Trigger

Apparently people are yet again taking a bold and righteous stand against trigger warnings. As usual, the arguments against them show that people opposing them have no idea what a trigger warning actually is, or why they are useful.

So just so we’re on the same page: a trigger warning is a note that a piece of media or discussion contains content that may trigger an episode or lapse in persons with certain mental or neurological illness, or in those likely to develop such an illness such as those who have recently experienced trauma.

The conversation revolves mostly around PTSD, as does my experience, but trigger warnings can also be used to warn people with seizure disorders about strobing lights, people with major depression about discussion of suicide or self harm, people with substance use or eating disorders about drugs, alcohol, or disordered eating.

And apparently this is Awful Censorship and also Coddling and also Bad For People and also an Undue Burden, according to people who do not understand what trigger warnings are.

Trigger warnings are not censorship. They do not alter the content of media or discussion, they simply note what that content is. They are only censorship in the sense that a “warning: contains peanuts” on a package is a ban on the sale and consumption of peanuts. In other words, not at all. I am told that a warning still counts as censorship because people may choose not to engage in media or discussion that might trigger them. If this is true, it is still not censorship. Peanut sales are not banned because some people do not purchase or consume peanut products. Trigger warnings are really the opposite of censorship, in that they provide more information up front, allowing people to make more informed decisions about the things they will be exposed to.

Ah, but that’s coddling, isn’t it.Bad for discussion. After all, if we just let people say they’re triggered every time they get upset–Well. That’s funny, isn’t it? I don’t recall anyone mentioning getting upset. It’s almost like this is an attempt to minimize and trivialize what a trigger is, and its impact. Being triggered is not being offended. It is not being upset. Yes, obviously, it is upsetting to be triggered and offensive when it is done deliberately, those are not the core of the experience. Triggers set off different things for different people. It can be a panic attack. A seizure. A month in a depressive episode. Fugue states. Suicide attempts. Lapses and setbacks to recovery and self-management. The warning might mean choosing not to engage, but not always. Someone may choose to leave rather than risk it. Someone may take a deep breath and mentally prepare. They may make sure to have medication or a coping mechanism available, much like I make sure to bring an Epi-pen to restaurants. This does not stop a discussion. It makes discussion more possible, by giving people the tools needed to participate, or, if they can’t, letting them leave. I promise, someone having vivid flashbacks and hyperventilating in a classroom is far more disruptive than their walking outside would be. (I’ve been there. Not fun for anyone in the room.)

But triggers are Bad For People. Letting people decide what they do or do not want to be exposed to. That’s not how the Real World works. We should expose people to triggers for their own good. If they can’t take it, they can’t take the Real World. I’m going to take a deep breath here for a moment. Because they’re right about one thing: the Real World doesn’t let us escape the things that cause these triggers. That’s a huge part of why many of us have triggers in the first place–if trauma were avoidable, we probably wouldn’t have PTSD. If we have triggers, we are going to have to face them. Similarly we’re all going to experience physical pain over the course of our lives. Shockingly, that doesn’t make it ethical, compassionate, or in any sense of the word right to smash people with a baseball bat at the site of their most recent injury. Seriously. “We all get hurt” should not lead to “therefore it is acceptable to hurt you without your consent in this way that you’ve specifically told me to avoid.” The fact that the harm is psychological does not exempt it from being harm. Exposure therapy is usually mentioned here, and yeah, that’s a thing, but two funny things about exposure therapy: 1) it’s not for all people with trauma and 2) exposure therapy always includes clear, detailed trigger warnings and a controlled, easy to stop environment.

Of course trigger warnings are an Undue Burden. Anything could potentially be a trigger, so what, are people just supposed to warn about every component of content? That’s impossible! Except actually it’s pretty easy. Sure, someone might be triggered by a specific song or sunflowers, and that’s probably unforeseeable, but turns out the most common triggers are really quite obvious and pretty easy to mention briefly beforehand.

