On Birth Control

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Some of these stories will take place during what I like to call “the time of vag hell fire.”

This is, quite literally, the time when sex felt like terrible, horrible pain, because of the medication I was on at the time.

See, when I first heard about male birth control, and the fact that trials would stop due to side effects, I was a little ticked off.


Scratch that, I was pissed as hell.

 

For seven years, I was passed from birth control pill to birth control pill, and spent five years on a pill with dangerously high estrogen levels that put me at higher risk of a stroke, (even more dangerous because of my family medical history) put me at a higher risk of infection, and caused severe damage to the nerve endings in my vagina.

Also, because I kept trying to have sex while I was in pain, my body tried to defend itself against said painful sex, and started causing muscular contractions that still existed up until this year.

There’s actually physical therapy for people who need to work their way through stuff like this.

Essentially, because of ineffective doctors, lack of information, and myths perpetuated about how sex is supposed to be for those who possess a vagina, I suffered for years when I didn’t have to.

I don’t know how to describe it except for the feeling of ‘out, out, I want this out right the fuck now.’

And that’s not how it should feel.

Even if you’re doing it wrong.

 

Which brings us back to this idea of male birth control.

My first reaction was that of, “So they can’t handle a few mood swings? Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

 

I then recognized my pettiness, and felt guilty. I wasn’t angry at the guys in the trial, I was angry at an industry that for decades has refused to recognize the very real complaints of people suffering from depression, from nausea, from weight gain and loss, from very serious side effects, and has done nothing to improve their products.

But, just because we have suffered doesn’t mean others should as well.

 

I am lucky. It took multiple doctors appointments to sort it out, but eventually I moved to a different city, saw a different doctor, and received competent treatment. They recognized what the meds were doing to me, prescribed medication to help heal the damage done to my nerves, and got me on Mirena – the plastic version of the IUD that I will advocate until my dying days.

 

I say this not only to bring attention to it, but because this era of ‘the time of vag hell fire’ played a role in stories I will tell. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but knew that something wasn’t right, and when it was fixed, that played its role as well.

 

For so many reasons, this should no longer be an issue.

  1. We should not be demonizing feminine sexuality – turning feminine virginity into something that can be ‘taken away.’ If we could begin to dispel this myth on hymens and sex ‘supposed’ to be painful the first time, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me such a long time to sort it out. (see above video)
  2. I feel this goes into the stigma attached not only to the health care of women and transwomen, but also to mental health care and sexuality in general. When you’re taking a hormonal contraceptive, you’re taking just that – hormones. You are altering your body chemistry. If we, as a society, were more open to talking about mental health and cis and trans women sexual health, maybe we could get better at sorting out which medication was right for us.

 

The pill and other hormonal contraceptives can be so helpful, but that doesn’t mean they cannot also cause harm.

We have to be better at recognizing this is real, and acknowledging that cis & trans women who are saying something is wrong are probably more aware of their bodies than men are.

 

With that being said, stay tuned for some more stories about terrible sex.

On That Drunken Night

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She’s just gone to pop into her room and you’ve stumbled into me, and your hands are in my hair, your lips on mine. My arms knot around your neck, and we sway from side to side.

“Christ,” She mutters, just loud enough for us to hear, “Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds, can I?”

No, she can’t. Because we’re at this point in our lives where we can’t be trusted to be alone, with booze, and single.

We stumble into my room, and even though you’re drunk, you’re in control. It’s like a high, whenever we do this. You know exactly where to touch, where to kiss, where to be firm, where to be soft.

But I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to fuck you when you’re this drunk. It’s held me back before, and it’s holding me back now. I couldn’t put it into words. I could never talk to you, not about this. We never actually talked about anything remotely serious, nothing about ‘us,’ not that there ever really was an ‘us.’ There was just this, when you got drunk enough to find me at or after parties, and I let you every time.

But in the morning, you’re sober, and even though all I want to do is ask you to fuck me, I say nothing when you say you’ve got to get home. I say nothing when you stay for another two hours, talking about books, movies, the friends that have disappointed you. I’m sprawled on the bed in a tank that just barely covers me, hoping you’ll kiss me and from there…from there I could take you to where I want to.

But you don’t. You eventually realize the time. And it’s okay. The night was enough. It was fun. A part of me knows that it will probably be the last time it happens, we’re just in two different places now. So you give me a hug, and walk out the door.

