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September 16, 2010. My first known and diagnosed STI. I’m rereading an old Livejournal entry about it. Yeah, somehow I still have a Livejournal, but it gives me a really good window into college-era Avery thinking. Some parts are validating, like how my queer and genderfucky identities have evolved, the best friends I have had and sustained since childhood, the LJ communities I was a big part of, the slow progressions of my ongoing body modification. Some parts are really tough to read, losing my best friend to suicide, the documentation of my PTSD from Patrick, failed attempts at polyamory, putting pets to sleep, disordered eating rants… It reminds me that yes, I’m constantly battling with the fear of being a horrible, unlovable person, but I’ve come a LONG, long way over the last ten years.
The entry about my genital wart is pure, unbridled hypocrisy. I was already teaching sex education with Masakhane for 3 years by this point, emphasizing the importance of destigmatizing STI’s, reimagining the mythos of terms like “normal” and “healthy” with regards to the body and sexuality, and yet here I was, flipping my shit outside the Montclair Planned Parenthood for a fucking wart.
I was desperate to blame someone other than myself, as if this had been a consequence, a curse, a shameful punishment. I stopped counting the number of my sexual partners by my senior year of high school. To this day, I know it’s probably somewhere in the hundreds and it’s pointless to think about since the very definition of “sex” is so fluid anyway. If “virginity” is a bullshit means of normalizing cishetero-penetrative sex, a notion I defied so well as a queer nonbinary teenager, then why was I still drinking the “slut-shame punch?” Why was I so embarrassed to talk about it? Why was I treating my genital wart as though it was a measure of my humanity, existence, morality, whatever?
What became such a source for my own ignorance eventually turned into a badge of pride, an opportunity for discussion, a flicker of personal and political education, but it didn’t happen overnight. Bit by bit, talking about HPV with partners, with family, with friends, with learners, classmates, anyone I could…I learned what I still now consider to be a world’s-ahead wealth of information regarding HPV.
I had been vaccinated with Gardasil at 18, but by then I had so many sexual partners it was pretty fucking pointless, even if it did offer protection against cancer-causing strains. I was a warty kid my whole life: plantar warts on my heels, knuckle warts, and even to this day, I still get a wart on my elbow every now and then. They come and go like a cold except they don’t hurt or cause discomfort, and yet I still grew up learning that they needed to be removed, cut out, burned off of me. They were considered ugly, undesirable flaws and I can’t even begin to tell you how many dermatology appointments I went to as a kid.
I grew up having HPV and never understanding it, so I can’t say I’m really surprised that I asked for my genital wart to be burned off with trichloroacetic acid. There I was, spread apart at the gyno, holding a cotton ball to my taint to prevent acid dripping to my asshole while the gyno applied it to the tiny wart near my fourchette. Logically, I feel like one of us should have realized that a cotton ball will just absorb and suck the acid down further, not block it. I felt nothing on the wart, but the chemical burn to my perineum and sphincter was so brutal I couldn’t walk for a week. I had to tilt forward when urinating to avoid the sting of piss trailing over the wound. It was after this experience I decided I’d never have another wart removed from my body unless it caused me pain or discomfort.
My regular STI testing is still a really shitty process where I end up providing education to my gynecologists rather than getting adequate, competent care. Yes I have a vulva. No it doesn’t make me female. Yes I want the full panel including bloodwork for Herpes and HIV. No, I haven’t had sex with more than one partner since the last test, but I still want the works. Yes I understand barriers are important, but YOU need to understand they aren’t a fucking guarantee. Yes I brought my own lube for the exam because your shit is loaded with glycerin and other crap that shouldn’t be in my body. No, I don’t enjoy getting needles in my arms just because I’m covered in tattoos.
These shouldn’t be things I need to teach medical professionals about, but here we are. I shouldn’t have had to educate my cohorts in a SEX EDUCATION program that HPV doesn’t always have to be “sexually” transmitted to be transmitted. That strep throat could be a fucking STI just as much as chlamydia. The dialogue needs to change. It starts with us. Me, you, the people reading this blog, the people doing the work.
I don’t even know if I have HPV right now. And honestly, I don’t fucking care. Okay, you have oral herpes but no current outbreak? I’ll still totally make out with you, I don’t give a fuck, we’re all probably going to get it at some point or another. I’d be glad enough if someone chose to disclose their status so I can get and give informed consent. STI’s aren’t the end of the world and the negativity surrounding them needs to change.
Get tested like you get your teeth cleaned. It’s maintenance. It’s not preventing the “baddies,” it’s getting to know your body better. Let’s make these discussions more intellectually, emotionally, physically, and financially accessible, let’s make this entire process more accessible. Shit, you can do it online now with companies like STDCheck.com (yes, they asked me to write a semi-sponsored post, but I really should have written about this a long time ago anyway). Transparently speaking, STDCheck actually offered me a full free 10-test panel and a $200 donation to the organization of my choice. Fuck yeah being compensated for speaking about an important issue on my terms. For a company to even reach out, encouraging me to write freely about my thoughts on sexual health, that’s a pretty sweet deal. So yeah. STI’s aren’t all sunshine and rainbows, but they’re not worth the “doom and gloom” slant either. I’m grateful to have this perspective and I sincerely hope more people can approach sexually transmitted infections with more sex-positive attitudes in the future.
Rainbows have always been important to me. Refraction, infinity, fluidity. These things represent my spiritual essence. So when I keep reencountering the metaphor of a prism, I look into it. The next few entries will be fragments of self that may not always constitute the whole, but are cosms of the places and times I’ve been since my last post. Section II comes with a heavy content warning about abuse of all kinds as I am finally coming out with specific ferocity. So here we go.
I’m going to type as fast as I can without regards to spelling, grammar, or typos right now because there is just too much to say and my fingers will never be able to capture my racing thoughts. This blog post is going to be in four-ish parts or I might just separate them into different blog posts all together. I’m not sure yet (re-reading and editing…I’m still not sure). I just know I need to get this down. I feel like I have a Ouija board smacking me in the face with some choir of spirits screaming ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES! DO THE THINGS! I know I’ve been gone in more ways than one. I know lots of you are aware of this and the reasons to some extent. I know some of you may not know I even existed. Perhaps some of you wish my blog would stay gone forever but sorry (not sorry). Sometimes I just need to get shit out as a means of benefitting myself and possibly others in the process.
I.
Why did I stop blogging? A lot of reasons, mostly related to my over-aggressive methods of addressing recent problems in my life as a projected effort to ignore some long, LONG-standing traumas in the rest of my life. I became so overwhelmed and obsessed with the blogging world, one I never truly felt a part of, or perhaps, DID feel a part of but in my own brand of outcast. Like everywhere else in my life, whether social, educational, whatever, I know I can be intimidating. I know I’m brutally honest but also understandably hard to trust. I know I wear my insecurities strangely and that makes some folx uncomfortable. I’m not an entirely likeable person but I’m also not so self-centered to think that any of this makes me unique.
There are bigger issues in the world right now than worrying whether I fit into the sex blogging community. I get affirmations here and there from other bloggers, industry leaders, people I respect immensely, and for me, that is more than enough to sustain my passion. I DO need money. I DO need affiliations and free products to review but I’m also going to get back to my original motivations rooted in ethical transparency. When I disappeared from the blogging world I also blocked Twitter on my computer and phone. My Instagram is a blend of my personal and professional lives so I still felt adequately represented on that platform even though I know it’s been an absolute shithole of censorship for a lot of people.
Twitter is still deleted on my phone (using Safari rn) and blocked on my laptops. Taking an indefinite hiatus for my well-being. Hope folx are doing okay. I am definitely not okay. But I will be. I think. #NationalSuicidePreventionDay
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) September 10, 2018
I’m writing this post now in OpenOffice on my dinky little Macbook I used to keep at work for my “Tools for Wellness” and “Holistic Healing” workshops. It was the laptop I used to bring to Widener, and it’s been through a LOT of shit. I’m taking it back as my own. I’ve been terrified to open up my blog. I peek in the “Admin” section here and there to fix broken links but I don’t bother to look at analytics, even when Google reminds me I’m still getting at least 700 hits a month. I mainly don’t want to go back to my blog because of an icon. One little fucking icon affiliate link that opens up Pandora’s Box with regards to my entire hiatus. An affiliate some bloggers banned, some openly exposed for their shitty practices, and then radio silence. I’m complicit too. I may have disappeared, but I could have taken the affiliate link down on my way out.
