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Posts Tagged ‘sexual history’

  1. The Sex List

    March 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I burned the list the week we moved. I was packing my journals into a cardboard box, and rediscovered a diary that I had kept since elementary school. It was a shock to see it after so many years. Behind the childish scrawl of Victorian nannies falling in love on the moors (oh hush, I have a soft spot for melodrama) I had a list of all my sexual partners since I lost my virginity at seventeen. I stared at the list of numbers and names, memories flowing through me like water.

    #3 through 5 – the Brians *I will never have sex on the beach without a blanket again!!!!
    #9 – J with the cock that was so big it almost didn’t fit (my vag has super powers!)
    #13 – first bathroom blowjob
    #25 – Javier in Otavalo, futbol y sexo
    #31 – M upstairs at the Greek restaurant (note to self: stop seducing my employers)
    #41 – H and sex in office stairwell–incredible echo!

    I had forgotten some of the men completely, and I was appalled that seeing their names in print didn’t shake loose any memories. As I sat there reading, I felt like I was looking at the past of a woman completely separate from me. I was reading the sexual adventures of a woman who was exploring herself as much as she was fucking others, someone sexually vibrant and alive. Like some exotic animal I could read about but would never be able to touch. That woman wasn’t me any more. I had buried her a long time ago just as I had hidden away the journal.

    The list was damning evidence. If my husband had found it, the lies I had cast to cover my sexual experience would be blown to pieces. I would be outed as a slut, and my life made more miserable for having lied for all the years of our marriage. When we were first dating and in our twenties, he had asked me how many sexual partners I had in the past. I replied with what I thought was a socially acceptable number. I told him eight men, because I figured ten would be too far from his number of four. Eight sounded plausible and less like a lie. Not too low and not too high, and it was easy to remember.

    In my exuberance for wanting to make our relationship work, I mistakenly thought that I could teach him a few things in the bedroom. Unlike the men who had gone before him, my husband wasn’t one of the sexually corruptible. No, he held firm to his belief that sex was something to be embarrassed about, and after one Sunday of convincing him to have sex three times, he told me that I was out of control. And still I was determined to marry him.

    Silly, silly Heather…

    The topic of the sex list sparked several conversations with my current partners, and I realized that none of them had ever asked for my list. Part of it is maturity, I think, and part of it is living in a sex-positive environment. I’m not afraid to give a ballpark number these days, but the good girl inside still gives me a kick in the gut when I do. Despite all my open partners and incredible sexual experiences, part of me persists in thinking that it’s shameful to have that many notches in my stilettos. And sometimes my good girl needs to shut the fuck up.

    I’m trying to reframe the information the list provided. Instead of making a judgment, I’m trying to look past the black and white and see the young woman that I was. I learned so much about myself in that time period, and without the blanket of condemnation obscuring it, I’m able to feel her fire and passion and love. I see her mistakes and failings. I remember being scared of the desires I was exploring, the spankings and teeth marks I began to crave. And I see her loneliness, her fear that she really was out of control and somehow a bad person.

    I also see the woman I was when I burned the list, and I weep more for that time in my life than the crazy sexual adventures that preceded it.

    I know that my past doesn’t create the summation of my totality now. I may still contain pieces of that promiscuous young woman and the unhappy wife, but my adventure for this stage of my life is only beginning. I still consider myself a slut, but I say that with love and acknowledgment of my powerful sexuality. These days I’m a discerning slut, mind you, but I have the sex drive to rival a seventeen-year-old boy. I also love like a wildfire and am fiercely loyal. And I refuse to be ashamed of any of it. The details of my sex list are unimportant really. What counts is that I know who I am.

    Category sexuality | Tags: ,, | 7 Comments

  2. Unhappy Wife, Unhappy Life

    April 2, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    My life has been littered with seemingly innocent moments that have moved forward with the alarming speed of an unmanned bullet train. Don’t get me wrong, the ride is a thrill in the beginning. Sometimes I’m even able to fool myself into thinking it’s what I want, but I inevitably lose my sense of direction. When I’m finally able to open my eyes after I’ve propelled forward with no safety net in place to protect me, I’m paralyzed and dry heaving in the middle of a horrifying wreckage of my own making that leaves me asking, “What. The. Fuck?”

    I don’t know why I thought my wedding day would be any different. I chose a form-fitting ivory gown because scarlet would’ve been a bit too obvious to wear on the day I would officially lay to rest the person I was in a shallow, unmarked grave. Beads of perspiration began to form above my lip as I leaned forward in the chair I was sitting on in the Bride’s Room while my dad knelt in front of me reminding me to breathe. His 3rd wife handed me a small glass of whiskey saying, “Drink it, sugar” because we’re all about class in my family. When I handed Mr. 3rd-Time’s-a-Charm the empty glass, he told me that it was ok to call it off if I had doubts and that marriage doesn’t always turn out like we expect it to. Boy, he wasn’t fucking kidding.

    But it turns out that I didn’t completely bury who I was in hopes of having the charmed life I thought I wanted. The only portion of my personality that I was able to excise was the part that encouraged my intense sexual appetite. My submissive disposition remained, and before I knew it, I had become a mindless android with only one function.

