We Need More Opportunities to Talk About Sex

July 22nd, 2022

Yesterday, I had an invigorating discussion with someone from the Sexual Health Alliance regarding a possible internship. It seemed to go pretty well, so I’m feeling great about that, but even if we don’t work together, it was still such a valuable conversation for me.

I don’t get a lot of opportunities to discuss sexuality with people who are involved in research or education, and the communications I do have are so frequently online. It was great to see and hear people on the other side of that discussion. It facilitates cooperation and connection. If I’m being honest, I’ve struggled with imposter syndrome and viewing other bloggers, authors, and sex educators as competition, instead of people who are working toward a common goal.

Some of that may be a bit inevitable as a woman in a capitalist society, but it’s plagued me for nearly the entire life of this blog and prevented me from speaking up as much as I want to, whether that be on my blog or social media or in person, but especially to those who I find intimidating. And that’s a shame. It’s likely also partially spurred by the fact that there are so few spaces to discuss sex healthily and productively, so it can feel like we’re all vying for a piece of it, like it’s a zero-sum game and someone else’s success means our failure–whatever that means.

Yesterday’s discussion, however, helped me reframe the way I think about things and see a fellow educator as my ally and potential partner in teaching about sexuality to improve sexual satisfaction and reduce the negative sexual and life outcomes that result from a sex-positive society. When the person I was discussing said we “need 17,000 more sex educators,” it really clicked. One thing I’ve struggled with is wondering how my efforts to write or talk about something would be any better than others’ efforts, even if others have yet to focus on the subject that I am thinking about.

But it’s important to remember that people come from different places. Their knowledge levels and mindsets, combined with the subjects we tackle and the way we talk about those things, all impact whether something really impacts the audience. There could be a million books, articles, conferences, or podcasts about the same topic, but there’s no guarantee that the people who need that information will find, understand, or take it to heart.

This is something I’ve recently been appreciative of after having read two books, The Highly Sensitive Person and Polysecure, both of which have shed a different light on relationship communication and allowed me to reflect on my last relationship differently than I would have otherwise. With Polysecure, the book’s first section about attachment style struck home in a way that nothing has in the past, and I am no stranger to attachment theory. Hell, I’ve even written about it in the past! But it wasn’t until I read this book at this point in my life that I could better understand and use that theory personally.

So talking with someone else has motivated me to do more of my own talking–well, writing–and I’m excited for some of the posts I have in the works and the book I’ve been working on! 

There’s no doubt that returning to school and setting my career in motion in an “official” capacity, some positive comments from instructors, a volunteer-turned-work opportunity through school, and working with a new therapist have also boosted my confidence and increased my network in an instrumental way. This recent conversation was just the cherry on top of what I hope is a sundae that won’t melt anytime soon. Is that stretching the metaphor too far?

Regardless, I’m starting to think I can actually sustain change, continue to grow, and accomplish my goals in a way that I just haven’t before. 

Yay.

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Categories: personal

Hi There

April 26th, 2022

It’s me, Adriana.

I’m alive.

I hope that some of you seeing these words find them reassuring in some way.

This winter was difficult, what with the breakup, deaths of loved ones, and my plummeting self-esteem. This spring is better in ways but has presented its own challenges.

Sometimes these challenges get the best of me, and I stay in bed long after it’s healthy because it means I have to spend less time facing my troubles in the waking world. Sometimes it’s hard to concentrate on anything while I’m awake, and I aimlessly watch TV while swiping simple games on my phone.

There are days when it’s all I can do to finish a little work and school before climbing back in bed, and I am consumed by guilt for not accomplishing other tasks, things that I used to do with ease.

I can’t seem to clear the clutter–from my table, mind, or inboxes. I certainly don’t blog, if I even feel as though I have something to say or someone to read it.

It doesn’t mean that I have stopped wanting to help people more freely and fully enjoy their sexuality or brainstorming ways to do it. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be a more active blogger and social media user, engage with others, and follow the conversations about sexuality.

