My Sensualist Story 10
The sensualist is blind to the world outside of his or her senses. I’ve been looking for answers: a title, a framework to comprehend my sexuality, with the uneasiness of a kid who has been abandoned. I am concerned that I have failed you since I do not have a unified identity to portray to you.
The most simplistic of structures – a chronological narrative – will be used to attempt to explain how I came to be this collection of contradictions, which includes: wife, slave, feminist, white-collar professional (including stripper and bisexual), and even, on occasion, prude (seemingly out of place in the South).
The narrative begins when the protagonist is a little girl. Under my school desk, in my third year of primary school, I’m masturbating to the point of climax. My thighs were pressing together in a methodical manner in the back row to release. It took flushed cheeks and heavy breathing until there was finally relief.
No one appeared to have noticed when I looked around. I suspected something was up when it came to lunchtime.
My mother returned home from the library with a stack of ‘educational’ books, which she secretly gave to me. By that time, I was an accomplished reader, and I devoured them with gusto when alone. Where Have I Been All My Life?
However, it generated more problems than it answered since it represented the actual act of lovemaking between a distinctly rounded husband and wife If the rubenesque couple could kiss and hug and make all those love hearts appear – as well as a baby – and that was what sex was, what was I doing there? Sex education consisted of anatomically perfect cross-sections and abstractions of something that was eating me from the inside out.
My anxiety wasn’t simply sitting there, unaffected by the passage of time on a page. I was well aware that I was not going to have a child. I was by myself.
It didn’t make any sense at all.
I like touching myself when I was alone in my room, beneath the cover of darkness and wrapped in my Strawberry Shortcake doona. According to the norm, it was a lonely pleasure that left me yearning for some companionship after a while. I yearned for someone to recognize my existence. The closest I came was a sleepover with several friends. I helped my closest friend from pre-school and her other pals spread mattresses on the floor of her living room.
She mounted her pillow, kissed it, and rode on it in front of the rest of us in a fun manner. We everyone got a chance to speak. We made fantastic dioramas with our Barbie dolls (all of whom were female). Thinking about it now, I can see those plastic limbs bending back, the joints of the legs and torsos flawlessly smooth and bumping against one other to the joy of everyone in the room.
Even as I write this, I feel the need to be really clear about something. I was never subjected to any kind of sexual abuse. But, like many other young girls, I had tremendous emotions that I had to negotiate on my own. I was aware that it was something I should keep secret based on the fact that no one else was talking about it. Silence ruined the natural world and brought it to its knees in humiliation.
It occurred to me that there was something wrong with me because I was a kid. I was under the impression that I had somehow started those childish experiments with my filthy thoughts, and that I had poisoned others just by being there. After years of being alone, it wasn’t until the internet that I was able to find some relief.
Dial-up internet service was a wonderful complement to adolescence. A new girlfriend who had just turned twelve and wants to share babysitting responsibilities. While her younger siblings were sleeping, the ungainly grey Apple Macintosh woke up. We joined an adult chat room that she had discovered on some unknown website.
Embarrassing declarations of passion intermingled with sleek, angry-looking hard-ons and pneumatic breasts are the order of the day. As soon as I returned home, I pleaded with my mother to get a modem. Homework of a different sort: everything from the scholarly to the profane is assigned. Trawling through the growing web of raw sexual writing, the wonderful agony of downloading photographs bit by bit, and being a voyeur in volatile IRC chat rooms are all things I like doing in my spare time.
All in the name of alchemy, in the pursuit of generating and comprehending the complex chemistry of sexuality.
Thirteen. Under the influence of blue light, my yearning grew. The ludicrous excuse of police and adult supervision at the local scout hall serves as an alibi for the perpetrators. The darkness is a partner with us.