Warnings for physical violence, sexual violence, death, serious illness or injury, weapons, themes of abuse or suffering, and natural disaster will effectively help most people with PTSD. Add warnings for suicide and self harm, drug and alcohol use, and disordered eating. And flashing lights that could cause seizures. It’s really not a long list. Most people don’t need it. But for those who do, it makes all the difference in the world.

I know people aren’t going to stop lashing out at the idea of trigger warnings. Which means I’m going to have to have this conversation again, and again, and again. And honestly I’m just tired. I’m tired of being told to face the world by people who have not seen its teeth bared. I am tired of being told that I am weak because I ask for a warning before I dive in to fight monsters by people who have only seen them taxidermied and behind glass. I am tired of hearing “I don’t need this so neither do you,” as though the two have any relation to each other at all. If your reaction to trigger warnings is anger and you think they must be stopped, maybe ask yourself why. What makes you so certain that you, and not the person affected, are such an expert in what that person needs. Why you think you know what’s good for them, better than they know themselves. I promise, you don’t.

Need To

I’m a lover of lists, and plans. Every week I open my day planner, draw in the outlines of each day’s schedule–the meetings planned long in advance, the deadlines. I add in errands, reminders. Monday, groceries. Wednesday, make spare keys. Friday, play games. As things come up, the sketch of my day is fleshed out, filled in. Have lunch with this friend. Drop into that colleague’s office. Sew the button back on to these pants.

Crossing items off is soothing. Satisfying. Affirming, even: I said I would do this thing (if only to myself), and I did it. I’ve fulfilled my duties, gotten through what I need to do, earned the blank hours of time my day planner doesn’t presume to chart.

The last month has not, in day planner terms, gone well at all. Items pushed to the next day, and the next, then the next week. I send apologies, trim all but the bones from my projects, but still every line of every day is filled. Still so many lines are going uncrossed. I need to write that paper. Need to stop ignoring this blog. Need to do laundry. Need to sew that button back on to these fucking pants, the ones I’m wearing right now that are driving me up the wall.

The need-to list crowds out the rest. The uncharted hours don’t feel earned. Maybe I’ll try to poke at work or catch up on chores. More likely I’ll sit, text, feel too much guilt over being unproductive to allow myself a book or a night out, knowing that not-relaxing is just going to make tomorrow more stressful. Knowing that if I can not-relax, I will.

So I drove twelve hours and change to fuck a friend for a weekend before turning around and driving back home.

I had a psychiatrist once who suggested I manage anxiety with casual sex. Call a friend with benefits, go to a swinger’s club, be safe of course but unwind. It was a good suggestion: sex is an outlet for all that nervous energy. It was a good suggestion but I’m not taking it much lately. Used to be a week without sex felt like an unbearably long time. (All right, it still feels that way.) Lately six weeks or more isn’t unusual. No partners in the state. It’s something I could change: I’m frequently reminded that there are about a million apps for that, but frankly it feels like just adding another stressor to the need-to list: find a partner.

I don’t have time for that. God, especially after indulging in last weekend. I need to write that paper. Need to do laundry. Need to sew that button back on to these pants.

There’s a chance the burden at work will decrease in a few weeks. (Honestly I’ll probably quit if it doesn’t.) Now I’ve moved and unpacked, things at home are starting to calm down. There’s a hope of getting back to days that are filled with lines I can actually cross off.

Until then, it would be nice if I could fill the prescription for casual sex alongside all my other meds.

“But why did you get divorced?”

Apparently a year and a half after I moved out, people still feel the need to ask why my ex-spouse and I got divorced. So here goes:


We didn’t heed the warnings that Netrunner ends marriages.

We amassed more than the 84 bottles of nail polish legally permitted in a single household, and so were required to separate.

I’m a cylon. They found out.

Their girlfriend cut butter perpendicular to the end of the stick like an absolute barbarian.

They didn’t eat onions.

I didn’t eat shellfish.

I stole their favorite pair of boxers and refused to let them wear them anymore.

We had a profound disagreement over what constitutes proper board game storage.

I was emotionally devastated by envy of their perfect hair.

They were rude to my cat.

Their cat was rude to my cat.