August into September was a difficult but really strong opportunity for the sex industry in all its fields, bloggers, educators, workers, ‘ologists,’ to come together and have honest, open, raw dialogue about what it’s like when capitalism compromises our own values. To consider what happens when companies throw us just enough money, muddling our subconsciousness and long-term goals. To ask how much we are willing to sacrifice of our own selves for a piece of the pie, or cockburger, or hot dog, whatever. People were vocal, big names, small names; the Tantus bullshit was not isolated and the ‘incident’ opened up a floodgate for folx to air out their grievances with the company only to get repeatedly shut down by the company itself or even fellow bloggers.
We all have complicated relationships with companies and leaders because at some point they did earn our respect, otherwise why would we bother associating with them? But people fuck up. People hurt people, whether intention equals outcome or whether folx are generally that oblivious to the consequences of their actions. And although the flamewars and often really engaging conversations about privilege sparked an energy in me, I also was consistently shut down. Sometimes literally so, with a Twitter inbox full of folx telling me I was “too angry,” asking me to pipe down, asking me to stop poking the bear, and “for the sake of bigger bloggers going through a tough time” (aren’t we all?), to check my tone.
Starting to see the #blogsquad saving face by making their declarations that they “had no idea” when I’ve had several direct conversations with them about this for years. Like, great, NOW you’re speaking out but you DO know you were one of the reasons for inaccessiblity, cmon. https://t.co/1kDZrFy2A0
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) September 4, 2018
What happened with Tantus got reduced to a diluted 101 of “call-outs versus call-ins” and it left industry leaders unchecked. The echo chamber of bloggers attacked one another whether outright or in veiled measures. Tantus’s controversy bled perfectly into overall problems with the Woodhull Foundation and the Sexual Freedom Summit, which was apropos and also intense. Voices on disability, socio-economic status, and race began talking about the spaces never made for them or the spaces deliberately closed off. Blog posts came out left and right about how Woodhull fucked up. Twitter feeds. SPREADSHEETS. We did our homework (financially uncompensated, of course). And like Tantus, the issues got shanked.
When a dear friend told me they would be attending Widener’s CareersCon this fall, all I could say was “WHY?” I have been so outspoken about how incredibly fucked up Widener’s Human Sexuality program is, to the point of telling new Masakhane interns every semester NOT to go and specifically why. My friend still went to the conference and unsurprisingly had a really fucked up experience. One of the newest interns for Masakhane is at Widener now and again, surprise, she is absolutely miserable and wishes someone had warned her.
@ThePalimpsex presenting on sex toys and gender. #CISCPinkBunny #CISCexpose pic.twitter.com/C4o9kExNqQ
— Careers in Sexuality (@CareersCon) September 30, 2016
I know I learned the hard way by making my own choice to enroll at Widener when I had three post-grads (two who were still teaching there to get out of student debt) tell ME not to go. But I didn’t listen. People listen in their own ways. I could shout from the rooftops how fucked up certain companies and communities and institutions and organizers are and what I’ve realized is sometimes people just need to figure it out for themselves and the best I can do is be here to support them when they get burned.
People who once tweeted about negative experiences with Tantus are still supporting and reviewing their toys. People who spoke out about their own negative experiences at Woodhull are already planning their trip this year. I know it’s not all cognitive dissonance. I know some of us REALLY do need the money, the connections, the networking, to get our names out there and sometimes we truly have no choice but to turn away from the truth for the sake of a clear conscience. But trauma happens. Over and over again. If you are not part of the solution you are part of the problem. We say that all the time but in the end, they’re just words.
In the last month I’ve quit drinking, seen a half dozen doctors, and spent time with friends/family. Am I still angry about Tantus and Woodhull? Yes. Am I angrier that folx who chimed in are RE-ENDORSING these companies? YES. Intersectionality is NOT a pick and choose practice.
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) October 9, 2018
Like Ericka Hart said, folx that retweet and reblog and talk about passing the mic to marginalized communities, think about how you do that. Who is at the focus? Is it still about you? What are your intentions and what power structures are you reproducing by your seemingly reparative actions? When you aim to support, are you doing it because it makes you look or feel more whole or are you actually unconditionally sacrificing something to a cause greater than you’ll ever understand?
https://www.instagram.com/p/BtdyXSUAEJ-/
I STILL meet colleagues going gaga over companies like Lelo or Bad Dragon not knowing their histories. Folx believing that they are woke because they know “other” companies like Adam and Eve sell shitty toys. We all have our measuring sticks of how aware and proactive we can be for the right causes. But the education forever needs to happen, and the communication is clearly failing somewhere along the lines if we’re still not all on the same page. I know I can only hold myself accountable but I also implore you in whatever work you do to do the same. I wholly appreciate bloggers and educators willing to organize their negative experiences for others to internalize and learn. Caz has some mindblowing spreadsheet skills. Piph has the “Shit List.” Lilly has a black list.
They’re all worth a read, even if I conflate my own personal issues with Lilly as she has been one of the reasons I’ve felt so unwelcome in the blogging world. I’ve had so many other bloggers tell me to please keep “that” under wraps even though they’ve also had similar experiences. I’ve had it out with Lilly time after time, so it’s not a matter of passively or aggressively airing out our differences in this post. She knows my issues with her. I’m not here to prove in minute detail all the bullshit she has put me through, but I will say that regardless of how rude Lilly has been towards me personally, her content is valuable and I’ve never second-guessed linking to her blog because it’s still one of the best out there.
My situation with Lilly is an example of how I assume a lot of these value-compromises and rationalizations go with bloggers or anyone in the fields of sexuality when folx realize one of their colleagues has an unsavory demeanor but also produces great content. I’m not supporting who she is but I absolutely support what she does. I think sometimes those two things CAN be mutually exclusive. But when it comes to institutionalized organizations where the privilege hides in passing the blame and never taking responsibility for harm, there is no distinction between act and identity. You are just an asshole and you don’t deserve my business. I WILL, however, scream angrily into the void even if I’m told I’m unreadable or unapproachable…if even one person reads this, it was worth the effort. I also just need to get all of this shit off of my chest because I’ve been harboring a lot of it for a VERY long time.
II. (Content Warning: Abuse)
As I’ve vaguely addressed in several posts, social media, in person, etc. I’ve been rocking some really complex PTSD since I was a small child. I systematically dissociate from it in a lot of ways, storytelling as though it never happened to me, completely forgetting it altogether, redirecting my frustrations elsewhere, drinking, getting mired in intellectual theory to keep my heart away from feeling, keeping friends at a distance, and even myself, reproducing similar harms onto others along my life path. I rock a long, LONG history of trauma, abuse, and sexual abuse with a consistent narrative of keeping quiet. When #MeToo started, I psychologically turtled my head so far inside myself I wouldn’t even check in with the news. But you know what? Me fucking too.
I still remember being criticized for wearing an "unflattering dress" before attending a play party with them. I remember them saying I was "hotter" when I was a ball of toxicity in college and never ate.
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) July 23, 2018
#MeToo for the constant bullying and sexual bartering in my brief years at public school for being gay, #MeToo for my ongoing sexual relationship with my eighth grade science teacher, #MeToo for my rapist in undergrad who went on to spearhead the Occupy Wall Street movement, #MeToo for my supposedly polyamorous queer kink triad which was just an excuse to psychologically and emotionally abuse me. #MeToo. #MeToo to my classmates at Noecker School (did I mention they set my backyard on fire and also egged my house en masse?), #MeToo Kyle Barniak (did I mention the headmistress told me to keep quiet about it so I didn’t “sully” the school’s reputation and then eight years later this happened?), #MeToo Patrick Bruner (did I mention his [sorry “their,” because apparently Patrick is an enby feminist now] dad was a fancy lawyer who tried suing me for going public about it and I got slapped with a restraining order and slut-shamed?), #MeToo Vyvyan (did I mention I still have every screenshot from the horrible things they said to the actual conversation where they admitted to cheating on me and our partner without protection?) OH and the kicker is that Vyvyan is STILL hosting burlesque shows and attending kink parties, just like they did when they were blacklisted from the NYC kink scene for being abusive to several members there. This is how it happens right? People we think of as leaders, as infallible, as responsible enough to own up to their mistakes, they fuck up, but we are still too traumatized to keep calling them out or to expect anyone else to outwardly support our efforts. That Safewords Won’t Save Us workshop from SFS16, that shit was so real.