Three years later, and we’re sitting with tea, and once again talking about all the books and movies. You read more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s so nice, the way we flow into these conversations. It’s natural, and easy and light.

Which is why I don’t even try to bring up the questions that I’ve wanted to ask you for so very long.

You briefly mention your girlfriend, and I’ve seen her in pictures. She’s pretty, and you brighten when you mention her. I’m so happy for you.

You say goodbye, and give me another hug. We make the perfunctory statements of keeping in touch, but I know we won’t.

I wish we would, because you’re smart, and funny, and someone I want to be friends with.

The first night you took me back to your place, I was so young, and I was scared. I asked if it could be private. I still haven’t decided if I either shouldn’t have said that, or should have told you why. I had reasons, but they would’ve swayed you away even more. Who wants to get into that deep of shit when they first try to fuck someone?

I feel like it set the tone of everything after that. These are the things I’ve thought about since. I doubt you have.

I want you to be happy. I want you to successful, and to find whatever it is you’re looking for.

After you left, I ordered another pot of tea, and finished a book.

You really wouldn’t have liked it.

On Dirty Minds

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My friend just sent me a message.

“Hey babe are you a fitted sheet?
Because you’re complicated and hard to manage but I definitely want you on this mattress.
And I don’t mind having to wrestle for it ;)”
-“Ahhh. Omg. I love it.”
“That last bit I made up especially for you!”

There’s an old stereotype that men think about sex every 7-8 seconds.
That would be 8,000 times a day.

Why do we continually think that men are more sexual beings than women? Because

  1. They’re not.
  2. They’re not.
  3. They’re really not.(But, 50 Shades is some bad shit, David)

I’m so grateful to shows like Grace and Frankie which have unapologetically put women’s sexual desires front and center – saying to the world yeah, our libido doesn’t die. We may have to make adjustments based on health and age, but, yeah, this is real and we can be open and honest about it.

My friend and I – same one from above – are both cis women, who, while we fail spectacularly in the ‘getting a guy to actually go home with us’ department, do pretty well in coming up with creative lines that might get them there (I use ‘might’ loosely.) To the point that we recently spent an afternoon coming up with (mostly nerd inspired) pick up lines.

Gems included.

“Daredevil’s not the only one who can perform well with a blindfold on.”

“…Yeah I don’t know if I can handle that Iron Fist.”

“Can I introduce you to Jessica Jones? She’s smart, sassy, super strong, and can really take a pounding.”

(In context of conversation of turn ons….)
“Seriously, can you turn off this faucet?”
“Washington’s not the only swamp that needs draining.”
“I thought you’d be running like a well oiled machine by now.”

My point, beyond revealing just how much we are not going to get laid in the near future, is to say that girls talk about sex all the damn time.
This has nothing to do with pleasing cis, hetero guys, making you want to like us, that you and you alone are making us explode with never before seen cock greed, or that we’re these weird hybrid alien creatures of hormone induced lust.

We are human beings and therefore capable of desire.

Cool? Cool.

 

 

On Bottoming

Why dinosaurs became extinct: 'Okay, I'm on top...now what?'

He was a rebound. He did not know this.

He was cute, one of the few cute guys in our friend group. He did know this.

He was hooking up with somewhere between 2-5 other girls when we were seeing each other (non-exclusively). I don’t know if he knew that I knew this.

He was tall, shaggy hair, and had a more dominant demeanor. He had such a thick accent, which helped.

This didn’t really translate to the sex.

See the problem was that neither of us liked to be on top.

There was one night, after we saw a show, he came up behind me, his arm pinned to my chest, he started to kiss down my neck, pulling my hair to the side.
“That gave me some ideas,” He whispered, and it sent shivers down my spine.

I asked him if he could do that again, the next time, or at least try that same demeanor, and…
Nothing.

God bless him, he would try. I tried, not as much, but would try. But we both just weren’t into it.

A few months in, and I knew he liked me, and I fully admit that I would’ve been more into it, had this not been a big problem.

And I fully admit I was a bit of an asshole about it.

His roommate had recently been broken up with, and he said she’d seen it coming, and so could he.
“The guy started cancelling plans, started drifting away,” It wasn’t a pointed comment, but I was in the beginning stages of doing the exact same thing.

He turned into a monogamist after that. With someone who stated that the sex with him was fan-fucking-tastic.

I understand people who are all about that virgin-til-married life. It’s a scary world out there. To each their own.

But seriously guys, you gotta figure out compatibility. Because that is some real shit that can make or break you.