The Sex Test: Are you positive?

In searching for like-minded lushes on the blogosphere, I stumbled across a wonderful article from The Frisky that I felt it was necessary to share: 8 Ways to Be Positive You’re Sex Positive. The article addresses some of the ways all of us might be misusing the phrase “sex-positive”… and as someone who uses it to describe my attitudes about sex, I worry that people misinterpret me or get the wrong idea about what it means to say “Yes, I am sex-positive.” So while not only is this particular article helpful in providing a definition and a bit of education, but the article also paves the way for clearer understanding–at least as concerns my future ramblings and lush stories.

Basically, “sex-positive” describes those who believe all consensual forms of sexuality are healthy. Those who call themselves sex-positive typically advocate for sex education and safer sex, and its not uncommon for many to support feminism (or be a feminist). And yes, sex-positive individuals may tend to explore more and experiment with their sexuality. But, as I mentioned above, it can also be misleading or used in the wrong context to describe behavior or tools that create toxic attitudes toward sexuality. What I find most interesting, but incredibly complicated, is that the term has been attacked because its use devalues people who do not identify with sex whatsoever: asexuals, graysexuals, or any other individual who experiences sex as undesirable or non-consensual.

Anyways, I hope you’ll read The Frisky article because it’s short, sweet, and direct.  I read it and realized that I was guilty of misguided notions myself, primarily point number 7!  I definitely struggle with being open-minded about what pleases others sexually because, well, some things I would never do; it’s hard to cognitively leap from my distaste to another’s gratification. But the first step in removing some of that judgmental thinking is becoming aware of it, so I hope you dear readers will also do some self-evaluation to see if you can become truly sex-positive, too.

That’s all for now, little lushes.

Stay classy,

The Blushing Lush

P.S. Do check out the article’s author, Rachel Rabbit White! Her Tumblr is incredible and a wealth of amazing photos, notes, and links to her published articles.

Pool Hall

Here’s a poem I wrote back in September ’12,  about three months after my escapade with “The Mountie”.

Pool Hall

Crack.
Balls scatter. Solid, left pocket.
Change of hands, stick
glides across the table
tan on felt

slick on stiff

my snug skirt slips and

all eyes on that space

inches from the edge
the tipping point
a slight nudge/an intake of breath,
in the right direction,

with the weight of force,

and the ball drops

your turn.

Before, there was a lately blooming kiss

Perhaps I should provide a little background, so you dear reader can understand how one might develop into a blushing lush such as I. Given my aforementioned late arrival to the concourse known as intercourse, it should come as no surprise that my entire romantic history might define me as–loud whispers now, don’t be discreet–a late bloomer.

Don’t get me wrong: I am a healthy girl who developed at all the right times, and perhaps even a tad early. For example, I don’t think I grew more than an inch since 6th grade; I was the tallest kid in all my classes through elementary and middle school. And I’m pretty sure my bra size hasn’t changed since 9th or 10th, either; since then my cups have always been quite enough, thank you. But I didn’t have boyfriends or play spin the bottle in middle and high school. I didn’t really have crushes on any boys–or girls, for that matter. I was, for lack of a better term, a tad asexual. Boys didn’t preoccupy my thoughts, nor did the same sex. They didn’t have cooties. They just weren’t interesting. And I knew I was attracted to males because, in typical tween fashion, this girl had mega-crushes on the two muscled leads of Fast and the Furious fame (R.I.P., Paul)… and on Chad Michael Murray. Suffice to say, I was a wee misguided during my teen years.

So it was that, at the grand ol’ age of 18, I kissed a boy for the first time ever. I’m talking a real, honest-to-goodness kiss, not one of those brisk pecks or platonic smacks an aunt or grandma could have given. It wasn’t cute or planned or even remotely romantic, either, because I was self-involved teenager who had her own shit to handle and I was completely oblivious to male attention. Unlike many of my peers, the pursuit of sex was not on my teen agenda and so I didn’t have any–or anything resembling it! Hence my late blooming kiss.