Abuse, intent, malice, and self-preservation on a carceral level, particularly for folks in 24/7 d/s dynamics with a lot of clout. #sfsabuse
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) August 5, 2016
People will continue to take advantage of our silences by moving on to the next new thing, whether it’s a new dildo (perhaps exploiting gender non-conformity by calling it “they/them”) or a reworked accessibility panel (which STILL doesn’t financially compensate you for your work), or denying the history of a student-led protest (Widener, will you ever explain how the Town Halls REALLY came about?), whether it’s moving to a different town or a different community or brandishing an entirely new marginalized identity, whether it’s going on blogging hiatus or redirecting our attention to whatever new shiny insubstantial thing can distract us from the trauma… it’s all still there.
Scar tissue builds and builds until nerves get numbed and here we are, me rambling with the fear that I’ve triggered someone else’s traumas because that’s not my fucking intention but I still don’t understand HOW to talk about trauma. I’m just tired of being quiet about it. So yeah. This is going to be an entirely separate section of the post. Because while it flows well with the other two in terms of what I’ve been up to, it’s got me in an entirely negative, shaky headspace and I’ve realized I’ve been holding in my urine for three hours writing this so I need to back away for a minute. But it’ll all still be there. It never goes away. Unfortunately for a lot of you assholes out there who hurt me, neither do I. You don’t get my silence anymore.
III.
I can’t figure out the order I want to put these blog posts in (edit: figured it out). There’s the one on releasing trauma, the one updating all the beautiful things I’ve been up to, and the review post about companies I sincerely love. I think about all the educators who have done work on sex toys and trauma, especially (Sarah) Formidable Femme’s talk at the last Woodhull and how badly I wanted to go but couldn’t because Lilly was going to be there. Until January I was completely unable to even look at my sex toy rack because at least a quarter of them are either by Tantus or Godemiche (which is another fucked up company for its own gross and shitty actions and how they addressed them). But with time, process, and reflection, I have been using my toys more and more often.
I actually fucked my Tantus Rocket the other day with Mike’s help. I explained what the toy had meant to me and how afraid I was to use it or the implications it could have…how I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t gotten rid of all my Tantus toys to begin with, but then would what I do with them anyway? Donate them to Masakhane’s education chest with a huge laminate explaining the history of the company? Resell them on Reddit’s Sex Toy Exchange knowing that I’d be profiting off of a really fucked up company? I mean, I obviously can’t burn then because they’re silicone. I thought about repurposing them for something, but they’d still be providing me with some form or function tied to trauma.
And Mike helped me realize something…I could repurpose them, not by how I used them or what I did with them, but rather reclaiming them as my own. So I orgasmed with the Rocket. I came hard and I sobbed afterwards. It was a sob I had been holding in for so long, a sob I kept quiet and replaced with other sobs, but never one to mourn the feeling of being taken advantage of in such a specific realm of my life. I reclaimed that Rocket just like I’ll reclaim the rest of these toys. And that’s where my healing begins.
It is also unspeakably validating to have so many products from so many beautiful companies who not only give a shit about what they produce and how, but where their toys go, how emotionally, financially, and physically accessible these toys are, and overall just how deeply they value customers. Freud was a total fuckhead, but he pinged on a lot of really important points regarding trauma and pleasure. What Freud called a “death drive,” aka rather than a will to live/thrive a fear of death/pain. We live in a capitalistic world of fear, of consequence, of loss. Sometimes the choice to be fearless doesn’t go hand-in-hand with a willingness to sacrifice. Sometimes, as in the case of my blog, a willingness to sacrifice and lose everything isn’t so scary when it feels like there wasn’t much to lose.
Here to represent at #sfs2018 Bubbles and Burlesque thanks to @peepshowtoyscom !!! pic.twitter.com/cEl19q3PVA
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) August 4, 2018
But companies like Funkit, companies like Blush, companies like PeepShow, these aren’t just companies and dollars to me. These are people. Wonderful, insightful, brilliant and caring people. People who bring love into their work and spread that energy beyond the measurements of commerce. I’m in tears. I sincerely and truthfully adore these people. They took me in when no one else would. They checked on me so much over these last few months, supported me in any way they could, held the importance of my words, reached out about the specificities of my needs…I know it sounds vague and mushy but I am so grateful to be affiliated in the truest sense of the word with these companies.
Kenton sent me a Signet stimulation ring a few months ago and I still can’t get over how multifunctional this thing is. How many forms and uses and the kind of brain and soul that creates something so unique. I put it on a vibrator, I put it on my finger, I used it as a fidget toy for anxiety-provoking situations, I made music with it…the possibilities were and are beyond my understanding and for a human to make a creation like that is mind-bogglingly genius.
Blush’s lines, from eco-friendly to pride-celebrating, from community outreach to an intimate dedication to learn from customers…it’s a testament that a company can get “big” and still keep their hearts invested in growing a positive discourse.
PeepShow is near and dear considering the Jersey base. After working at a porn store which exclusively stocked products from East Coast News and Williams Trading Company, I got thrown in the deep end at a very young age with regards to parsing out crap products and crappier politics. I spent 6 years working at Essex Adult Emporium designing workshops and creating zines on how to be your own guide when it came to choosing quality toys. I moved to California to try and start a career with Good Vibrations in 2012. If I had just fucking WAITED, maybe I would have crossed paths with PeepShow sooner, but I’m just glad it happened at all. PeepShow has been so up front about who they are and what they believe to the point where if you go check their “About Us” page, they’ve retained the old mission to statement to show how they’ve grown.
THIS is how you do it. You don’t hide your progress, you keep it in the light for the world to see how the transformation happens. I know talk can be cheap, trust me, I was a total sucker for the PicoBong Transformer Manifesto (interesting that the manifesto has disappeared and it directly links to Lelo now) before I realized their parent company was Lelo. But PeepShow is real. Like, REAL real. And in this industry, being reliable and reputable for going the extra mile is a rare gem for growing companies. Blush, PeepShow, Funkit, they nail it. They find a way to make it their own and leave their unique mark. I’ll never be able to give them enough praise and I’ll never forget the lessons I’ve learned working with them. You folx have given me lemonade, and I humbly thank you for that.
IV.
Okay, fate has decided the order for these entries. I tried skipping back and doing the grammatical edits, considering which links I would incorporate, photos (if any), and had to catch myself for dissociating. There is a LOT of feel in this writing. There always has been. I’m known for writing this way, impulsively, off the cuff, vulnerable and honest to a fault, sometimes repetitive and perseverating. But fuck it. It’s me. And if there’s anything I’ve learned this year is that I need to keep being me. Time susses out where my value fits and how I can use it.
Thursday night I quit one of the worst jobs of my life with as much dignity and grace as possible, then came home to my snake, Princess Buttercup, dead in her tank. Mike and I just got a lead on a great apartment. I'm registering for my MSW courses. Life is intense rn.
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) February 12, 2019
My therapist told me in September to quit my shitty job, a job that refused to call me by my preferred name and pronouns, a job that processed me into a very awkward version of myself in drag for the sake of “Guest Service Appearances,” a job that exploited my education and expertise as a psychoeducational therapist by tossing me $12 an hour and pretending I didn’t exist otherwise. A job, I had been told by clients, coworkers, loved ones, and my therapist, that saw me as intimidating for what I knew, what I was capable of, and my different identities.
I quit drinking in October, partly because my therapist emphasized that the reward of a hard day’s work should be a self-actualized sense of accomplishment for “DOING THE THING” rather than external stimuli. Which is problematic, and I’ve told her so. I think a dichotomy of what rewards should and should not look like is a dangerous game to play, but so was drinking.