But doing anything to reach those goals is sometimes beyond my reach, and that increases my guilt and my inability to accomplish all that I want.

This is a fairly vulnerable post for this blog. It’s honest, and perhaps some of you can see yourself in it. Perhaps more importantly, it’s a sign that I was able to log in and type a few words before hitting send.

Maybe it won’t be four months until I post the next time. Maybe I’ll write something for Science of Sex or find a good groove then it comes to posting on social media–finally.

That would be good.

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Categories: Everything Else, personal

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On The Internet, Privacy, And Our Children

January 28th, 2020

A couple of weeks ago, someone shared something in one of the Facebook groups to which I belong. Unfortunately, i have lost the post, but I can sum it up and why it set the gears in my head a-grindin’.

The post was a screencap of a tweet, written by a parent who had just informed their daughter that periods will repeat monthly for several decades. The daughter responded negatively. The overall tone was humorous and, as someone who has sometimes struggled with periods, I could relate. It wasn’t my first time viewing the tweet, and I was ready to scroll on by until I saw why the image had been shared to the group.

I believe the reason why this post was shared was to point out how potentially embarrassing it could be for an adolescent to have their parent share with the internet. Although it wasn’t explicitly stated that this is the case, one could reasonably assume so. It wasn’t the point of the tweet, which was to be funny, but the information was still provided with it.

The group’s response was torn. Because the majority of the members were left-leaning women, many made the argument that there is no shame about periods. So what if we talk about it? If someone knows that a person with a uterus is experiencing a normal bodily function?

On the one hand, I completely agree. There is no shame about periods, at least, they shouldn’t be. It’s not always so cut and dry, unfortunately.

But there is an element here that isn’t so much about the content but the privacy of this girl There’s no shame about her period, but it should be her choice what strangers know about her, and this has become an increasingly complicated issue thanks to the popularity of the Internet and social media. You can so easily reach people, but this also means that it’s difficult to know who knows what about you and what the intentions of those people are.

20 years ago, I had my very first website, a simple one-page, HTML-based profile that came with my WBS chat account. Since then, I’ve created dozens of websites and several blogs. I’ve shared myself freely with the Internet. Occasionally, someone would express concern over how freely.

But I wasn’t alone. Before blogs became avenues toward careers, were viewed as legitimate forums to discuss politics or inform the masses about the dangers of certain sex toy materials, or became this grown-up thing, they were almost always personal. And they were, on the whole, owned by preteen and teenaged girls like myself who were all talking about themselves unabashedly, finding community and acceptance, which was sometimes lacking in the face-to-face world.

We’ve come a long time since then, and I still talk to some of those people. Only, we’re not teenagers anymore. Many of them have become parents, and while few of us have blogs that we keep up with anymore, most remain active on social media.

I read the posts wherein people discuss their kids: pregnancy announcements, births, milestones, rewards, and frustrations included. It’s easy to upload a few photos or a video to Facebook and share with the entire extended family. For the most part, these posts are charming, sometimes funny, and typically appropriate. But sometimes they seem to ignore boundaries and step over lines. I wonder how these children will feel when they themselves become teenagers, and then adults, and stumble across what their parents have shared about them, how they’ve been bared to the world without their knowledge or consent. I wonder how it would feel that near and sometimes complete strangers know such intimate details.

So I understood why that tweet rubbed some people wrong. There’s a lack of awareness and an influx of attention that can lead to, what seems to be, poor judgment when it comes to sharing about your child online.

But the Internet did not start this. It only makes it easier to reach more people. Parents have revealed details that their children would prefer remain private since the dawn of time (I can only assume).  I know because mine did, and aside from remaining frustrated about it to this day, the subject is actually relevant to this blog.