It happened like this: There’s a club in my hometown that allows 18s+ in after 2am on Friday nights. It is the oldest standing gay club in the city, and it also happens to be one of very few places for underage youths to party (woods and public parks notwithstanding). So every Friday at 2am the club clears out all the booze and all the queers and, once free of illicit substances, the underage kids line up behind the queens and dykes for re-entry. In spite of the annoyance of kicking everybody out for 5 minutes just to let the same adults plus a bunch of young kids back in, the club stayed mostly full until it closed at 4am. Revelers, in typical fashion, would often pay the small cover to dance their drunk off before crawling home or into the beds of sexy strangers. (Since coming back to my hometown, I too have become one of the revelers, guilty of shaking my luscious booty to gay beats–right alongside all the high school babies, the ghosts of my futures and pasts mingling together in one sweaty, sticky crowd of nubile flesh.)

But I digress. So it’s a Friday night during my senior year of high school and my friends and I have stayed up late to go to the only club in town that will have us. We dress up and drive over, drinking terrible whiskey straight from its plastic bottle the entire ride, and then tear down the piss-stained alley to the line that curls around the corner of the club into the noisy street. We pay the cover, go in, and make our way towards the middle of the floor.

Roughly half hour in, I notice an enthusiastic group dancing a few bodies away, and they are clearly older college students. One of them, a lanky boy wearing sunglasses is dancing in my line of sight. Despite how ridiculous it is to wear shades inside a darkly-lit, strobe-filled club, I find it amusing and I think he’s cute. In response, I assume a rookie flirting tactic:  I eye him a bit and give a sly smile, just to see if he will notice me. And he does.  So, in spite of the terrifying prospect of failure, I decide to woman up and ask him if he would like to dance. And he agrees. And we dance. And it’s obvious he’s straight so this is a very different type of dance for me. He’s not gay and he’s definitely not a creepy older dude trying to pretend its innocent to hit on a teenage girl (we’ve all seen it, and the collective cringing should have caused Mt. Rainier to explode by now–just sayin’). I’m not sure what to do next, so I start talking at him. I get his name, give him mine; I ask questions about what he does, where he’s from… you know, the standard first-year-of-college conversational muck.

I’m feeling pretty confident by then, like super jazzed ’cause he totally thinks I’m pretty, you guys, and so I stop talking and focus instead on the dancing. And by dancing, I mean that my ass on his lap like it was stitched there. Oh yes, even back then I was self-aware enough to recognize that my big ass booty was a blessing, and damn could I shake it! (Shakira was right; these hips do not, cannot possibly, lie).

Now, I know what you’re thinking: he must have a huge boner by now. And he definitely does, cause there’s really no way of hiding that when a girl is rubbing her ass all up in your junk. I don’t care the circumstances, the body just responds. So I take this invitation to mean I should turn around to face him and grind with him a bit more pointedly, and that’s when it happens. I look up, and my arms are loosely around his waist, and he slides his fingers along my jawline and leans down to kiss me.

It happens quickly and wasn’t what I expected. I mean, why is his mouth so wet? Am I doing this right? And what the hell am I supposed to do next? So I pull back a little, but he’s got me and he’s not letting go. And, okay, so it’s a bit wet but maybe I need to be more patient and ride this out, see what happens, so I give in. We make out, tongues and all, in full view of everybody in that club. I don’t know how long we do this but at some point I’m feeling really aware of and awful for our obvious PDA so I stop kissing back and pull away. We keep dancing, and then it’s closing time and the lights come up. I give him my number and I leave with my friends, all of them giggling and gawping at me like they just walked in on a very public re-enactment of Deep Throat (which, to be real, probably wasn’t too far off given the club’s reputation).

As we all traipse down the alley to the pancake house a few blocks over, I can feel it starting. My body is warm, and my skin feels like a current is running through it. And despite the loving teases from my friends and my insistent replies that the kiss wasn’t a big deal, he was just some guy who I’ll likely never see again, I find that I can’t help but keep touching my lips, feeling the huge smile spreading across my face as I rewind the night over and over, feeling it again and again.

And that, dear reader, is a how a lush is born.

Cheers for now,

The Blushing Lush

The First

I lost my virginity on a one night stand.

Not entirely original, I know. But for a privileged, educated white female born in the late 80s to middle-class parents who opted for liberal city living and alternative public schools, who could expect much more “radicalism”? I grew up on Disney princesses and the feminist backlash. I graduated high school with a Women’s Studies course under my belt, and I spent summers lazing on city park greens watching friends roll blunts and sneak sips of 40s or bottom-shelf libations from their voluminous purses and backpacks. My sexual liberation? Well, fuck, you gotta get some first. So here goes.