Tomorrow will mark my first official month sober from alcohol. Staying off Twitter has largely helped me quit drinking. I miss the connections but I also feel the support beyond social media. Thank you. Sincerely. Have a photo of me as a Pokeball for Halloween. pic.twitter.com/dNwI69Cf9V
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) November 1, 2018
I covered my bases before quitting. I applied (and got accepted) to the Rutgers School of Social Work, I searched for apartments with Mike and new adjunct faculty positions for the Human Sexuality Department at Middlesex County College, I had a shoulder procedure for a 16-year old SLAP tear, I welcomed a nephew into the world, I was accepted with Masakhane to present at this year’s National Sex Ed Conference in Newark, I reconnected with many old friends who nourished my soul, I bid farewell to my beloved pet snake, I finally booked my first HRT consultation at Proud Family Clinic RWJ Somerset, and as of today, I crawled back into this blog to say fuck you, thank you, I love you (not necessarily in that order or all at once), and life has been full of well, life. The full supermoon was in Virgo last night, and I’m trusting my instincts right now. I’m ready to release and regrow and I haven’t felt an energy like this since August. It’s time.
I’ve been having the most vivid dreams lately. Nightmares, dreams that mimic all-too-close the reality I live in, lots of dreams bringing up past parts of me I had long forgotten. I’ve also been fighting a really nasty stomach bug (potentially C. Diff) and night fevers, so combined with all this “Mars in retrograde” stuff, my continual spurts of con drop since Woodhull, and the ongoing management of self-care versus advocacy (and I realize the two are not mutually exclusive), it’s no wonder my dreams have been disturbingly realistic. I feel stuck lately, scared even, sensing a greater threat to my physical and emotional safety than I’m able to fully grasp. I also feel super paranoid lately, and I think that has a lot to do with what I once thought was paranoia in this particular field being affirmed more and more over the past month.
Woodhull, after my second time around from my stint in 2016, was meant to be a redemption story. I went to the conference with blazing positivity, ready to socialize, network, reach out to potential sponsors, thank those who awarded me my scholarship, and most of all, detach from my trauma. I accomplished some of those things in a similar fashion to 2016: through ways I’d least expect. Socializing involved getting to know conference keynotes and organizers, photographers, folx I’d admired for years but never thought I had the chutzpah to approach. And I didn’t really need said chutzpah; things evolved organically through friends of friends the way networking can.
Thursday night was spent by my lonesome after a failed attempt at socializing at yet another cocktail party catered towards introverts (when will they learn that’s not how this works?), only to be swept into a wonderful evening of smoking Marlboro Reds, talking antifa, laughing at plastic pachysandra walls and taking pictures of orb weavers on the bridge to the Retreat Center. My best decision of the conference was booking a room in the Retreat Center, almost the very same room we had in 2016. A balcony and a refrigerator, the privacy of trees and the loud rush of a fountain delivered sanctuary on so many private scales I wouldn’t know where to begin.
In what seems to be an emerging pattern, Thursday set the tone for the rest of the weekend in terms of reaching for challenging conversations, feeling unwelcome and questioning the validity of said feeling, and finally finding solace in quiet spots among kind faces. Each day I made several attempts at visiting the “Blogger Lounge” only partially successfully. I toured Lunabelle’s infamous dildo forest and documented this event like a kid in a candy shop. Only now in this moment do I realize how this became an improved version of my 2016 experience with Lilly’s infamous Jar of Horrors. This time I was invited to spectate and encouraged to interact with Lunabelle’s spread, where in 2016 I felt like a total creep barging into a silent conference room to take a few selfies with a glass jar of sludge only to scurry off after failed attempts at small talk. Validation number one: I can reinvent how I involve myself with traditions which have existed before me.
I finally got to meet a few of the “newbie/baby” (are these terms really necessary though?) bloggers who have been so supportive of me over the last year as well as one of my Business of Blogging alums, Laurieann. Thursday came to a close and Friday I got to witness some of my favorite people conduct their No Daddies, No Masters presentation. Unlike 2016 where I was still reeling from fresh relationship trauma with my D/S triad, 2018 me felt refreshed by the workshop, empowered by the choices I’ve made and the ways I thinkfeel.
I bolted for the bathroom during the No Daddies workshop only to cross paths with the speakers for the upcoming workshop in the very same room, a workshop I had been looking forward to attending. My head dinged like I was a boxing arena since this had been the third time I’d stumbled into certain bloggers in less than 24 hours only to get nasty looks and no discernable acknowledgements of my head nods or vocal “hello’s.” I prepared for the conference by curating a schedule of workshops I wanted to attend, reminding myself not to be scared of perceived bullies but also to respect their boundaries because I didn’t want to contribute to the negativity. After encountering said negativity in the hallway, I did what I usually do when faced with potential confrontation in a vulnerably passionate field of my life: I clung to a friend and ducked out.
Boot brutes. @cazkilljoy #sfs18 pic.twitter.com/m6MrDT0Zwz
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) August 3, 2018
Validation number two: I can trust my instincts. During my egress to a different workshop about Sex Work and Disability, I ran into a fellow blogger who expressed disinterest in the workshop I had run from. They understandably wanted to support their blogmates by being physically present at the workshop, but also noted that the workshop would unlikely teach them anything new. I never realized how attending that workshop would not have challenged my brainspace because it was all familiar subject matter. How going to workshops to encourage colleagues is important, but it can also potentially sacrifice the opportunities for challenging discourse and dialogue when throwing yourself into the unfamiliar.
When the Sex Work and Disability workshop was over, it clicked. I needed to be in workshops where I’d actually work, emotionally, mentally, sociopolitically, everything. From then on the workshops I participated in were about law, chosen family, capitalism, and privilege…I didn’t go with the expectation to settle into common ground or settle altogether. A moment of catharsis slowly manifested into tangible actions over the weekend where I no longer felt like a “reject blogger” but rather my own unique flavor of sex work which didn’t have to fit anyone’s standards but my own. I transcended the habitual desire to peek into the blogger lounge, to obsessively check social media, to get mired in resentment or feelings of exclusion.
Boogieing down on the dance floor. Photo by Erika Kapin.
Like 2016, I relearned the importance of finding a collective of beautiful humans willing to engage in difficult conversations and actually DO THE FUCKING WORK. I’ll never detach from my trauma, be it from relationships, my current housing, my disabilities, or my ongoing Woodhull experiences. Perhaps I really don’t want to detach from my trauma because it makes me who I am and I am strong as hell. Friday night I danced my ass off at Bubbles and Burlesque after far too much champagne, stuck dicklets in my earholes, and giggled my way into Saturday.
I honestly don’t remember much from Saturday because I had started winding myself into one of the worst dissociative panic attacks I’ve had since March. Saturday afternoon had me curled into a chair on my balcony, unable to feel my feet or see straight in front of me, smoking a joint and listening to my partner guide me back into reality via speakerphone. I spent a lot more time in my room this go-around, enjoying quiet company, listening to roommates read Howl’s Moving Castle aloud, talking to Overwatch buddies via Discord, and unsuccessfully napping. Thank goddess for medical cannabis, something I utilized throughout Saturday and Sunday, as I was able to manage my anxiety so much better for those increasingly con-droppy moments.
Saturday evening also brought the treasured tradition of #SFSAfterDark, a QTPOC play space with an epic toy spread, a buffet of play choices, incredible people, and an evolving sense of community. 2016’s SFSAfterDark left my butt cheeks purple, my cheek cheeks sore from laughing at a human lube dispenser, and lots of towels stained red from a VERY messy cupcake scene. 2018’s SFSAfterDark had a distinctly different vibe, providing education for some, service for others, and holistic sanctuary for all. Folx left and right teaching each other, some connecting for the first time, some nurturing with mindful care.
We began this year’s SFSAfterDark with a midnight circle of intention where folx could speak a bit about themselves, what they felt the room needed to know, what would make the space feel safer, and what they were looking to get from it. After three days of bloated period shits, my turn in the circle became a solicitation for back massages and cuddles. Little did I know I was about to get one of the best massages of my life (two different hands at the same time…WHAT?!) which grounded me in my body in the most relieving way.