I’ve been backed into a corner, at long last! Indecisive lips in a hesitant bargain, tasting a home-cooked supper, drinking ill-gotten wine on a weak breath, and eager fingers probing over and under clothing. Their clenched cocks ripped right through their trousers. With pre-cum, it’s hard and smooth. I was famished, to say the least. I was much hungrier than I had perceived those awkward lads to be. Predatory. In this sea of lads, I yearned for a male to talk to.
My growing self-assurance prompted me to make a connection. For numerous years, this was the closest I came to having a lover. Him: twenty-six years old, from the other side of the world, my sexual colleague and confidante. I’m fourteen years old. Interminable evenings spent on IRC, punctuated by a deluge of emails.
Tossing ourselves into incremental talks, frantically dialing numbers, and encouraging one other to climax are all things we do together and alone. Digital photography did not exist at the time, but it was not required to have a visual reference. It was a wish that was expressed in words. Finally, there is reality.
His (surprise!) girlfriend tracked me down and enticed me in a sophisticated manner. She’d signed on as him, got me hungry and wet, and then launched into an avalanche of verbal abuse at my expense. He tracked me me on Facebook fifteen years later, but that’s a tale for another day.
My online dating life was transformed the next year when I met a forty nine year old living in the same city as me.
He and I had been exchanging emails for months before he inquired if I’d want to meet up. Even under such circumstances, instinct served me well. That salt and pepper hair was something I had never seen before. Even if hysterics may point fingers at predators, the most crucial discourse about power, in my opinion, is still not taking place.
Mention sex and pleasure to the women in your life. Masturbation is the ultimate grail, and virginity is a waste of time. The treasure is found inside yourself: it is your joy, yours alone. It makes virginity meaningless until a loving commitment raises the issue of whether or not to have children.
Empowerment. Complete command and control. Self-worship. Despite the fact that I was taught masturbation was a valuable gift I could – and should – give myself, it is unlikely that I would have revealed it and made myself vulnerable in this and other situations. I was really fortunate.
Combine this with a whirl of the normal high-school mania about boys, men in posters, and guys who are in bands. According to appearances, she is a student in an all-female boarding school. Despite their youth, boys my age are still mostly disinterested in anything other than athletics and academics. It all began with a few one-word interactions in the rear of the bus, which turned into a full-fledged imaginary romance.
Sexual relations with these gentlemen were not an option. Even yet, more anonymous conversations at underage parties or home parties hosted by friends provided opportunity for conversation.
When it came to dressing provocatively, I was quite cautious. Jeans with a lot of stretch, big polo shirts with a lot of holes, and shoes Hair is usually carefully pulled up in a ponytail or a bun to prevent it from falling out. It was, in retrospect, unjust to those unfortunate young men and boys. I’d figure up a means to separate them from the rest of the people around them. Kiss them fervently on the cheeks and forehead. I tuck my hand inside the back of their pants. All cocks, of whatever form or size, have always been a favorite of mine. They were great when they were firm and moist from the precum.
Exploratory manual excursions and snooping about for grinding. As soon as I finished, I had no desire for any of the things that my buddies were preoccupied with. The need for a boyfriend is non-existent. Sexual exploration was something I enjoyed doing.
Sex with my closest buddy while I’m fifteen years old. Her mother had recently relocated to an excessively constructed seventies home on the outskirts of our city. She was now a single mother with two young daughters.
The opportunity to care for her younger siblings was presented to her yet another time. Having shared a bottle of terrible, sweet Sangria on the heated carpet floor, we discovered her mother’s bed, which had a hoard of video-taped pornography.
With all the hormones, visual inspiration, and pure possibilities that comes with it. In the beginning, there’s a tense energy. Dressing in stages. Impossibly delicate lips are kissed by the camera. Smooth, exposed skin, and suckling breasts are what you’re looking for! I’m wailing in a sixty-nine, a hot, probing chaos of tongues and fingers.