    The strong man I vowed to love until death do us part was dominant in every way but the way I needed him to be. All I wanted to do was please him, and the mere thought of his disappointment sent me crashing face first into a wall of self-degradation. He fed hungrily on the power that I gave him, never appreciating it or giving any in return. I found myself silently begging for something that my husband wasn’t capable of giving me.

    It wasn’t long after I accepted my undervalued role as my husband’s less than equal partner that I decided it was time to try my hand at reproduction. I traded in my daily chairside banter with patients who saw me as witty and charming for puzzling conversation with messy short people who clung to my legs and ate oatmeal with their fingers. I retreated into the fortified cocoon of motherhood hoping that one day I would receive validation for the complex creature that I was.

    That acceptance never came. Partially because the man that I married so many years ago really had no idea who I was. I never felt that all-embracing trust that allowed complete honesty, so I kept things to myself. I wasn’t honest about the number of sexual partners I’d had. I always figured if I didn’t have to hold up all of my fingers during the tally, he wouldn’t see me as damaged goods. I wasn’t honest about my feelings for him. I loved him, yes, but I was never head-over-heels in love with him. I wasn’t honest about my propensity to please, and I didn’t tell him that the lack of a power exchange in our relationship only escalated my need to gratify someone else.

    I’m just as much at fault in the collapse of the life we had together as he is. I realize that it wasn’t fair to him when I said, “I do, sorta,” and I’ve learned a lot from the fallout that left me bruised and bloody. I’m also thankful. I’m thankful for the children he gave me who think I’m the coolest mom ever, and love me no matter how many times I embarrass them by wearing an AC/DC T-shirt to a school fundraiser, or kick their ass playing Just Dance. Despite my flaws, and there are plenty, they think I’m pretty awesome.

    I’m still learning too, but there are a few things that I know for sure: When I race ahead at warp speed not paying attention to the voice in my head screaming, “What the fuck are you doing?” I’m not the only one who gets hurt. And I will never again give someone the gift of my submission who doesn’t understand it enough to know that a back and forth flow is vital for success or downplay the magnitude of my sexual compulsion. Most importantly, I will never ever compromise who I am for another’s approval. I am who I am, and if you don’t like me, well, fuck off.

    Category Divorce | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  3. Sins of Our Past

    February 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Nikki and I had similar experiences in high school health class. Pregnancy was the biggest threat in my mind, and for awhile, STD’s didn’t enter my sexual vocabulary. That changed when the media began reporting HIV/AIDS cases. For the very first time, health class became relevant. I can remember Mr. Schneider drawing red circles on the chalkboard to explain a crucial point.

    “This is you and your boyfriend/girlfriend,” he said to us and drew two circles that almost touched. “He says he has only slept with two other people, right? And you? You’re a virgin.”

    He rolled his eyes a little, but the sarcasm flew over my head at the time. I was too busy watching more circles go behind the Circle Boyfriend.

    Mr. Schneider turned to face the class and poked a chalk-coated finger into the air. He coached football and enjoyed stabbing motions. “Now who can tell me how many people those two slept with? What if they’re lying? Even if they only slept with one person that doesn’t guarantee that they don’t have an STD. Without a condom, every person from that point of contact going forward will get their STD too. ”

    I watched in horror as the chalkboard filled with red circles. At that point I had only slept with two people, but Senior Week and a trip to the beach loomed on the horizon. I didn’t know it, but I was going to triple that number over the next three weeks. Even with a low number of sexual partners at that point, I didn’t feel that I could be honest about it. It was common knowledge that my boyfriend took my virginity in a cloud of Coors Light fumes on Mike Caroll’s bedroom floor. The ex-bf told everyone about those sixty seconds of infamy, and even now, as his profile pic pops up on my Facebook page, I question my sanity.

    I took that condom lesson to heart as my tally of sexual partners grew. I had no qualms about insisting on protection, but if the guy asked about my previous experiences, I broke out in a cold sweat. Even my girlfriends stared at me askance if I whispered the number. Eventually, I gave up keeping count and decided that if asked, I slept with eight people. Eight was enough to indicate that I could have fun and knew my way around a penis, but that I hadn’t taken up residence in the Land of Whores. I don’t know where that land is, but apparently, women who sleep with more than eight people own condos there.

    As I’ve matured, sharing my sexual history has become an act of trust. Up until meeting my Master, I had never told anyone the entire fucking truth, even the prudish, judgemental man I divorced. M gradually pulled the stories from me, and like Pandora’s box, they came tumbling out amongst a flood of embarrassment and chagrin. To my everlasting amazement, he didn’t condemn me. Despite twinges of jealousy, he relished them and asked for explicit details. They became woven into his fantasies that eventually involved him, me and someone(s) else. Instead of using my sexually adventurous past against me, he used it to celebrate the person I am now. Regardless of how others may feel about it, without those experiences, good, bad and horny, I wouldn’t be me.

    When I came up with the title for this post, I hesitated at using the word sin. I didn’t choose it because I’m ashamed, but because many people think I should be. Or they’d make snap judgments that I wasn’t worth knowing because I fucked eight (or so) people. What is the precise “weight” of a previous sexual experience? How does it or should it effect the relationship you’re in today? My point is this: if you’re with the person you want to be with, why do you give a flying fuck about their past?

    I promise you that I don’t, but baby, you still have to wear a condom.

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | No Comments