I listened to several conversations throughout the night where folx expressed their own dissatisfaction with the blogging field lately, their disappointment with ongoing cliqueyness, and their sympathy with my experiences over these last two years. People said they appreciated how unapologetically vocal I have been and that yes, I am an identified pariah but I am also a visible ally for other bloggers. Some of this I knew; over the years my DMs have been flooded with at least a dozen bloggers of all kinds, all equally frustrated but too scared to voice their concerns due to potential repercussions/being cast out.
Validation number three of the weekend came when one of the bloggers at the party said how angry they were to see me gaslit for speaking out about my trauma in the blogosphere. Me, someone who has been open about my neurodivegences at the very forefront of my practice, someone willing to share my vulnerability with the consent of anyone willing to listen, gaslit into silence because of my fear of worsening ostracization.
Audre Lorde flowed through the entire conference this year with her philosophies and beliefs in the erotic, the uses of anger, and the infinite resources we can find in creating loving coalitions. As someone who has lived through Audre’s words for the better half of my life, it would be fucking hypocritical for me to stay silent on the issues with the Blogsquad™. I cannot go on in this field forging alliances and soaking in the beauty of our unique experiences by shutting my mouth and swallowing my fear. Each day brings a new person, a new perspective confirming that I HAVE experienced trauma and I HAVE been shut out. I’m not imagining this. I’m not dismissing it as paranoia or some comorbid transference of insecurity. These things are really happening and know I am not alone.
Audre Lorde tells us that Erotic is,”the measure between our sense of self and the chaos and power of our deepest feelings.” #sfs18 #letstalkaboutsex
— SisterSong (@SisterSong_WOC) August 2, 2018
In all of it, the good, the bad, the muddy, the messy, the brilliant, the unresolvable…I’m not alone. If I learned anything from this year’s 2018 Woodhull experience it would be that I am not alone. That my traumas are inseparable from how I travel through life but that they do not have to create a negative lens nor do they require overcoming. That I don’t need a fucking redemption story because I am always already redeemed through the people who choose to be around me and the company I keep within myself. That the erotic is alive and well, that silence can mean survival but it also comes at a cost, that anger can unite, that every experience is relevant.
So what now? How is this usable; how can we, me, you, anyone extrapolate these disclosures into something that produces results? Taylor J Mace created an awesome thread asking folx for feedback on how to create a more welcoming environment for bloggers, online and in person. The response has been phenomenal. Combine that with Caz Killjoy’s killer spreadsheet of conferences and already there is momentum and strategy to move forward. Some folx have mentioned resurrecting “featured blogger” options on their websites at low to no cost, which I know may not be the most realistic option but it’s still a great signal-boost.
I once joined a blogging Slack only for my ideas about examining privilege and segregation to be relocated to a separate channel. I guess critical analysis clashes with the overall vibe of emoji’s and inside jokes? ::inserts bread emoji:: Maybe there is another virtual medium where folx can real-time bond and bounce ideas off one another? Are blogrolls still a thing and if so, how can we reimagine them with inclusive purpose? Just spitballing ideas for now, but with everything I’ve taken from Woodhull and beyond, I feel hopeful and humbled by the people I have met and continue to meet in the ever-changing fields of sexuality. A sincere thanks for the work that has been done and a warm welcome to the work that is being done.
Dead name included for posterity!
Watching myself in 2011 give a sex toy workshop for Masakhane is bizarre. It’s borderline uncomfortable. I see how differently I talk about toys now and how increasingly protean my workshops have become. I actually stop to talk to people…I don’t just run a checklist 101 script. I ask folx what they want to know, what they’re curious about, and I don’t go into my workshops thinking people know nothing about toys. For example, in the following video I’m training Masakhane interns; they’ve been in their summer session for a month now. They know their shit.
Someone asked me Friday where my first foray into the world of toys began. I’ve never really talked about that before in a workshop. I’ve never gotten to just be like “Hey, I bought some terrible products when I was a teenager– it’s pretty common.” I’ve never gotten to be like, “That showerhead tho, amirite?” or reminisce about my shittiest purchases at Spencer’s. I’ve never gotten asked about why my family is so fucking cool with my sexuality. Actually, I’ve never gotten asked about my family in general during a workshop.
I started this one by saying I didn’t want to do the typical toy rundown or prescribe any order or designation. And yet in a typical queer contradiction, I still lined all my butt plugs together and cordoned off a spot for the lubes. I’ve noticed how the toy selection has improved, how my knowledge has expanded to a more scientific realm, how enthusiastically I refer to other bloggers or toy makers. People change. Teaching and learning is all about change. I don’t know why I was so surprised by the directions this training took. Chaotic, funny, beautiful, and brilliant.
Folx were using squishy toys in all their sensory glory, angry rants were had about the importance of libraries, interns were matching dildos to each other’s auras…the whole thing was so fucking fun. It’s probably the most fun I’ve ever had teaching a toy workshop. I think I’ve said that before, but if anything it just confirms that I’m meant for this field. It reminds me why I do what I do, and how much I appreciate how advocacy manifests in all ways, from a workshop to a blog post. A glitter bomb at Newark Pride to a freshly untangled Vesper (thanks Shayne). It’s all relevant and critical and I can’t fucking WAIT for Woodhull next week. I can’t wait to learn more and feel more. To exist in uncomfortable spaces and find solidarity in unexpected places. I love what I do and I’m grateful as hell.
LinkedIN
Rutgers program
Transgender Training Institute
Sexuality and Aging Consortium
Sex and the City clip
Essex Adult Emporium
Phthalates
Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit
Circles of Sexuality
Sliquid Swirl
Smitten Kitten’s Lube Guide
The Meo Disaster
njoy
Dear Lelo by Dangerous Lilly
Lorax of Sex’s Lelo Hex Experiment
Godemiche grossness
Automatic lube dispensers!
Tantus
We-Vibe
Silicone shore
Funkit
FOSTA/SESTA
Tails and Portholes
Phoenix Flame Forge
Promo codes and deal pages
Dangerous Lilly’s glass study
Simply Elegant Glass
Crista Anne
Lilly and Kenton’s clear silicone test
Butt plug burning
Magic Wand
Crave
Pico Bong Transformer
Jopen
Good Vibrations
L’amorouse
Minna Ola
Violet Wand
New York Toy Collective
Aneros
Geeky Sex Toys
NS Novelties Colours line
BS Atelier Bingo
Blush’s Pride line
Liberator
CN: Brief mention of trauma in the italicized paragraph below.
This has been a PRIDE MONTH. Like, imagine me screaming “PRIDE MONTH” with emphatic hand gestures representing part exhaustion, part awe, and a generous helping of frustration. My patience has been at an historic low these weeks…I wouldn’t say “short fuse,” but something along the lines of “my depression has no room for the inconceivable amount of bullshit the world has to offer lately.” Nevertheless, with joy comes sorrow and all of the emotional spectrums in between.
I had started this post at the beginning of June, feeling deeply inspired by the Sense8 finale and finding all of this resonance with the world around me, beyond me, inside of me. When the show concluded with The Magnetic Field’s “Nothing Matters When We’re Dancing,” I felt this uncanny connection to the conclusion of José Esteban Muñoz’s Cruising Utopia. The book ends with lyrics from The Magnetic Fields’s “Take Ecstasy with Me,” discussing the importance of vacillation within our given queer time and space. Knowing the importance of emotion beyond feeling, of living beyond existing, but simultaneously conscious of how everything is born from something else and it’s all fucking inseparable.
I’m confusing myself a lot lately and while it’s completely overwhelming, it’s also a profound experience of what it’s like to process my thoughts through a raw and affective glow. Random bursts of tears, laughing harder than I should, desperately trying to smile but not understanding how all of this emotion is supposed to manifest in my body. My sex drive has taken an almost political strength, where I masturbate with militant intention, slipping into orgasm with a sharp awareness of the ongoing and worsening struggles around me and inside me. I don’t understand myself, but I’m not sure I have to right now.