Even now, I can recall her well manicured long nails moving within my chest, hands that I had always admired. Upon waking up, I discovered that I was in heaven…but was in hell. The only one in the room. Despite my repeated attempts to rouse her up, she remained in her bunk bed. While walking to the train station with a terrible hangover, I puked in a garbage can to clear my head. I was in a state of shock and disappointment.
The train ride home brought tears to my eyes. Trying to figure out whether I’m homosexual by flipping the home on its side in my imagination. Do you want to know what I did today? Is she planning on informing everyone else of her discovery? She didn’t, according to reports. Despite the fact that we are still friends, she has refused to speak about what happened. In my mind, the residual image corresponded perfectly with my hunch that I had somehow orchestrated yet another embarrassing circumstance for myself.
Every weekend, I looked forward to it. The darkness was exploited. Keeping my eyes peeled for a chance to work with someone who would go the extra mile. Anybody, but not everyone. A figure who would arouse my imagination, arouse my desire, and who was powerful enough to seduce me was needed.
It’s time to count down to 16! When I realized I couldn’t keep my virginity, I chose to give it up. During a school ski trip, it all began. Chaperoning was provided by the math instructor, who also happened to be a tennis coach, who had brought many other tennis teachers with him. They were all college students about a decade older than me who were pretty beautiful, bookish, and athletic. They were intrigued, but hesitant to share their experiences.
I couldn’t convince him to take my virginity at camp, even after many really hard make out sessions behind the jacuzzi room (in the snow and steam). If I was still intrigued, he promised to fuck me when we returned home. His residence was not the typical student hangout; rather, it was his family’s home in the neighborhood. The bed was filled with water. Furthermore, I received just what I sought.
I found it to be a wonderful and relieving experience to lose my virginity. It wasn’t so much that I misplaced it as that it was artfully disposed. Even though I have had sex while in love, those experiences are distinct and yet another part of the same wonderful event. For me, moments of sexual intensity, connection, and heartbreak do not have to be about love.
Even though I had done all I could to maintain my virginity, the notion that I might still be a virgin seemed absurd. As a result, the atmosphere was apathetic. I couldn’t stop laughing at the music on the soundtrack!
Despite the fact that it was difficult, the waterbed proved to be unachievable. Not for a second did I play games with you. We got to the ground level, and finally, something was happening to us. The apex is attained by me.
Stacks of books and sighs that could only be heard in the background: The fact that I was having so much fun surprised him. It can’t possibly feel so nice, in his words. That’s exactly what happened.
The ability to do so was not his. Throughout the whole drive home, I couldn’t help but laugh. It happened again – I found myself sitting on the train, watching the world go past me as if it were going through an enormous centrifuge.
I thought to myself about how different the world seemed today. That there was an universe out there made up of individuals who behaved in this manner on a regular basis was beyond my comprehension. Was it really worth the time and effort they put into concealing up the evidence? Trying to make it seem like it wasn’t the best thing that ever happened?…
I’m not sure why.
Afterward, we fucked in his shoddy vehicle, on the cliffs on the beach near my home, and in a suburban park near his house before calling it quits. Neither he nor I were interested in him as a lover, any more than he was in having a minor as a companion. After that, it was eight years before I saw him again, when he had begun dating the sister of my then-boyfriend.
“This is X,” she explains.
“Do I recognize you from somewhere?” he inquires.
You assisted me in losing my virginity, which I much appreciated!
The following is a quote from my boyfriend:
I did not, in fact, re-enter the world of promiscuity; rather, I just returned to the routine of school life and work. Because there will be no sex for two years, you may skip over this section. However, I continued to have sex with individuals who I found fascinating at parties despite the absence of any significant others. Without saying anything, I deemed my friends to be unfit for anything other than cohabitation in a classroom or at a bus stop. The last year of college, I met a man my own age on the internet.
He was a sexually demanding guy who was also inventive and sympathetic in his approach. On the opposite side of the planet, he was a resident of. In order for him to be able to go to my nation on a one-year working visa, we set up a meeting time.