I was taller than them, and I wore heels anyway like an absolute barbarian.

They felt I was not sufficiently enthralled by David Bowie’s bulge in Labyrinth.

I prefer showers. They prefer baths.

I kept finding their socks all over the apartment. Socks everywhere. Following me. Watching me. Fucking socks.

One time in 2009 they left the toilet seat up and I never really got over it.

One time I ate all the Reese’s cups in the house and they never really got over it.

They thought Matt Smith was a better Doctor than David Tennant.

We had far exceeded the number of years in a committed relationship that bisexuals are capable of, and could no longer afford to pay the fine for challenging stereotypes.

and most of all:

Sometimes their sleep-talking sounded an awful lot like trying to awaken Cthulhu to revel across the world.


 

Now that all the scandals and secrets are revealed, everyone can stop asking, right?

Social? Media

I’ve been laying low. On Twitter, on Facebook, here. It’s the news, or rather the way the news has gone viral. Two stories in a row that were all anyone could talk about for a week, a rape and a massacre. [probably obvious content note: rape and mass shooting.]

I don’t really want to talk about either of them. But I do want to talk about the way those conversations have looked.

The Stanford rape case didn’t get attention because rape is rare, but we act like it did. Can you believe anyone would do something like that? I stopped counting the people who asked that, when they insisted on talking about it. Don’t I understand that this is important? That we have to talk about it? I wanted to say, Yes, I can believe it. I’ve been raped. I promise, I can imagine it really well. Please stop asking me to imagine it. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to tell my own history every colleague and acquaintance who just had to talk about this rape case. I wonder how many people they tried to have this conversation with. How many women. Whether they know one in five of us has been raped. I know they don’t understand this is a common thing, can’t have really internalized the statistic, because it hasn’t occurred to them that the person they are cornering might have been raped, might not want to talk about it.

Then there was the self-righteousness, the shock, the outrage in social media. Everyone had a post. “Look, I agree with everyone that rape–or at least this rape–is horrible; I am a good person.” You might say I’m being overly cynical. They’re saying it because they do think rape is horrible, right? It’s vocal support, solidarity.

One of the “this is unbelievable and terrible” posts that came across my feed was written by a man who raped me. Not with any acknowledgement that he’s capable of the same, let alone that he’s done it. I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if he justifies it to himself. Maybe thinks okay, I’ve crossed a line or two, but not like this guy, he’s a monster. I didn’t say anything. I wonder how many other women saw their rapist, their attempted rapist, their long-term abusive partner getting congratulated for making the definitely-not-congratulation-worthy assertion that rape is bad. I wonder how many didn’t say anything. I haven’t seen this conversation make women safer. I was just waiting for it to fade away so things could get back to normal.

And then a man shot more than a hundred people in a gay club.

I tried to write about it. Not because I wanted to, because I had to. Rage and grief and fear were building, turning septic, I needed to say something to get it out. I hesitated before hitting publish, over and over again. Anything I could say–any grief, any rage, any fear– felt like offering up another bite of queer pain for straight consumption. I was acutely aware of the media aspect of social media, and feeling none of the social. 

I posted a link on Facebook, how to talk to a queer person who is afraid of dying. Said it’s important for straight people to reach out to queer friends and family right now, show us you care, please. Straight friends and family shared the link, liked the link, “Look, I agree with everyone that massacre is horrible; I am a good person.” Not one of them reached out to me, or to my sister (she’s a lesbian. She used to go to Pulse frequently. It’s a shock and a relief that none of her friends were there that night.) All these not-queer people who’ve never been to Pulse making its logo their profile picture, not one willing to text three words (“are you okay?” “Thinking of you.” “I love you.” “I support you.” Anything.) I talk to other queer people. Also full of fear, and grief, and increasingly as days pass, rage. 