I know that pride is really complex and sometimes universally simple, but I know I’ve also grown really tired of this assimilationist conglomeration of “Love is love” when it’s worth so much more than that. The simplification of critically uncomfortable discussions and the capitalization of queer visibility scares the shit out of me. It’s nothing new; I’ve been preaching “self-preservation versus self-advocacy” for years. I had a conversation with one of my beloved exes and explained to him how I started this beautiful blog post in early June and it got deleted…how that just sucked all the momentum out of me because I felt like I finally contextualized something unnameable that has threaded through my life since my first experiences of trauma and love. I told him that I’d never be able to rewrite it and how I felt it offered such a value of insight to this blog, how I know I needed to just “let go” (another mantra for 2018 so far) and push forward. How I feared disclosing all of the above for the sake of a blog post because I’m not looking to capitalize off of my work but also, I kind of am? He told me to stop thinking and just do. I say, why not both?
That feeling when you compose a perfectly synthesized blog post on pride, emotion, the unknown, the #Sense8Finale and the complexities of letting go— and WordPad loses it completely. No cache, no recovery. Gone. Life doesn’t spiral, it knots. Time for ablution as self-care. pic.twitter.com/hoKBAsVGGo
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) June 9, 2018
At age sixteen I was skanking with my ex-girlfriend during prom to Reel Big Fish’s “Sell-Out,” laughing at the irony, yet not realizing how much more disgusting the irony would get throughout my life. I haven’t been to a Pride Parade in over a decade and yet still garnish my lifestyle with rainbows like my “baby gay” self did at age sixteen. Justin Vivian Bond posted an Instagram clip of a New York Times article entitled “5 Ways to Celebrate Pride Away from the Mainstream,” and I have to say, I’ve felt like such a bad gay for not marching with my queer families today. But I also know I’m celebrating and making myself visible in ways that still matter.
I typically spend most of Pride month with my biological family, one full of queer positivity and queer-identified members. These past few Junes have been increasingly soul-searching and I don’t think I could have done a lot of that introspection without the support of my family. How instead of being at New York’s parade today, I was helping my sister unwrap her baby shower gifts and sipping mimosas. And while I was mired in baby obligations, I know I more than likely would have avoided NYC Pride even if I could go.
A lot of this avoidance comes from the trauma I associate with cities. I have a tremendous fear of cities in general. New York was a place for me to explore my queerness as a springy teenager where I’d romp around St. Mark’s getting piercings or buying overpriced vintage Doc Martens and sneaking into bars. New York was also my first kink scene, introduced to me by a dear friend from college. But with “The City” came a lot of phobias and fears: fears of being trapped, not being able to find a bathroom, not being able to rest, not being able to breathe. I used to enjoy the astounding empathy of eye contact when walking past New Yorkers, wondering what each and every one of them were thinking, what their stories were. I tried to be a city kid when I moved to the Bay, but even then, I rarely crossed into San Francisco. My car window was smashed on my birthday while living in Oakland. I narrowly escaped a mugging during SF Pride by using the pepper spray I never thought I’d have to use. Even Philadelphia was a great nugget of gayness for a while until I no longer felt safe going back to the clubs where my abuser is still currently performing. Cities mean people, people mean unpredictability and inevitable conflict.
I’ve tried to honor these conflicts by picking my battles, and I know I can’t live in the woods forever. I know things balance out and time provides a great avenue to reflect on change, but for now I celebrate my pride by spending private time with other queers playing Overwatch, eating sushi with the enby loves of my life, sobbing over the new season of Queer Eye, and fucking myself with Pride-colored toys. And even THEN! Even then, I worry about which companies to support and which ones are just feeding into some messy agenda.
PLUS the episode was called "Amor Vincit Omnia," and that dildo is the since retired @funfactoryusa Rainbow Amor. https://t.co/VWaWkyA8J7 Ugh. My gay little sex positive heart. https://t.co/Sqm9gPWV8w
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) June 9, 2018
I see companies making “Pride-Themed” toys out the ass lately and part of me is elated that these things are now so widely available. The last minute of Sense8 featured a cum-covered Fun Factory Amor Pride laying on the sheets after a celebration of unity…I squealed. But then there are companies with really problematic behaviors auctioning off one-of-a-kind Pride items at ridiculous prices just because it’s for a “good cause.” Shouldn’t accessibility be a part of this picture? Is that really how to run a fundraiser, through exclusivity, rather than making your work available to all à la Kenton’s Red NoFrillDo campaign?
I’m running out of steam. A blog post that was meant to be a mental check-in before a full-fledged review will have to organically take its course. I have a veritable fuckton of Pride toys now and I’m extremely proud of them. And while I absolutely adore my new Avant Beyond butt plug for how it feels and works, I’d much rather praise it for the role it has in reimagining my sexual ferocity. How right here, right now, in this very moment, I am conflicted and conflicting, overprojected and verbose, shamelessly navel-gazing in a swirl of color, filled with love and gratitude for the things I have learned during this particular Pride Month. The sheer volume of work that needs to be done, the distinctions we need to make between visibility and safety, the specificity and power of words which complement actions, and the courage to face the unknown are all somehow connected to or fueled by some form of love.
My baseline stance around this political moment is that if we go down, we’ll go fighting. We will make space for ourselves, we will defy their oppressive authority, we will be in solidarity with each other, and we will find moments of joy and care amidst it all.
— Aida Manduley, MSW (@neuronbomb) June 23, 2018
I’d meant to write this post in the beginning of June. I’m finishing it now. And crying. Also crying. One of my clients at work keeps reminding me to “trust the process.” So here goes.
So I retract my previous blog statement about finally finding a water-based lube that doesn’t irritate me. Maybe it’s because I only used a little of it once or twice without issue but right now I am typing with an angry yeast infection and its best friend, Diflucan-induced diarrhea. My partner and I had what felt like a 3 hour kink-a-thon yesterday and copious amounts of lube were used. We tried the water-based lube as the toys got larger, but when it came to fisting, we went back to good old coconut oil as the lube was starting to burn. Between gentle fingers and soothing coconut oil, I felt much better until later in the evening when the itch began. It’s just as well…I don’t know why I felt I needed to stray from coconut oil, maybe the sheer determination of finally finding my perfect water-based lube. If only I had enough money to invest, I’d totally just create my own. No aloe, no glycerin or parabens, no citric acid, no propylene glycol, just basic BASIC shit. And if that means it dries up quickly, so be it. I recently started using these baby wipes that are literally just water and cloth…my nethers have never been happier. I’ve also had a bidet on my wish list for a few years, but Jersey winters would make that water shockingly cold on my butthole and the hot water option is much more expensive and difficult to hook up. Anyway, ramblings as I was up on a Tuesday morning, glancing longingly at my coffee knowing it’ll just cause further diarrhea. Basta.
Last night was, unf. While Mike and I have always had our kinks, last night was sort of a “no-holds barred,” “try anything” situation. Spitting in each other’s mouths, biting, choking, jerking off each other and cumming on each other, the whole thing was just bliss. I’ve never really been topped by Mike before, and although I am switchy, it was such an out-of-body experience. Like, not just my usual subspace (although is there ever a “usual” subspace?) but a subspace where I was kind of co-topping myself WITH him. I don’t know if that makes any sense. It just started as one of those clean slate nights, sort of “I’m going to close my eyes and I want you to choose one toy that vibrates and one that penetrates,” and letting him do the rest. I was so tickled that he immediately went for the Tails and Portholes Leviathan…something in him must have known I wanted to be stretched out. But the Leviathan was squishy and cumbersome for him to thrust, so he went for the NS Novelties Rainbow Pride dildo. This was definitely an improvement, as well as the Prism he gave me for vibration. But I kept wanting bigger and bigger, finally realizing I didn’t want a dildo at all. I didn’t want vibrations. I wanted his hand. So fisting away we went, fisting led to fucking…there were so many orgasms for both of us I can’t even count. Again, a total primal subspace. I squirted with the Prism, then squirted on him with the Vanity Vr6, lapped that up, and we just kept going.