Initially a passionate and unyielding relationship, it gradually got softened by regular neglect as time went on.
My nation is home for a year, his country is home for a year. We all obtained employment after college since I went to school for business administration. When I first met her, her sensitivity piqued my interest, but now it felt like a sign of vulnerability. When it came to him, I became colder mentally, and the notion of having sexual relations with him made me feel sick to my stomach.
Upon receiving permanent residence, I separated from him and started to pursue other men for sexual pleasures. I always saw something in them, or maybe something in myself, that necessitated the persistent study of linked mind and body for hours at a time, even though I didn’t want to be in a relationship at the time.
When I finished my degree, I was able to get an internship with a famous advertising firm in my field. Almost soon, I was given a position by the company. Despite the fact that I seemed to be a successful graduate with a stable income and promising future, my true character was fickle, inquisitive, and temperamental, and this image was irreconcilable with my true self. Bored, stifled, and only half-alive, I sat in my room. I made the decision to relocate because I was desperate.
Change of location was equivalent to a seismic change in the landscape. This planet included a continent with magnificent mountain ranges and wide areas of unknown territory, which gave rise to the continent. Even though I had a new partner and a house of my own, finding another work was proving to be challenging.
There was a stage, brilliant lights, thunderous music, the intentional uncoiling of a bra, a burst of self-assurance, and a wicked grin, and then there was the most vivid dream:
Striptease.
As soon as I awoke, I hesitantly told my then-new boyfriend about my dream. He’d met females who were strippers previously, and he knew it was a major industry in this city, so he felt I’d be good at it, and he believed I could. I lacked even a sliver of the self-assurance I had expected. The same pants and t-shirts that I had been wearing were still covering me. The possibility of becoming that goddess in my dream, and, even better, of earning the money I needed to live, piqued my interest, though.
Standing on a red-lit stage, virtually knock-kneed, in six-inch heels for the first time, begging for twenty torturous minutes to pass before you fall off isn’t even close to describing how nerve-wracking it is. It’s not the taking off of your new, little clothing that’s frightening. The most difficult skill to learn was how to navigate the guys and maintain your composure in the face of frequent (and occasionally harsh) rejection.
To cultivate a sexual alter-ego, you must go through an elaborate and necessary process. First, you must “pick” a name (“No, not that one, it’s already taken.”) Next, you must “create” a sexual alter-ego: you must “create” a sexual alter-ego by creating a sexual alter-ego by creating a sexual alter-ego by creating a sexual alter-ego.
That one is also out, unfortunately. Would you rather that we just give you one, love?”) then develop a personality: mine was a strangely appealing blend of seductress, confidante, teaser, and snob that reflected my own personality. A strong no-touching policy was in place at the club where I worked, and narcotics were not permitted.
I was sexually powerful, with a dash of intellectual curiosity thrown in for good measure, yet I was also safe. Men of various shapes and sizes came into contact with me, and I learned about their diverse triggers and likes by observing them in their daily lives.
My education had been priceless for many months, and I had received it for nothing. The ability to scan a room in sixty seconds and locate and steal anything I want was second nature to me. My tertiary-educated desk job would never have paid me as much as I received – and still does not – in this situation.
A litmus test for the hypocrisy of the general public is presented. The arduous hours were made bearable by a substantial sum of tax-free money. Nobody told me how hard to work, when to work, or who to dance for since I was financially independent and professionally regarded a contractor.
The cat is a predatory creature that is untouchable. Even if they paid me, I would not take a hit for anybody.
Even if they’d completely depleted their financial account, they shouldn’t have done it! I walked away at the first sign of disrespect.
In many ways, those four years seemed like another period of adolescence. My emotional and sexual limits were redefined as a result of the foundation that was laid inside the club. Self-respect. Self protection. I am self-loving and self-caring. This was a high-stakes gamble, and I’m not going to lie and say otherwise.
Then, I always jumped into the deep end without thinking.