I watched superficial support twist. Straight people started to say this wasn’t an attack on LGBT people, LGBT Latinx people especially; it was an attack on all Americans. I heard–many of us heard–“we will only support you if it is about us as much as you.” I watched the conversation slide away from homophobia and violent men with guns, which is where it belongs. Watched straight people make it about Islam and mental illness and speculate about internalized homophobia, and anything, anything, as long as straight American men don’t have to acknowledge their part and participation in this culture, in this violence. They’ll only talk about helping a marginalized community if the blame can be laid on another marginalized community. In my own communities, I hear straight kinky people claiming solidarity, saying they understand and feel our oppression and they support us–no, they are us. And that’s a whole nother post but no, and fuck you, and no. Kink does not make you queer. 

I watched my government push for gun control (not well, not the right gun control, but something). I watched them do nothing. Straight people decided queer lives mean less than the rights of violent men to guns. They’ve decided the same of black lives, women’s lives, small children’s lives. I’m not surprised. But I hate them, for leaving queer people at the mercy of straight legislation. 

The furor died down. Soon “the tragedy in Orlando” meant a two year old at Disney, not over a hundred queer people at Pulse. It’s been weeks. We’re supposed to get over it. Don’t grieve. Don’t think how easily it could be us, next time. Even though it could. 

 

Room for Improvement 

I’m pretty sure I’m not good at sucking cock.

It’s a shame. I love doing it. I’m greedy for it, even. With my latest partner (this boy who is definitely not a virgin anymore and probably needs a nickname here since I keep fucking him), I try to get him off with my mouth every time we get together. He says it feels incredible. He says it’s a mental block, not anything I’m doing. Whatever the reason, I can’t make him come.

He’s not the first. The person I was married to was more blunt (“your mouth doesn’t feel good. Stop trying.”) Another partner more jovially says that there are other ways he’d rather come anyway. One blamed the size of his cock (I have small mouth. Had-to-have-permanent-teeth-removed-because-they-didn’t-fit-in-my-jaw small.) Another said he’d just never been able to get into getting head. And most of the rest have come, and seemed to enjoy it. (I’m not secretly a lamprey or anything; it’s not that bad…I hope.)

And maybe blowjobs aren’t everyone’s thing and that’s fine. I’m not going to push or pout if someone doesn’t want it. It’s when they say they do want it… it’s when I definitely want it… and we can’t quite get what we want out of it. It’s both of us feeling guilty about substandard performance and cementing another layer on top of our walls of performance anxiety. Because no way that makes anything more difficult.

I’m not going to fall apart, start rending my garments or gnashing my teeth (well, maybe garment-rending, if someone asks nicely). My ego can handle my being less than awesome at sucking cock…mostly. But it’s been enough now that I don’t quite trust “it’s not you, it’s me,” and I’m not sure what to do about that.

Just practice, I guess.

e[Lust] #82

Elust 82 Header
Photo courtesy of Teachers Have Sex

Welcome to Elust #82

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #83 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Take Me

How Do I Love Thee:On Comparing Relationships

Asking all the questions…

 

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

I Manage My Expectations

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Wanna Have Sex With Me? – Here’s how
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Maybe I’m not a pervert after all
Bad Excuses
Engaging with Sexuality: A Personal Perspecti
I wish there were more porn
Cock Size: Does it matter?
Blue is not a “boy color.”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Watching My Wife With Another Man Story
Afternoon Cunnilingus & Birthday Sofa Sex
Why You Should Shave Your Partner
Oct 2014 Session – Mistress Claire
Two Days Later
Roping a cougarling
Divining Rods
Dorabella’s pink-velvet spanner

Erotic Fiction

Puppy Love
Quick & Dirty
She Says My Voice Changes for Her
THE BLINDFOLD – fear of the unknown
U is for undress…
Stay Baby…Stay.
kink of the week–glasses

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Slutfest Reflection
Love and Fairness
Winnowing
V is for……..
My heart turns blacker: the new rules

 

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Blast from the Fetish Video Past
The whole person approach to Submission
Down on my knees
Dominant Doppelgangers, Dominant Opposites
Four eyes
BDSM and Depression: Therapy or Self-Harm?

