Being the proud owner of a brain with an exciting array of mental health issues, when it comes to sex, means my motivation can, without warning drain away. Like I'm a cheerleader pandering to an apathetic crowd that has completely lost interest in bouncing titties and skimpy outfits.
Gimme an S!
Gimme an E!
Gimme an X... Please? Anything?
Now, back before I threw myself into this heady life of sex positivity this was relatively easy to manage. My profound lack of positive self image meant when my bleachers were full of adoring sex fans, I could go out, get wasted, revel in questionable male attention, and make poor life decisions. Like hooking up with a guy for a random threesome, and two days later ending up back at his place for a coke fuelled attempt at fisting while his elderly cat spitefully shit all over my leather coat in the next room. It was reckless, and stupid, and filled with wild abandon and drugs and made me feel like some kind of enlightened sexy creature with a superpower for naughty adventures.
But it would never last. It never does, yet in vanilla world that was ok. It's somehow more acceptable to go months without a shag, especially for a woman. If you happen to be in a relationship when this sexy ship goes down? It's cool, that's just what happens. You get bored of each other, sex becomes less frequent. Welcome to adulthood t, where everything is in moderation and your crippling cycles of hyper sexuality and total disinterest don't matter!
Enter kink. Surrounded by every fantasy pretty much all the time (I know, I'm spoiled), it gets harder to hide when your lady bits have mysteriously gone on vacation and you're left with the equivalent of an HPV crusted sensation-less maw between your legs.
There are only so many orgies you can politely bow out of before someone waves a hitachi in your face and insists that no, really, you just need a good orgasm or twenty and your mojo will be right back where it left off.
And god, do I ever want to believe them. Because when my mojo disappears, when sexy time becomes this weird mashing of disjointed body parts into someone else's sloppy lubed up body parts, all the other things that go along with my sexuality, like my need to serve, my masochism, all of those go with it.
Fitting my mental health challenges into a relationship partially grounded in mutual exploration of our sexual selves, means that when my sexual self checks out for a spell, it's like a pillar has been knocked out of our foundation, and I have to scramble to throw up some scaffolding and shit while I wait for the repair crew to arrive.
And that, friends, is the wonderful thing about kink. Back in vanilla world, when my sexy brain went AWOL, there
were no other options. Connecting with my partner, with other people in general got paused while I sorted my shit out. That ended most of my healthier relationships. Yet, with a kinky poly M/s relationship, that doesn't have to happen. Because there are other, less sexual, less hard ways for me to connect. We've got puppy play, and t-bone is my chance to be the sweet, adoring and vaguely service oriented being that normal t just can't be right
I've also got Lady T, my dispassionate sadist self, casually inflicting unspeakable acts on pretty young things. Distinctly disconnected, the epitome of ice queen bitch. She ticks a box for me that I still can't describe, fills a need to inflict pain, without harming myself.
My Owner and I have also got rope, and taking out the sex in rope just means sharing an experience that is inherently intimate, without me feeling the void in the place of my sexual self.
A few weeks ago, my Owner very sweetly arranged for one of my greatest fantasies to be realized- a gang rape he coordinated with around a dozen people. On stage, hooded, and beaten, and being penetrated by what I later discovered was my Owner being bodily picked up and used as a finger banging battering ram by half the rape crew while shouting "RAMMING SPEED!", I felt the beginnings of the dissociation that heralds a period of asexuality for me. As I was lifted, and tied with my hands above my head, beaten and covered in strangers spit and sweat, I found myself suddenly worried. Not that I would be hurt, or traumatized, but that I would be expected to cum. Because in that moment I suddenly realized I wasn't going to be able to. And I knew that I wasn't sure I would be able to again for an indeterminate amount of time. This could have tainted the experience for me, sucked all the sexy joy out of being publicly gang raped. Instead, it altered my focus. As the hood was whipped off and I was spun to face the crowd, surrounded by my kidnappers, I didn't feel aroused, I didn't feel humiliated, and I didn't feel particularly happy either. Instead, I felt the warm supportive glow of being surrounded by my kink community- a community that will band together for gang rapes, but also for support.
I may not be able to hide my current state of sexy in absentia, but I am able, unlike in my vanilla world days, to fill in the vacuum created by my desire's absence. And unlike in my vanilla days, where that gap would be filled with food, and drugs and self harm and bitter self loathing, its filling with a form of connecting, that, while not sexual per se, is still fulfilling, and valid and grounded in my relationships with the people around me. My community.
It's bittersweet sometimes to stand idly by while your partner is balls deep in a gorgeous young thing, and all you want more than anything else in the world is for the motivation to get in there and sit on her face. And it's ok. Because smiling from the sidelines I know when I get home that a certain puppy is going to come out, and be cuddled, and loved, and give puppy kisses, and maybe get into some rope, and ignore all the dishes. Because unlike slaves, puppies don't have to do them.
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