The night was wild, and again, we have our kinks, but this pushed it ever-so-slightly out of his comfort zone and I am very grateful for his consent and enthusiasm. When he went to go clean the toys (I don’t know why but I find it so endearing when he does that), I snuck a stainless steel gemmed butt plug in between my cheeks before we hopped in the shower. It was a great surprise when I told him that he forgot to clean one last toy and just pulled it out. His face lit up and he just smiled this gleeful smile, like I’d just played the most adorable yet sexy prank he’s ever seen. I love that he’s always willing to try new things and keeps such an open mind about our sexualities and identities. I love that we continually discover new shit we like but don’t pressure every sexual interaction to be an epic journey…
I think we appreciate all the connections made during sex. Speaking for myself, they don’t really fit into rankings, they’re all just different…but when we have sessions like last night, there’s just a sense of complete fearlessness unlike anything I’ve experienced at even my kinkiest play parties. I don’t need marks for good impact, I don’t need my hair pulled to control my movement. Time and time again I’ve been told my kink is through energy-exchange (grow up with an ancestry of witches and who’s surprised?), and Mike is very similar. I like our kink a lot. It’s very unique to our chemistry and filled with love. In a time where it feels like the world keeps giving up on folks, it’s nice to know we haven’t given up on each other. And that extends from the simplest gestures of a morning kiss to the depths of soiled sheets and pruned fingertips.
It’s 6:30am and I’m wide awake. I typically have my clearest moments in the morning, and I’ve been in hypomanic for a little over a month now. But, almost like overcaffeination, the mania keeps me productive in some areas and completely avoidant for most of the truly important stuff. I’ve been spending money like it’s my job, to the point where I just saw Amazon is having their Black Friday deals and almost clicked off this post to fall into a capitalist K-Hole of nonsense and Himalayan Salt Lamps. It’s a friend’s birthday today as well as my second tattoo appointment of the week, and yet I find myself far more excited to go use Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons on a gift she’s likely not going to need than getting my tattoo.
Wednesday I got a maple leaf on my left foot and today I’m going to a different artist to get an oak leaf on my right. The two have been symbolic of my past and now current relationship: alas, I have gotten back together with the boy. Our oak and maple penny necklaces sat blessed by moonlight during a good six months of no contact. Along with a “Dazzling Red Maple” Yankee Candle and a 3-year-old love note, I was able to reach out to him on what would have been our anniversary in September. Things have been wonderful since. Call it a renegotiated limerence or renewed relationship energy; we don’t want to jinx it and taking things slowly has been much more productive for better communication. Anyway, that’s the short version of my relationship update.
What has also changed dramatically is my sexual appetite. I actually HAVE one now. One by one, the toys are getting less dusty with usage, some orders have arrived, and I almost forgot how electric it is to self-lubricate again. As in, I can so much as hear him breathe in a certain way and I know we’re both in tune with whatever level of arousal we’re at, even if it’s just sitting on the couch. It’s like music. Sex with Mike is like music. I don’t know why I should be surprised, if I am at all, considering his natural musical talents and my tendency to synchronize energies during sex. But in the words of the ever-classic Celine Dion, it’s all coming back to me now. Especially now with Kenton’s amazing deals. Who could resist?
Alright spooky people, the Cocktober sale is on! "COCKTOBER2017" gets you 20% off all the Halloween toys. https://t.co/dg2ZKvrvcP pic.twitter.com/kZcVSmmd7d
— Funkit Kenton (@FunkitToys) October 16, 2017
I’ve also finally found a water-based lube that doesn’t irritate me, one that I’d sold for years and never actually tried. I’m still a dyed-in-the-wool coconut oil fan, but on cold, solidified days when the dispenser doesn’t want to work, this Slippery Stuff really hits the spot. Another review on that later. Jesus, I actually have stuff to review now! I recently acquired a “pumpkin” butt plug from Kenton at Funkit Toys, an item that explicitly states it is NOT a carrot. Whatever…carrot, pumpkin, almond, it all works suitably considering my butt has been insatiably hungry lately.
You ever have one of those days where your ass is just…hungry? pic.twitter.com/Lz8UHYOFEK
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) November 1, 2017
I was even able to handle the Tristan 1 the other day, a notoriously challenging plug for me because of its squish and wide neck. With firmer shore, a narrower tip and a much more gradual bulb, the Pumpkin Almond looks great from all angles. The colors are skillfully poured and the signature suction base known to Funkit Toys made me so proud to own another one of Kenton’s creations. I even liked the subtle ridges from top to bottom due to the 3-D printed mold. Surprisingly, I could actually feel them upon insertion and they were really stimulating.
When I say “all angles,” I didn’t realize the Pumpkin Almond is not perfectly symmetrical. Which makes sense, because Kenton’s website description literally says “lateral ridges and a slight forward bend.” The bend isn’t created so much as a tilt or curve, but because one side of the Almond is a little rounder than the other. This creates a slight dorsal ridge on each side, you know, like an actual fucking almond. Initially assuming it was completely round, I met a challenge upon insertion as I realized there might be more optimal methods of using the Almond aside from just sliding it in willy-nilly. I needed to find which way to put it in that felt most comfortable.
Again, another teachable moment about my body: where I thought inserting the Almond with a horizontal orientation would feel better, the vertical actually worked more. I figured a side-to-side stretch would give me more feeling of fullness, but turning the plug so the wider part pressed against my tailbone and front wall brought me to orgasm almost effortlessly. I tried double-penetration with my Jopen Vanity Vr6, my go-to when it comes to DP testing, and it felt perfect. The squishy flared base of the Almond was unimposing but present and it didn’t get in the way. The one thing I did notice, which has become standard for most of my butt plugs, was that the Almond shot right out of me during orgasm.
The taper-ratio is pleasurably gradual for insertion and it stays in place for DP, but once my muscles contract for an orgasm, it just won’t stay in on its own. It’s fine, since I think out of my twelve butt plugs only about three of them stay put during orgasm. As long as I keep one hand securing the base, my orgasms with the Almond are really satisfying. Cleanup is simple, and despite its glossy appearance, the Almond is not a complete dust magnet. I’ve noticed this with the Crista, too…something about Funkit’s silicone really stands up to the “Cat-Hair” challenge.
Which is great, because they’re two of my favorite toys to show off when visitors curiously enter my bedroom and are drawn to the toy shelf. I’ll be interested to see what boy thinks of it, so this post might get updated soon. Or, y’know, as an addendum in future reviews. My sexual hiatus is finally over. And I am SO glad the Pumpkin Almond got to be a part of that reawakening.
Lately I’ve been feeling like one of those little Tool creatures who occasionally crawls out of the cracks to absorb sunlight and feed off emotional energy from the people around me, just anticipating the drumming crescendo of opportunity…the moment or sign where I know it’s time to burst out in full amplitude of “fuck it” and glory to be a part of the world again. I keep thinking it’s going to be this or that, then I groundhog back into darkness, whether it’s finally getting my ex’s cat humanely adopted or having enough of a spine to ask my friend to move out of my apartment, or even graduating from one of the most traumatic academic institutions I’ll ever regret setting foot in (another VERY long post on that later). I keep thinking it’s going to be losing twenty pounds, no, thirty pounds, no, forty pounds, maybe when I finally go skydiving with my dad or get that Audre Lorde tattoo I’ve been saving up for. I just don’t know.
Something is slicked over my skin like a membrane I can’t dig out of and part of me knows it’s the stupid fucking internet games my ex and I are playing through Reddit, the slight jabs like the one I’m taking right now where we’ll post indirect shit towards each other and I wonder how much of our life investments we’re doing for self improvement or just to spite one another. I know despite his proclaimed Tinder exploits I still have no sexual or romantic interest in anyone, and it’s frustratingly instinctive…I wish I could say I felt some intentionality but it’s gut reflex of disgust at the thought. My only masturbation has been to a select few scenes between Owen Gray and Vex with this deep storyline in my head of what their emotional connections might feel like in that moment. And even then, I think a lot of that is projected because Owen reminds me of him. It’s fucking gross. It’s all so fucking gross. My blog is turning into a pining, melodramatic Livejournal and I wonder how different I really am from my high school yearbook page which predominantly featured sappy punk quotes and photos of the three guys I dated at the time. Fifteen years but some things never change.
