If this isn’t the first blog post of mine you’ve ever read, you’ll probably know that I’m a sex nerd and fairly outspoken slut. It should thus come as no surprise that I’m a fairly explicit flirter – I prefer to directly tell someone that I’m into them and want to give them head in the bathroom. I have a feeling that my own directness might be why I seem to entirely miss it when folks hit on me.
Right now I seem to be sharing a lot about how I’m fucking up and trying to do better. While I’m sure no one views me as an all-knowing sexpert, I do often share the highlights of my life rather than the moments that leave me weeping in fetal position. But I’m a flawed human who messes up, and I often mess up around continual consent.
Twitter informs me that it’s National Coming Out Day… so obviously I’m spent twenty minutes this morning taking all of my sex-positive artwork down. I also hid my bisexual pride flag and my Eroticon mugs. Why? Because I still censor myself for my parents’ approval, even though I hate myself for doing so.
Reading a casual-fuck-partner’s old texts on a Smutathon wank break (less fun than a Smutathon fuck break, but more practical for a day of writing in the library) left me thinking about his dick. And my desire to one day sit on his dick, despite my vaginismus. But why is that particular sex act so intriguing: penis-in-vagina sex isn’t a big deal, right?
I’m done with being subtle about my period. At least once a week I remember that I live in a country where period products are viewed (and taxed!) as a luxury, non-essential item, while Jaffa Cakes are not. Yes, we have seen significant steps forward in recent months to tackle period poverty, but the stigma around menstruation is still sticking around. And I’m fed up with it.