Speaking of S, the jury is still out as to whether or not I get to ring in the new year with a lusty tryst. I've got my fingers crossed, for the most part. I am still delightfully sore from the other night. I noticed this morning in the shower, under the rivulets of water, that my nipples were laced with tiny, tooth-sized bruises. Blue is such a beautiful color on me. I'm willing to bet that I am sporting bruises elsewhere, too. I know, it is twisted that I should love the look of bruising on my skin. But I bruise so easily, and the mottled shades of purple, blue and grey have fascinated me since I was a child. Of course, this bruising also means a heightened sensitivity. Rarely are my nipples hard, just for the hell of it. Fuck, even when I am aroused, they're often flat... right now? Standing at attention.
Onto other matters of identity - please don't think that my New Year's resolution is to redefine myself as a slut. I've been thinking about this quite a bit in the past two days. My self image, ultimately, blows. Oh, and now someone is thinking "aha! low self esteem leads to an easy lay!" But not necessarily. Allow me to explain.
Physically, I view myself as average. That's on a good day. Most of the time, I look in the mirror and think "well, I won't curdle milk." I'm 5'3", approximately 145 lbs, and I wear a 34 G bra. If you dig short, curvy chicks, we're set. I intend, as always, to lose weight. The weight always manages to find me, though. I believe that in coming to terms with my sexuality, my self image will improve far more than it would with a fad diet or a neglected exercise regime.
And what's so difficult about accepting my sexuality? Ha. I was raised in a fairly open-minded family. I'm straight. Why should I have issues with this? I remember, as a young child, playing with dolls in my dollhouse, spanking the momma doll because she had been "bad." The warm, heavy feeling I felt low in my stomach felt bad, shameful. When I was a little older, one of the neighborhood kids introduced me to a game called "playing sex." We were only about eight or nine, and the game was maybe a step up from playing doctor - licking and petting. Her mother came unglued when she caught us at this game. (Now, as an adult, I too would be upset if I caught my child, at that age engaging in oral sex, somewhere, somehow that seems like someone was molested by an adult, but I would react differently.) Her horror and rage taught me that something that felt good was bad.
As a child, I was an avid reader, and still am. Around eleven, my Nancy Drew books no longer offered any challenge to me, and I started sneaking romance novels off of my mother's bookcase in the middle of the night, leaving the dust jacket behind, to hide the gap in the shelf. By the end of the sixth grade, I knew what a blow job was, and how to perform it, even though I had never seen an erection. By the age of fourteen or fifteen, I had discovered Anne Rice's Beauty trilogy, and knew that reading about BDSM turned me on. Keep in mind that I was painfully shy and didn't even get my first kiss until I was sixteen. Even in college courses, like Psychology and Human Sexuality, I learned that my tastes were labeled as "deviant."
Once I started dating, as an adult, I found myself in embarrassing situations. Or, at least, situations that can be hazardous for one's sexual development. I asked one boyfriend, NavyBoy, to smack my ass. We had been dating for several months, had been sexually involved for most of that time - I figured why not ask for what I wanted? My request immediately shot down his proverbial horse. He broke up with me the following week, because he was so uncomfortable with the idea. I have handled rejection numerous times, and have been left unsatisfied by way too many cases of whiskey dick. Hell, I have even managed to kill my fair share of vibrators. I guess, given my lucky experiences, these little toys prove to be much like a real man: "oh! oh God, I'm.. I'm almost ther-" and then... it's done for. And I get to finish manually.
Last year, much to my surprise, I realized that I was not completely comfortable with my sexuality. Surprised? I know I was. I was with the boyfriend du jour in the local adult toy shop. While I've been to these places before, and often in mixed company, I had never been there with a lover. Suddenly, I was paralyzed, speechless. That awkward shyness I worked so hard to destroy when I left high school was back. I could not tell him what I wanted. A history of rejection and shame had left me speechless. I could laugh and play with the novelty items on the shelves, but when it came to purchase, even to tell him what I wanted to try, I was helpless. As tantalizing as the leather paddles and floggers looked, as fascinated as I was with the concept of nipple clamps and pyrex dildos and tiny vibrating butt plugs.... Much to my dismay, we left the store only with some massage oil and an assortment of trial lubes. Which were never used and are still in my bedside table.
Now, as the year is ending, I find myself at the end of another flopped relationship - boring sex, very little in common, no spark. It is my hope that in exploring myself this year, with the help of T, I will discover my sexual identity and grasp that awareness with confidence. Maybe that will put an end to a dating, and sex, life best described by "meh." Maybe by the end of this new year I will have the courage to call up someone, like S. Maybe, then, instead of dropping no so subtle (yet nonetheless mortifying) hints, I will be able to say "get over here. I want to fuck you until I get you out of my system. I want you."
Then, maybe in a few years, I will be able to tackle that fabled beast they call "love."