I remember Piph telling us in our Business of Blogging class something along the lines (and I apologize if I’m butchering this) not to overexplain an absence from blogging or a future hiatus because it might turn readers away or signal a lack of commitment. But this blog hasn’t really been stable or committed in any single way to begin with and neither has my image in the blogging community. I’ve typically taken the attitude of “born to lose,” (I know that’s a ‘Souls Johnny Cash cover) which hasn’t earned me the popularity card, and sure it might sound gloatingly self-absorbed to take up entire entries just talking about my mental health instead of what I’m jerking off to but that’s just where I am. Sort of “take me or leave me,” and as someone with BPD who relies so much on acceptance, maybe typing “take it or leave it” in the safety of my own blog isn’t the most daring thing to do.
Maybe all of this is, and it’s all pretty self-effacing pandering, a pindrop of comparative “fuck it” crescendo. I don’t want to get tied down or attach any specific meaning to this blog. I don’t want to associate it with schoolwork because my days at Widener are HOPEFULLY over, and I don’t want to align it with obligation because I don’t get paid and although it’s a point of contention for some people, I don’t ever want to. It earns me the privilege of writing this way, and I recognize that privilege, but it also sticks me in this sludge of feeling as though I need to play catch up with an old friend after we haven’t seen each other in a while and really, I just want to enjoy their company instead of rehashing my shitstorm of life events.
I want to blog but between school ending, kidney infections, fucked up company ethics and fascist brutality, I don't know where to begin.
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) August 22, 2017
So how can I be present on a blog without glossing over personal life crises, accomplishments, ongoing sociopolitical turmoil, and where they all intersect? I haven’t the slightest. I’ve been avoiding addressing most of it on social media. Which is largely contributing to the problem as well, because silence is violence and it won’t protect me. But what do I say that won’t undercut the very cause of my words, the very futility and entrenched power structures of the language itself? I know the point is to keep trying even if I fail, to be ready to make mistakes and learn, to not make fucking excuses and to do the goddamned work. And yet I don’t know. I know to exist in the discomfort. And yet I don’t fucking know. Maybe if I could get out of my own head for two fucking goddamned seconds and stop being so fixated on failed relationships I could be a part of the world again? Or maybe I always already am? I really just don’t fucking know. It all sort of seems hopeless right now, the world around me and inside me, and I don’t really know how to exist for as ridiculous as that sounds. But I wanted to post today to say that I do. I’m still here. Trying and surviving in some protean form, some days better than others. I hope you are too. Yes, even you.
Ohhhh yes. My upcoming summer semester (and hopefully final semester at Widener) is quickly approaching and I’ve just begun plugging my due dates into Google Calendar…this one is going to be a doozy. Three courses wedged into the entire month of July, class nonstop from the 8th to the 16th, papers galore…I may have bitten off more than I can chew when I said I needed more of a challenge at this school. We shall see.
What it has done is given me a swift kick in the ass to get my writing flow back into gear, which is a bonus. I’ve basically spent the last two weeks getting back in touch with my roots, revisiting parts of my identity I had once abandoned with shame and regret. A trip to Aruba spent solely with Mom and Dad, a weekend of Punk Rock Bowling with a best friend, videogames with Steam friends…I needed the familiarity of these things accompanied by a deeper introspection of what they have meant historically to me through the years. How many times I’ve enjoyed the company of friends on my Aruba trips only to later make enemies with them, how many punk buddies I’ve pushed away never to speak to again, how, even now, I am constantly navigating the paranoia of annoying my Steam friends and sometimes I intentionally “fall off the map” because I think I’ve been a burden to them.
I was diagnosed with BPD in 2010 only to later be dually diagnosed with Bipolar II three years ago. Meanwhile, I’ve had one or two exes who have armchair diagnosed me with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, something I’ve mentioned to every psych professional I’ve seen since undergrad and has been consistently shot down…so who knows. I overproject intellectualism, have an ever-escaping self-awareness of my neurodivergences, and I’m definitely insecure… Probably going to delete all of this anyway because why on earth would anyone want to read something this personal in someone’s sex blog? Wouldn’t you rather read about handjobs or my gag reflex?
I guess the point of this reflection is that I’m trying not to be scared of looking back at who I was or being open about it to anyone (and I mean anyone). The 25 years spent chasing iguanas by the beach, the 15 years making out with sweaty folx in mosh pits, and now the recent years finding a community who shares my same love for gaming. I’ve fucked up a lot of it, but it’s not all bad, and neither am I. I NEED to start believing this. If I keep wasting time shitting on myself, I’ll never get back to blogging from a positive headspace, I’ll never learn how to love other people the way I want to be loved, I’ll never take the time to appreciate the world outside my head, beyond anything I could ever imagine. The whole concept of self-love terrifies me sometimes, because deep down I don’t think I really understand it, and I’m scared I never will.
Should be putting on pants for my HSED talk but taking some self-love selfies first. pic.twitter.com/Z8Yjq2NVBI
— Avery (@ThePalimpsex) March 18, 2017
This post was ACTUALLY supposed to be a review, believe it or not. I had every intention of getting punnily detailed with my recent usage of the Tantus ProTouch, a versatile toy I’ve been promoting since my days at the porn store but never actually tried. I opted for the Grab Bag version and ended up with literally the SAME fucking color (like a more translucent version of “wine”) it comes in normally (I swear to goddess, I have the worst luck with Tantus Grab Bag colors). I got so bitter about it I never ended up using the fucking thing.
Yesterday I finally had my first masturbatory release in months…a little Nine Inch Nails and a Wartenberg Wheel was enough to get me going. My butt just kind of wanted everything on the shelf. I went for each anal toy I could find, starting small, eventually working my way up to an Echo Handle. It was an intense afternoon and I direly needed it. But the ProTouch surprised the hell out of me. I was expecting the curve to be painful, uncomfortable, anything like any other curved butt product I’ve used before. It wasn’t at all. Sure, it’s made with the same shore silicone in most Tantus products, but maybe because of the hollow middle (which is meant for a vibrating bullet though I left it empty), it had some squish.
I’m not usually a fan of the freebie bullets that come with Tantus toys anyway (kinda weak), and the depth of the hole inside the ProTouch is too shallow for the WeVibe Tango. Besides, it actually made it more grippy for me because I could just stick my finger inside it while I hooked the flare with my thumb. Regardless, the curve of the ProTouch conformed nicely to my body and was actually relatively comfortable. My other surprise was that I could actually feel all the textures of it in the best ways possible. I went back to the ProTouch after using the Echo Handle and the ProTouch still had quite a…how shall I say…presence? The curves were stimulating enough to remind me it was inside, but not too scrapey or pinchy. So I’ll be damned. That thing has been sitting on my shelf for months now and I’ve just discovered I actually rather like it.
Sometimes I learn a lesson or two about myself when it comes to toys. I’ve been thematically discovering through blogging how the toys I think I’ll like, I don’t end up enjoying very much and the toys I don’t expect to like, I do. Or the toys I’ve loved for years suddenly don’t do it for me anymore, that my body and mind can change, that pleasure isn’t linear or orderly…it doesn’t obey any logic or mapping and what feels right to me one day might feel absolutely backwards the next.
I’m looking at my shelf and getting a little weepy now. These toys have taught me a lot. I cherish them. Beyond pride, beyond memory…there’s a little bit of magic in each of them and I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever understand. Maybe that’s what makes reviewing them so exciting. Because who knows? Two years from now, my body might be able to tolerate Aloe, and I might actually dig soft silicone. These reviews aren’t just unique to us as individuals, but unique to our place and time in life. It’s the futile but delicate attempt at grabbing a bit of eggshell through the yolk…always almost there but always slipping away.
I think about Audre Lorde’s “Poetry is Not a Luxury,” and how she spoke of words, how “Possibility is neither forever not instant,” and yet there is always a validity in her phrase “it feels right to me.” Each toy has its purpose, its opportunity to “feel right” for someone, as does each review. Maybe a time in my life will come when things begin to holistically “feel right,” maybe not. So for as disjointed and (perhaps inappropriately, to some) unsteady this blog post may seem, I think I’ll actually leave it as is, consciously unedited. I suppose it just feels right to me.
