentations to mine (i.e. women, femmes, and women-aligned folks) than to those with very different identities and presentations (i.e. men, male-aligned, and masc-of-centre folks.)

In truth, if I could name 100 people I found attractive right now, at least 95 of them would be women, femmes, or women-aligned. The men in my romantic life are wonderful (and it’s really “man”, singular, these days)… but they’re also increasingly rare exceptions.

Sapphic is an umbrella term. It can encompass people who identify as lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, queer, and in various other ways. What I love the most about this particular label is that it doesn’t necessarily mean exclusive attraction to women (in the way that the term “lesbian” is often assumed to, though even this is complicated. Bisexual lesbians exist!) It does, however, centre that attraction.

As a woman and as a femme, most of the world would conceive my sexuality primarily in relation to men. Specifically, the assumption is that I will be exclusively or primarily attracted to them and that, even when I am not, my interest in other women will be performed in a way that centres men. In fact, one of the most common biphobic and lesbophobic tropes is that queer women’s sexuality primarily exists for the titillation and enjoyment of men. (See “can I watch?” and “that’s hot” and “so if you’re bi, can we have a threesome?”)

I’m assumed to be “straight really” or just dabbling in queerness for funsies because my nesting partner happens to be male. I recently told a man who was trying to pick me up that I was “wayyyyyy towards the gay end of bisexual” and somehow, all he gleaned from that revelation was “so I still have a chance?” (Reader, he did not.) Even – perhaps especially – when you’re loudly and proudly queer, heteronormativity can seem very very pervasive sometimes.

So yes. I think “sapphic” is the most succinct and accurate way to sum up my sexuality right now.

Choosing a term to describe my sexuality that specifically places my love for and attraction to women at its heart feels like a small act of reclamation and celebration for my queerness. Every time I think about referring to myself in this way it makes me smile. I think that means I am on the right lines.

Header for a post about wand vibrators and anorgasmia from antidepressants

How Wand Vibrators Helped Me Reclaim My Sexuality When Antidepressants Killed It

Published on by Amy

I’ve been on antidepressants for the majority of my adult life, in three separate stints. I’m very pro medication for those who need it which, at the times I was taking it, I absolutely did. I’m not exaggerating when I say that those meds saved my life on more than one occasion.

Wand vibrators - Honey Wand from Honey Play Box
Honey Wand by Honey Play Box

But like any medications, antidepressants often have side effects, which can range in severity from mildly annoying to seriously debilitating. One of the worst side effects I experienced on two out of the three antidepressants I tried was a significant change to my sexuality. This manifested in different ways on each drug.

On Fluoxetine (Prozac), I pretty much lost my sexual desire entirely for months. Anything that had been pleasurable just felt like… nothing. This wasn’t limited to sex, either – I also lost my appetite and all ability to derive pleasure from food. On Citalopram, I lost my ability to orgasm while my body adjusted to the meds. While this did have some pleasant results (particularly discovering that I have an orgasm denial kink), it was also upsetting and frustrating. Feeling like I had no control over my body and like I’d lost one of my greatest sources of pleasure was so damaging that I seriously considered coming off the meds that were otherwise helping with my depression.

Trying Sex Toys

The first time antidepressants killed my sex life, I was so thoroughly miserable (both from the depression and from the side effects of the meds) that I wasn’t even interested in reclaiming it. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have sex or masturbate for about nine months at one stage. In hindsight, this probably made things even worse, because my sexuality has always been one of the key ways that I access pleasure and joy. At that time, I didn’t own any sex toys, and any touch from either myself or my partner left me cold.

The second time was a different matter, though. This time, the antidepressants actually took the edge off the worst of the sadness and hopelessness, and I still wanted sex. I just couldn’t orgasm, either with my partner or by myself. Though orgasm is not necessarily the goal of sex, this quickly became frustrating and then enraging. I felt like my body was betraying me. Like I had to choose between having a properly functioning brain and a satisfying sex life.

The turning point came when my then-partner pulled out a wand vibrator after about a month of this issue. That thing finally broke through the orgasm block. And, once that dam broke, it became easier and easier to get there again. I invested in a wand for myself pretty quickly after that, and it became my go-to toy.

Breaking Through the Depression-Haze

Even now, when I’m not currently on any psychiatric medication (though I accept I might be again in the future), I’m most likely to reach for my wand vibes when I’m in the middle of a bad depression funk. Contrary to popular belief, it’s still possible to feel horny at the same time as being depressed. Sad people need pleasure and orgasms, too! There have also been times when I haven’t felt horny, but I knew intellectually that an orgasm would make me feel better.

Sometimes, when I’m very very depressed, I feel as though there’s a kind of fog around me. The fog keeps me at least partly disconnected from everything and everyone around me. At its worst, it creates a sense of being somewhat outside and detached from my own body. In this state, many types of touch that would normally be pleasurable struggle to penetrate the fog. When that happens, I need intense stimulation and lots of it. It’s times like this that I might crave certain BDSM activities even more than usual. It’s also times like this when knock-your-socks-off powerful wand vibes are a Godsend. It might be possible to power through to orgasm with a lacklustre, buzzy vibrator but ultimately why bother?