I lost my virginity when I was 18 to a boyfriend who I had met online (through a forum about a movie we both enjoyed, not an adult dating site as we were both still minors). I was living with a friend at the time, and he flew from Texas to visit me. Sexuality had been an important part of our online relationship and continued to be once we met in person. That we would have sex wasn’t a question, and the whole experience was generally positive. We would go on to get married, and I would create Of Sex and Love.

In the immediate aftermath of this, however, I was excited, giddy, serene. In short, I was experiencing happiness like I never had before. I had never thought it was even possible if I am being honest.

At the time, my relationship with my mother was strained, as it often is. But I wanted to share this with her. As my friend drove away from the airport after dropping off my ex, I called my mother. I wanted to reconnect and to share the way that daughters do with mothers, at least, they do in the movies.

But the conversation I had was a disappointing one. My mom didn’t pick up on this. What she did do was ask if we’d had sex. I answered honestly, but that wasn’t relevant in my mind. It wasn’t the purpose of that call.

I hung up, dejected. My mom and I didn’t reconnect then. In fact, things even got a little worse.

A few weeks later, I ran into my aunt. She had seen my mom in the interim. As I chatted with my aunt, she informed me that, upon walking into my mom’s house, the first thing my mom said was that I was no longer a virgin.

Now, this was years before the advent of any social media that my mom would use, and I doubt she would have said something like that online, but I still felt hurt that she was discussing my private matters without my consent. I may talk about these things and certainly to more people than just my aunt, but that’s my right, not hers.

It didn’t just sting; I felt a sense of betrayal that added on to my prior disappointment. My relationship with my mother wouldn’t improve anytime soon.

So it’s certainly not the fault of the Internet when people run their mouths that would be better left closed. People have poor judgment, even when those people are parents. They are not infallible. But those of us who strive to be better have a responsibility to at least try to be more conscientious than that, to respect privacy and boundaries, and to be aware of the impact of our words. And in a hyperconnected world, this is all the more important.

While there are things such as periods or sex that I believe we need to talk about more than we do and in smarter ways than we do, when these things pertain to specific people, those people must be involved in those conversations voluntarily.

Maybe the daughter in question from that tweet knew. Maybe she was okay with it or didn’t care either way. But as long as there’s doubt, we have work to do.

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Categories: personal

Why I Didn’t Mention My Bisexuality On Coming Out Day

October 26th, 2019

As I write this, pronouns day has just passed, and coming out day, so I’ve seen a lot of posts by my LGBTQ+ friends over the past week. And while I took the time to express my pronouns in solidary with my trans and NB friends on my personal Facebook yesterday, I didn’t say anything on coming out day.

I could have, though. I could have let everyone know in no uncertain terms that I am bisexual. After all, it’s something I’ve been pondering a lot for the year and some change as I really, finally, become comfortable with my sexual orientation, and I’ve mentioned it plenty on my socials here. It’s not like I haven’t said anything alluding to my attraction including women to those people in my life and on my friend’s lists. I’ve shared photos, used words pregnant with meaning, frame my profile picture in bisexual lighting, mentioned that I have a sex blog, and even periodically share posts from this blog to my vanilla Facebook; although, it’s usually about science or a piece about how SESTA/FOSTA endangers call girls despite its supposed intent to help people rather than something about me personally.

But in 2019, I’m a little less open about my sexuality. I once openly listed myself as bisexual on Myspace many years ago, a fact than sent my former mother-in-law into a tizzy. But I no longer do. That fact, just like my phone number, is set so no one else can see it on Facebook. The reasons are myriad, complex, and not always things of which I am proud.

There are other elements at play, too. The thrill of secrecy, of doing things taboo, has always elevated sex for me. I know it shouldn’t be a competition, but having attractions and kinks that are outside the norm made me feel special. Being attracted to women fulfilled that, in some way, for me.

When I was a teenager and first realized my attraction to women, it centered around specific women.  I wasn’t worried about my inexperience because I was married not too far after, and while I felt generally more attracted to women during my marriage, I was attracted to my husband most of all, so it didn’t really matter.