The story goes like this: I am 23. (Old, right? I still think so). A close college friend is in town for a visit, and we’re going out. Of course, in lady-speak, this means I’m taking her dancing. We go to a trendy hipster club that has an actual line outside door. Why so surprising? Well, this club serves its cocktails out of mason jars, for starters. And its dance floor is decorated with a woodsy pine mural and chandeliers made out of antlers. It’s just how the 206 does classy, y’all. So there we are, going into this club full of men in beards and flannel and women in sheer H&M tops and tiny patterned skirts. I, on the other hand, am wearing a pastel pink tulle skirt (fine, a tu-tu) and a white sleeveless blouse. I look adorable and also a bit ridiculous, but I am in fact pulling it off because I have one of those attitudes that says fuck you if you don’t believe me.

My friend and I are dancing and having a good time when a group of seven or eight guys wearing the same t-shirt come onto the floor. They are wearing one of those tuxedo shirts, gag gifts no one seriously wears in public, and on the back is a terribly awkward photo of some guy’s floating, over-sized head Photoshopped onto a groom cake topper.

Yes, dear readers, they are a bachelor party. And what does this girl do? Make friends. I dance with them, and surmise after many attempts at audible conversation that they are fraternity brothers. From Canada. I ask why they are dancing at a bar here, in a city no one would call a party. Why aren’t they at a strip club, or in Vegas? They shrug; not that kind of stag party, I guess.

Quickly, I set my sights on one taller guy who is scruffy and blondish. After a couple of songs, it’s clear his frat bros are pushing him to talk with me, dance near me. We try to chat, and we dance around each other for many songs. When last call comes, I assume it’s the end of the night and that it will just be another funny anecdote. But it turns out my friend, who has for the past hour or so been AWOL, has also met a man and she has decided to leave with him for the night so they can keep “talking”. So there I am, standing outside smoking with the stag party. I find out they are going to “an after-hours joint”; I toss out names for a few places to see if I know of it, and they are surprised when I share I had never heard of nor been to it. So I go with them, because how could I not know about this place? And there, at this after-hours, living-room sized electronic club, I dance with the scruffy boy. And it’s clear we’re leaving together. So we do, and then this is where the story becomes my own, I mean really my own, and not one you’ve heard before (I promise).

We hit the street together, and start walking. His hotel? Negative–he’s splitting a room with five other guys. (I’m so not into group sex, y’all). So we have to go to mine, except that mine is also my dad’s. And while I have my own rear entrance and the entire basement floor to myself, I still live at home. It’s totally lame, but while I know it is (and was) very much temporary, it was clear that my living circumstance made him a little uncomfortable. Did I mention he’s older? No? Well, he is. He’s 28, and he works for the Canadian government in the labor department or something. He is an adult, that much is clear. Me? I look like a little girl playing dress up. But then we walk into the house and he’s still a little drunk and I’m not entirely sober. We go into my room and then we’re kissing, and he tastes good and everywhere he touches me feels warm; adrenaline is coursing through my body and I am literally aching to know where his hands will go next and what he looks like shirtless and how his chest feels against my skin. And so when he manages to pull my fluffy skirt up over my chest, my top and bra both coming off in seconds, I hear myself asking whether he has a condom, please tell me he has a fucking condom, and holy shit am I more adept at taking off a man’s pants than I thought I was. And he has a condom, so he puts it on and then pushes me back on my bed and kisses my hips and stomach and breasts and then his hands are pushing my thighs down against the mattress and then, there, he’s inside me. And it hurts, it does. But only for a few seconds, and then I am holding him closer and rolling my hips up toward him and we’re having sex. Just like that. There’s no music, no romance. If memory serves, we left the light on. But we’re two consenting adults and I made the decision that I was having sex and I wanted to have sex with him.

And then as soon as he starts, he stops, and looks down, and asks me if I’m on my period. Yep, this is where the really sexy stuff starts, dear reader.

And I pause and respond cautiously, “No…” and look down. There’s blood on my sheets, and I freak out a little in my head. I apologize and get up to go the bathroom, then I sit on the toilet and feel absolutely mortified. And of course the blood does not stop right away, so I turn on the shower and hop in. My man for the night knocks on the bathroom door to see if I’m alright, obviously concerned and I would assume totally freaking out, but I am ok. I mean, I’m pretty embarrassed I bled everywhere but I am, physically, fine. And I tell him so. I lie, and tell him it’s been a few years since I last had sex–and it was only once–so it must be that. By then I’ve regained some composure and cleaned off, so I invite him into the bathroom and he gets into the shower with me. We kiss in there, and he’s really sweet; he’s cautious and gentle at first, but I tell him it’s ok and that he’s not going to physically hurt me. And we start again.