Poetry

Eden, Revisited: A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

Stepping Stones
Centering Disabled Characters in My Erotica

 

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Winnowing

There’s an art to hearing input from confidantes, on private things. It’s a challenge to hear past familiar thought patterns and feelings to accept what wisdom they can add. It takes a fair bit of finesse to tease out the words that come from their own histories, experiences no less valid than your own but perhaps not relevant when spun into advice for you. I…won’t pretend to be an expert.

The Chef and Chi have plenty to say. I told them I’ve only had a couple of dates in the last several months. Felt no excitement after either. “I don’t think I’m looking to start any Relationships right now. Something, sex for sure, but the thought of dating exhausts me.” While we’re together, I let conversation flow, save the critical part for later. There’s a winnowing process, which for me takes some time and quiet.

Wheat. “You should keep in mind what you will want, when you are feeling it. Every now and then evaluate whether you still aren’t interested in a relationship, or you’re just avoiding taking any risks.” Anxiety does tell me to keep myself curled up, treat any hint of intimacy as a threat. My gut is unreliable. I have to untangle the thoughts and feelings I’ve generated whole cloth, or out of association with a past that has nothing to do with now, from the ones that match current experience. I’m not always good at it. I don’t always–ever, really–feel that it’s fair to ask someone new to understand. So much easier to spin a cocoon that never admits someone new. I know better than that, but still, it does help to be reminded.

Wheat. “You have some good friends. You sleep with some of them, it works, maybe don’t be afraid to feel out whether that’s an option.” After I’ve known someone a while, if we haven’t had sex, I tend to assume it’s not on the table. I might be down for it but 95% of the time I’ll assume they aren’t. Of course, the most recent exception has become a particularly excellent (if infrequent) source of sexy fun times. There are tiring things about this–friends-with-benefits situations with monogamous people put me in the tenuous position of playing side-chick with people who are single, knowing I’ll be set aside when they find a partner. I accept this at the outset and I’ve chosen it more than once because I’m avoiding risk of intimacy, but it does get hard not to feel disposable at times.

Chaff. “People cheat. They just do, if you don’t keep them interested. You can’t expect that people will tell you who they’re screwing, I don’t care how open the relationship is.” I can. I do. I will. I have no interest in being lied to, and refuse to just accept that this is The Way People Are.

Wheat. “It’s not about what you need. Fuck that, you don’t need anything. What makes you happy?” I can’t answer that. It’s probably the best indicator that I don’t need to be pursuing anything right now, the fact that I can’t answer that. What makes me happy? Fuck, I don’t know, ice cream? Ask me again when I feel like my housing/income/job situation is a little more solid under my feet. It’ll probably be a while.

Chaff. “You can’t tell men what you want. They won’t believe you. Drop hints. Let them think they figured it out. Otherwise they won’t believe it’s real.” This is too often true. I have no patience for it. I say what I mean. I expect to be believed. It’s not a standard I’m willing to lower.

Chaff…I think.  “Jealousy means they care. You always want to work through jealousy, soothe it away, but you should try cultivating it sometime. the right kind. I got jealous as fuck when he made you scream, but it just made me want to do it to you, too.” I don’t trust jealousy to stay in the realm of healthy competition. Maybe she knows how to keep it there, maybe it works for her, but I’ve seen it get ugly too many times. I don’t know. It’s hard, this one. I don’t know.

Wheat. “Date your friends. Date your lovers. We’re not the same people we were three years ago. I still think of you as my girlfriend but that means something different now, doesn’t it?” It does and I’m flattered and she’s right. Relationships, friendships, all of it stays fluid. People stay fluid. We entwine first branches, then roots. Grow closer some places, have to draw back where we damage each other in other. Sometimes we grow apart. The Chef and I have–there’s so much distance, neither of us reaches out often enough to keep us close–but so far we learn each other again and fall into a new pattern that works. I like this. I like that I don’t feel any pressure to expect that it’ll work out again next time.

It was a long evening of talk, most of it simply sweet and fun. We don’t always agree. It’s something I love about them both, that we can feel safe that not-agreeing won’t devolve into fights. Only more to process. I’m still processing some of it.

e[Lust] #81

Hyacinth foe Elust 81
Photo courtesy of A Dissolute Life Means

Welcome to Elust #81

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #82 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Who Are You Calling Crazy Cat Lady?