The thing with my favourite wand vibes is that ultimately, they can wrench an orgasm from my body with very little active input from me. This has a lot of fun potential (forced orgasm scenes anyone?) It’s also extremely useful during periods of significant depression. If I want to orgasm at my own or a partner’s hand, or with a lower powered toy, it can be fun but often requires significant effort, mentally if not physically. With a powerful enough wand, I basically just put it in the right spot and wait for the orgasm to happen. In this way, I can access pleasure and the positive physical and mental health benefits of orgasm even when I feel so low I don’t want to leave my bed.

Sexual Pleasure Matters

When someone is dealing with severe health issues, either physical or mental, it’s often tempting to see sexual pleasure as trivial. Certainly when I spoke to my doctor about the side effects of my various medications, they dismissed my concerns. Did I want to be able to orgasm or did I want to not be sad? Because I couldn’t have both.

Except I actually could, and I needed and deserved to have both.

If you’re struggling with pleasure or orgasm due to health issues and medication, I want you to hear this: sexual pleasure matters! It’s not trivial and it’s not unimportant. If it’s important to you, then it matters. And you deserve to have what you need to feel sexually satisfied – whether that’s a change of medication, a super powerful vibrator, or just to change up what you’re doing.

Thanks to Honey Play Box for sponsoring this post. All views and experiences are my own!

Header image for a post on reclaiming pleasure after sexual assault and other sexual traumas

Five Lessons I’ve Learned About Reclaiming Pleasure After Sexual Assault

Published on by Amy

Pleasure can be far from simple for all kinds of reasons. After sexual assault, finding joy in your sexuality again and reclaiming pleasure can feel almost impossible.

This post comes with a trigger warning for abuse, trauma, and sexual violence. It mostly focuses on healing rather than assault itself, though I have included some brief details of my own experiences. It also comes with a disclaimer that, although I am both a survivor and a trauma-informed sexuality writer and educator, I am not a psychotherapist, psychologist, or any form of medical or mental health professional.

The first, last, and most important thing I want you to take away from this post is this: your journey is your own and wherever you are now is okay.

There is no correct way to recover from sexual trauma and there is no set path. Everyone’s experience is different and numerous factors impact healing. To that end, this is not a how-to guide. It’s just a set of lessons I’ve learned that have helped me in my ongoing journey towards healing. Maybe they’ll help you too. Or maybe you’ll find something completely different that works for you! Either way is wonderful.

Reclaiming Pleasure is Not a Linear Journey

It’s not a straight line. You won’t just get better and better each day until suddenly you wake up and find that you’re fully healed. At least, I don’t know any survivors whose experience has been this way.

You’ll have good days and bad days. Sometimes you might feel like you take two steps forward and one back. All of this is normal. Pleasure after sexual assault is complicated, multi-faceted, and messy. You don’t need to berate yourself because it’s harder today than it was yesterday.

Be where you are today. Wherever that is, it’s okay.

A Healthy Sexual Relationship With Yourself Can Be Immensely Healing

Sex doesn’t have to involve another person unless you want it to. In fact, masturbation and other forms of self-touch – both sexual and non-sexual – can be a really important part of healing from sexual violence and reclaiming pleasure as a radical act of self-love after trauma.

Masturbation and solo sex is something you do entirely for yourself. You don’t have to perform or worry about pleasing someone else. You don’t even need to involve your genitals at all, if you don’t want to. The only agenda is to touch yourself in the ways that feel good, and stop when you want to stop.

Self-touch is a wonderful way to get to know ourselves, to be kind and loving and gentle with ourselves. Pay attention to your body and what feels good. Do you just want to run your hands over your skin for now? Perfect, do that. Does using a wand vibrator through your clothes help you access pleasure in a way that feels safe? Amazing.

Your Healing is For You and You Don’t Owe It to Anyone Else

Many survivors feel anxious to recover from or “get over” their experiences because they want to be able to give their partner sex (or certain kind of sex.) Sometimes this pressure comes from the partner. Other times, the partner is completely supportive and this pressure is internal.

Either way: your healing is for you.

Yes, it’s wonderful to be able to share awesome sex with your partner(s) if you want to. But ultimately, your sexuality is your own. Reclaiming pleasure after sexual assault has to be for yourself first. No-one has the right to access to your body. Not even if you’ve been married for fifty years.

You can heal with other people. In fact, love and support are virtually essential for recovering from trauma. But you can’t heal for somebody else, and you don’t owe your partner(s) a certain kind of recovery.

There is No “Correct” Version of Healthy Sexuality

Pleasure is personal and it can look countless different ways. A healthy relationship with your sexuality means something different to everyone.