You either come into the sex business rough or you learn to be tough, which isn’t always a negative thing. When it comes to motivation, need is a tremendous force.
It is no longer necessary to be concerned about your physical appearance: there will always be someone who appreciates your special combination of components. The process of learning how to wield my dominion over men…and women More than just a matter of need, the flourishes of complex, long-lasting mental beauty
I am unabashedly asserting my self-confidence. The process of establishing and maintaining boundaries in intimate (actual or imagined) relationships Other women’s accomplishments should be celebrated rather than feared. Things that I seldom see reproduced outside of the club’s four walls are…
More than anything else, though, I felt honored – and even compensated – for the very thing I had previously been embarrassed of: my sexual orientation.
As a result, I became nameless for a while until being unmasked at long last. Personal judgment was absent from my life, whether it was my own or that of other people.
The limits of a society that hypocritically criticised the profession in which I worked while simultaneously paying my expenses were no longer a restraint on my life anymore. It seemed as if everyone’s eyes had vanished — family, friends, and coworkers alike.
Single men and women, couples, acquaintances, and complete strangers were all involved in one-night encounters and affairs throughout my life. In my hands, the universe opened like a citrus fruit between my fingers, bursting with tangy aromas, sweet flesh, and sticky liquids that made me feel like I was in a state of euphoria.
Resentment has faded into the background.
It was a journey into the depths of my physical and mental capabilities. Whether to say yes or no. Hunting and prey were two different roles for me. I gradually realized that being the prey was something I really loved.
I began to feel the loneliness of being surrounded by shadows. The only people who knew where I was working were a handful of close pals. In their presence, the chasm that separated me from others became even more apparent. For fear of being discovered, I was continually lying to myself. My friends and family, with the exception of the odd partner, learned not to ask about it.
Perhaps admitting would have brought me closer to peace, but I dreaded the actuality of their rejection and desertion, which, in my opinion, would be more harmful than beneficial.
The time had come for me to move on since I’d paid off my education debts and other obligations.
Leaving behind the late hours and pretending that this drunk, slobbering man is the most intriguing and handsome person you’ve ever met wasn’t too difficult to do. I returned to my previous ‘professional’ occupation. It’s unfortunate, but pretending that the uneducated, idiotic fool you work for is the most intriguing, inspirational person you’ve ever encountered is a big part of this job.
That is not where the narrative ends, though. Ironically, I began seeing someone whom I met the night before I was supposed to leave the club. In spite of the fact that we had met in a nightclub (I had broken my own golden rule, which was to never mix work and pleasure), he despised my history and despised me much more for it. I came to the realization that I was the second lady (he had two other girlfriends).
His reasoning was that, because of the amount of people I’d slept with and the fact that I was a dancer, no one would ever want to be with me in a relationship. Though he seemed to be an unclean pot, trash-talking a beautiful bright copper kettle, I was taken in by his words. The basic reality is that the vast majority of people would say the same thing, and have said it themselves…. I’m still haunted by it, even though I’m married to someone who loves me and understands everything.
When I understood I needed to make a decision about my sexual orientation throughout my battle with it, I felt relieved. I could regard my history, all of the bits that make up a very intrinsic expression of my sexual self, as socially and morally unacceptable mistakes in judgment, and either atone for my’sins’ or curl up and die as a result.
What do you do with the past, regardless of how it affects you now. Why not wrap it up firmly and secure it with a rubber band?
No shine can compare to the terrible reflection in a listener’s eyes while you’re talking to them. Furthermore, if this is not disclosed, the consequences are dire. When it comes to cutting, self-censorship is really successful.
Alternative: radical acceptance (which is my preferred option). I came to learn that there is nothing more self-affirming than accepting and embracing yourself for who you are, without holding yourself to a standard of perfection.
I’ve learned to stand on my own through age, experience, and tenacity, and heck, if you’re going to judge me anyhow, why don’t I simply ask for and do what I really want?