In some ways, it was nice to hide behind that facade of straight privilege, and because I expected my marriage to last forever (ha!), it meant that I would never have to come out and would have to avoid any potential negatives that doing so would lead so. I type this now, and it just makes me feel awful. There are people who cannot hide behind that privilege, and it’s entirely unfair to do so myself.

For a while after my divorce, it seemed a non-issue. I began dating and sleeping with people who just happened to be men. In hindsight, my bisexuality probably just took a bit of a hetero swing now that I was able to experiment in ways that I hadn’t been able to when I was married. But part of me wondered if any attraction to women was just something of a phase, and my inexperience seemed to loom largely overhead as if in affirmation of this.

This lasted for several years and during that time, I dated, slept with, and fell for multiple men. It’s been a few years that I haven’t been particularly interested in any individual, which makes it the longest stretch of my life that I haven’t been in love. In short, I’ve almost always found myself in love for my entire adult life, even if that love was unrequited. It’s been an interesting change, and one that I think provided me the opportunity to consider my sexuality when it wasn’t attached to a specific person.

Over the last couple of years, my attraction to women has resurfaced and, at times, seemed to dominate. Occasionally, I would simply find myself so undeniably attracted to specific women — Gillian Anderson in the Fall, Carmen Esposito in her standup, women in bars. And sometimes I’d find myself with that self-conscious but giddy smile that I have when I find myself really attracted to people.

Thanks in part to my involvement in this community, a community that is diverse and sex-positive, I’ve come to appreciate that a person’s sexuality doesn’t have to be equal or even constant to “count” for a label such as bisexuality. Making room for this flexibility enables me to better understand and accept myself. Yet this community seems populated with people who are so much more sure about their identities and with so much more experience than I have. Comparison and imposter symptom seem to be magnetically attracted.

Even as I was becoming more comfortable with my attraction, I found myself distanced from the queer community. It still felt like a group of which I was not apart. I still felt as though there was a group of people  who were “them.” And not in a bad way. In fact, I wanted to feel more like I was part of this group than I did. So many people have formative memories of their sexuality, but it was never like that for me. I simply realized I was open to more than just men.

As it turns out, it can be difficult to feel queer enough when you’re bisexual because heteronormative culture still applies. It’s just that queer culture also applies. I often feel that it would be easier for me to feel part of the queer community if I could reject the entire heteronormative narrative, but some of it still applies. Even though I’ve rejected gender roles and sexual scripts and a bunch of other rubbish that goes along with straight culture, I’m still attracted to men.

I’ve heard jokes about bisexual culture but nothing that rings true or stands out to me. Some days I don’t feel so much like I fall under the queer umbrella as much as I feel like hetero… plus. And it’s so incredibly difficult to shed the filter and thoughts that have been ingrained in me by society, especially because I find women generally more attractive even if I am not sexually attracted to them. I almost have to remind myself that I like women, too, and I am attracted to very few men, to begin with. I don’t need to be equally attracted to men and women or even experience attraction to them in the same way. There has been so much self-doubt when it comes to claiming a label and joining a community because of this.

But even as I became comfortable with accepting that there’s no right way (TM) to be bi and that may “their” community is my community and there can be safety and support in that, it’s still not something that I necessarily want to come out about and not necessarily because of the subject. Coming out in any way simply seems too confrontational, and while it might seem otherwise, I have always shied away from confrontation. I only like to be in the limelight in limited circumstances. Directing attention to myself in that way makes me uncomfortable.

So, I don’t directly remind people of something they may already know, may have forgotten, may not care about, anyway. Instead, it feels easier to leave bread crumbs in the way of the things I say, the links I share, and the communities and causes I associated wit and to allow people to assume. There may come a time that I have to be more explicit, but part of me hopes that people will just take the hint and accept about me what I’ve taken nearly two decades to accept myself.

And maybe one day I will want to shout it from the rooftops.

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Categories: personal

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