Sadly a lot of people still believe that the only correct way to have sex is for that sex to be penetrative, heterosexual, monogamous, vanilla, and within the context of a serious relationship. Survivors of trauma who identify as queer, non-monogamous, kinky, asexual, demisexual, or highly sexual may find themselves pathologised, with professionals and loved ones alike attributing their identities and experiences to their trauma. This is tremendously damaging to survivors and is another form of taking away our agency.

Reclaiming pleasure after trauma means that you get to decide how your sexuality looks. If it’s happy, risk-aware, and consensual, you’re doing it right.

The Hardest Lesson About Reclaiming Pleasure After Sexual Assault: Some Things Might Never Go Back to the Way They Were

I still grieve for the Amy who never met her abusers. I still grieve for the version of me who didn’t get pressured into sex in her teens, who didn’t lose half her twenties to psychological abuse, who didn’t get raped at a party in her thirties. Honestly? I probably always will.

When it comes to reclaiming pleasure, the hardest thing for me to learn was that some things will never be the way they might have been in that alternate timeline.

Because abuse, assault, violence? It changes us. It has a deep, profound, and lasting impact. I know that the things I’ve experienced will, in some ways, be with me forever. I’ll never go back to the way I was before. Not completely.

But I am starting, in some small ways, to be okay with that. Nothing stays the same forever, and every experience we have shapes and molds us. So no, I’ll never be the person I might have been without those experiences. But I can grow into someone else. She might even be someone great.

If you need crisis support after sexual violence, please contact RAINN in the USA and Rape Crisis in the UK.

Several kinds of birth control. For an essay on how I don't want children

I Don’t Want Children (and That Doesn’t Mean There’s Anything Wrong with Me)

Published on by Amy3 Comments

I don’t want children.

I think I was about seventeen the first time I uttered that sentence out loud. My partner at the time and I had discussed how many children we’d have someday, and what their names would be. Because that’s what you did when you were in a loving relationship, wasn’t it? Get married, buy a house, get a dog, then have children.

But at some point I realised that parenthood didn’t fit with the vision I had for myself of my future. I wanted to write books, I wanted to travel the world, I wanted to adopt animals and make a home with my partner. But could I see myself as a mother? Every time I thought about it, it just didn’t fit.

“I don’t think I want children,” I said to my partner. He shrugged – he hadn’t really cared one way or the other and had mostly assumed we’d have kids some day because he assumed I’d want them.

Think of the (hypothetical) children!

I think the next time I said it was when I was starting to tell people I was in a polyamorous relationship with my now-ex and his wife.

“How is that going to affect your children someday?” people asked me with a sniff of disapproval.

“I don’t want children, so it’s irrelevant,” I replied.

This statement was really far too much for a lot of people to cope with. I was told I’d change my mind, that I was too young to know, that it wasn’t fair to these completely hypothetical unborn not-even-conceived children for me to choose not to have them. That I should give up the life that made me happy to have kids I didn’t want. I was even told it was unfair to the hypothetical future husband people assumed I’d end up with one day.

Being upfront about it

I’ve always been very upfront about my complete lack of maternal instincts to partners when we start getting serious. I don’t want to spend years with someone only to find that our life goals are incompatible!

I’ve also always been very clear with anyone I have sex with, when the topic of birth control comes up, that an unintended pregnancy will end in a hasty abortion (and that this is not up for debate.)

“But how do you know? Won’t you regret it?”

How do I know this is what I want? I know because every time I allow myself to imagine being a parent, I am filled with an immediate and visceral feeling of “NOPE.”

Can I absolutely guarantee I won’t regret it someday? Of course not. But I think it’s tremendously unlikely, given how much I generally love my life as it is. Despite being constantly told that I’ll end up alone, I don’t see how that is possible when I have loving partners, a supportive family, and amazing friends. And honestly, is some vague fear of being alone in the future a good reason to bring a new life into this world? I don’t think it is.

If I pushed myself to become a parent out of some misguided sense of duty or caving to pressure, I think I’d regret that.

Late last year, my nesting partner Mr CK had a vasectomy. My risk of unintended pregnancy was pretty low already (all bow before the mighty Mirena!) but that decision just removed any doubt or possibility of birth-control failure. When it was done, all I felt was this overwhelming, searing relief. No lingering “what ifs?” or sadness for what might have been. Just, thank goddess, that’s one less thing to worry about.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I just think there’s something deeply wrong with women who don’t want children.” I can’t remember the precise context in which I heard this statement, now, but I still remember the sentiment. And it’s everywhere.

Maybe it’s not usually so explicit. But the implied-or-directly-asked question again and again and fucking again is always some variation on, “what’s wrong with you?”

Nothing is wrong with me. I’m not broken. This decision isn’t the result of some unresolved trauma. I’m not missing a piece of my heart. I’m not selfish, I’m not filled with hatred for parents or children, and I’m not incapable of love. I just… don’t want to be a mother.

And there’s nothing wrong with that, or with me.

I’m moderating comments on this one, hateful ones won’t get through. Anything you can say – that I’m a failure as a woman, that I’ll regret it, that I’ll die homeless and alone with seventeen cats – I’ve heard before and I’m done arguing with. Be nice!