Stranger on a Train

Taking Emilia

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Sign
Everyday sexism

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

The Best Sex
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

Fist
Johnny on the Spot
Wierd
Caught Watching
A is for the ache I feel…
OVER THE EDGE – but softly
This is Love

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

The NiteFlirt-Twitter Findom-Shout Complex
Donald Trump: Feminist

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Do What You Want
Setting expectations
Control
Held Captive

Erotic Non-Fiction

My Rope Life Rebooted
I Needed my Fix
Beautiful, Loving, Surprise Birthday Blowjob!
Mind and Body
Bukkake, Babe, that’s me! Or is it?
Jun 2014 Session – Mistress Claire & Robynn
Don’t Just Fuck Her!
Mid Week Fantasizing — The 3some
I told him I’m Hy.

Writing About Writing

Captive Audience: Dubious Consent Fantasy

Poetry

He is Risen! A Lusty Limerick
Thin – an erotic poem

Blogging

The illusion of familiarity…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Be A Better Lover
trust
Who Owns My Sexual Agency?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Boobs on my Mind
ELust Site Badge

Strappy Little Things

When it come’s to lingerie, I’m not much for wispy pieces, no diaphanous gauze or teasing lace. It’s all too fragile, makes me feel obligated to act dainty and demure when I am neither. I’m drawn to bands and straps, to leather, to steel boning; lingerie that looks like cages, makes me feel like something fierce and barely contained.

 

Sinful Sunday

Be a Better Lover

It’s not about lasting longer. It’s not about a set of techniques.

I love the idea of getting someone so turned on they can’t hold back from orgasm for more than a moment. So when a man (it’s always a man) tells me he’s deliberately holding back an orgasm to “be a better lover” or “because I don’t want to be selfish,” I want to tear my hair out. “Better lover” looks like code for proving some kind of masculinity or winning an internal endurance contest, not about a partner’s pleasure. Most women don’t orgasm due to penetration alone at all–prolonging it isn’t going to eventually overcome the secret barrier to unlocking her orgasm-from-penetration, it’s just going to chafe eventually. I am one of the ones who can get off that way, but that doesn’t mean I want endless PiV intercourse (see chafing above).

Another common “better lover” technique that has to have high failure rates is taking something that worked with another partner or partners, or something seen in porn, read about in Cosmo, whatever, and ignoring its effectiveness on the actual person you’re in bed with. If a partner stops you, says or signals that something doesn’t feel good, or just doesn’t respond positively to something, odds are it’s not super amazing for that partner. And for god’s sake if your partner says “that’s not working/I don’t like that,” stop doing it. Don’t just obliviously continue. Don’t try again after a few minutes. Just stop. The last time I was with one partner he kept trying to do this uncomfortable two-finger thing to my clit while we were fucking, even after a “that’s making me cringe. Not good.” I’m not real keen on sleeping with him a next time, no matter how exciting his other partners find it. And don’t act like your partner is malfunctioning if they don’t like Magical Finger Technique #3 that was so great with your girlfriend six years ago. You wouldn’t sulk or suggest something’s wrong with a partner who doesn’t eat shrimp just because six-years-ago-girlfriend loved them, would you? Why is sex different?

If you want to be a better lover, stop listening to magazines and ads that tell you what women like or what men want. They’re useless. Listen to your partner. No woman is the amalgam Woman of a Cosmopolitan magazine poll. Ask what they want, listen to the answer, and (unless it crosses some boundary of yours) do that thing. Listen to feedback. Improve. If one of my partners did all the things that I find fucking amazing in bed to someone else, the most common response would be along the lines of “Jesus fuck what is wrong with you? Slow down! Not so hard!” If someone tried slow, sensuous, light touches with me and didn’t escalate relatively quickly…I’d probably suggest we watch a movie instead. There’s no manual. There are no cheat codes. There’s just talking and trying and finding what works.

Sex at three standard deviations