You want to know why I lied, right? Why I didn’t reveal my virginity when it was clear that my hymen had broken? See, I didn’t want him to know. Losing my virginity was for me, and me alone. And, aside from the inevitable physical situation in which I found myself immediately after said sexual act, it was none of his business that he was my first.  Sex, for me, didn’t need to be emotional. I am comfortable with myself and my body; I don’t need to know someone intimately to feel sexual desire towards them. I knew that already, and the timing felt right. I wanted to lose my virginity because I felt like it. I wanted to have sex, and I decided to do it with him.

Looking back, is that fair? Not at all. I don’t know what he thought then, or what he thinks about it today. My cynical brain insists I’m just another horror story to him, a drunk aberration or at best a funny story of his youthful antics. But to me, all it meant was that I wanted to feel what sex was. I wanted to feel good; I wanted to feel pleasure that was different from that created by good food or lots of booze or drugs. So I lied. I brushed aside my broken hymen like it didn’t matter so I pretended it didn’t.

And so we fucked in the shower and it felt really, really good. We moved back to the bed–after putting a towel down first, we’re adults here– and it was clear he was too drunk to come. Or maybe he wasn’t comfortable,  so he couldn’t (or didn’t). So we talked and fooled around for a bit, and I played with his balls because he asked me to and then I really put myself on the map. I mean, REALLY. Are you ready, dear readers, for this mortifying tidbit?

I compared his balls to horse balls. And told him I think penises are weird. I mean, my exact words weren’t those. I think it went something like this:

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About what? Share.”

“Well, ok, so women totally got the better deal, anatomically speaking.”

“…. what?”

“I mean, the female form is just so much more physically pleasing to the eye, you know, circles and all that. And male genitalia…. Ok, well, the penis is kind of funny. And balls are weird.”

“*awkward laughter* What?”

“Well, uh, I just mean that penises, in general, are kind of anatomically strange when you think about it. I mean, I grew up familiar with the phallus ’cause I used to ride horses and work in a barn so I’ve seen large ones but still balls are just… weird.”

“Um, ok.”

There’s not much to say after all that, is there? I’m pretty sure I redeemed myself a little bit (I now hope) when the conversation turned towards whether men like to be tugged (oh come on, we’ve all seen that Sex and the City episode!) and what he likes and what I can do that he likes…

You get the idea. When we realized how late it was–4am–we decided to sleep. While he promptly rolled over and passed out, I mostly laid there thinking and absorbing all of it. And I was happy. I mean, I wanted him to touch me and not be totally absent, sleeping and snoring lightly on the other side of the bed. However, I also felt I couldn’t expect much because he was basically a stranger; I didn’t feel empowered enough to demand a little post-coital cuddles. (Note: now, I feel much empowerment in that regard–if you fuck me, I get to demand what I want.) But, hymen and post-coital activities aside, I was happy with the situation.

In the morning, I drove him back to his hotel. That drive was uncomfortable, and probably the worst thing about the whole experience: both of just sitting in this space, not knowing what to say first. And of course the awkward was prolonged: I had to drive around in circles looking for the hotel because he couldn’t remember its name–turns out he had gotten wasted in the car with some of his buddies before they even checked in. After a few phone calls, he figures out the hotel. When I finally arrive, he kisses me on the cheek and thanks me for the ride. Then he gets out of the car and leaves. We don’t exchange numbers because, well, what’s the point? He lives in Canada. I never asked his last name, either, so I couldn’t Facebook or Internet stalk even if I wanted to. He is gone, and I doubt I’ll see him again. And I’m 100% fine with that.

I do know his first name, of course. But a girls’ gotta have some secrets. So, in honor of my best college friends to whom I told this same story to later that day, my first will be forever known as “The Mountie”. Because, well, Canada. And well, you know, he mounted me. For the first time. Ever. Yeah.

And that’s the story, which the Internet now has on record. I will be sharing the others that came after, and perhaps even as they happen in, albeit slightly delayed, real time (who would blog as they had sex? That’s just rude), but that’s for another post and another day. What I can tell you now is that there is less awkward. And I literally mean LESS awkward. Because I really have no clue what I’m doing; I just know that I like doing it.

Until next time,

The Blushing Lush