It happened guys. I got my first STI (note: this post is reeeeaaal personal, you’ve been warned). Realistically, given the amount of sexual encounters I’ve had within the last ten years of being sexually active, I’ve been continuously amazed at my general vaginal health. As a sex educator I am painfully aware of the risks involved in banging, let alone condomless banging. Our fragile human bods are capable of catching all sorts of things when we mash ourselves against another person. But duh, this doesn’t stop us.
So, this will be an interesting experiment where I journey forward into writing about relationships. To summarize, my history with relationships that last longer than a year is bleak. It is perfectly ironic that I so quickly knew I wanted to marry Jake when we began seeing each other.
That being said, I must confess: I have very little hands-on experience being in a relationship. Do you want to know a secret, though? I haven’t needed any.
I learned this in many idiotic attempts to be everyone’s perfect girlfriend back when I was chain-dating. It never worked. Enough time would always eventually pass for either a portion of my real self to slip into a conversation, or for me to realize that I was really not with someone I wanted to be with.
On January 27th comes the one year anniversary of the first Body Pride. I often remind myself of where I was a year ago, tangled in a web of clothing and apprehension amidst a society-induced fear of the harm my own naked self could do.
I remember the awe and admiration I had for the women involved in the Bodysex Workshop documentary and how friggin’ ballsy they all were. I remember the continuous narrative going on in my head trying to find out why this was ‘ballsy’, why the connection to my own body why so terrifying that I considered it ‘ballsy’ to allow myself, let alone other people, to see it.
My name is Caitlin Roberts, and I am a slut.
By your definition, I suppose I am a retired slut, but I still hold on dearly to the title.
There have been many enlightening responses to your latest video regarding your confusion about the choices sluts make. Laci Green and Haley G Hoover have put together very informative monologues (if you haven’t watched them, I recommend you do, they both still love you).
Alas, as I am letting it be known to the entire internet world through this blog, I am a slut. A very happy and contented slut. So it feels only appropriate that a slut respond to your curiosities.
In my oh-so dramatically turbulent teenaged years, I had a mild obsession with the word ‘beautiful’.
Or rather, I should clarify, I had a mild obsession with maybe one day, if I was lucky, someone would refer to me as being ‘beautiful’.
‘beauty is’ on my chest at 17
I’ve recently been delving into all corners of my mind trying to pull out all of the things that I have forgotten to remember. (As a creative writing exercise, of course.)
There is one girl, let’s call her Suzie, she must be about 10 or 11. She and her mother/aunt/older sister were regulars at Fran’s (a 50′s style 24 hour diner I used to work at). This girl was overweight. By the standards that doctors give for healthy and average weight frames for girls her height and age, she was in the red zone.
The list of people I have fantasized about is a long one. One that very rarely makes any logical sense in regards to who I would actually approach to engage in intimate behavior. In hindsight, it is a rather rare occasion that I fantasize about someone who I’d actually take on in the naked-sheet-rumble-tumble.
But I will say it, head held high and a twinkle in my eye: I heart my fantasies. I hold no guilt, shame or fear in regards to the content of these mind-boggling scenarios, but accept that my subconscious is constructing narratives that allow me to safely overcome the pathogenic beliefs of my childhood.
The night I lost my “virginity” was completely and utterly lacking any sort of excitement, frenzy, climax (except for his astoundingly speedy orgasm) or notable emotions. It was also the first night a boy had ever told me he loved me… Go figure. The conversation went something like this:
Teenage boy is lying naked on top of Caitlin, his Magic Flesh Wand frighteningly close to the Crystal Cave of All Knowing Enchantment.
Caitlin: I can’t have sex with you. We don’t love each other.
Flesh Wand: Well! I was going to tell you, but now if I do it’s only going to seem like I’m trying to get in your pants!
Caitlin: Sucks to be you.
Five hours later:
Boy: I love you.
Engage clothing removal.
I have been recently pondering my answer to the question: Why sex? Why do you have such a heavy interest in sex?
As opposed to lawn bowling, various types of green teas, nail polish application, meditation, weight-lifting or siamese cats?
While all those things are fairly awesome, I am interested in something that is innate, integral to the well-being of a person.
Yeah yeah yeah. Sex drives are important and recognizing that and taking responsibility for your desires are just as important, but, that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
I am interested in self-development. In learning. In growing as a person. This isn’t cheesy ‘Let’s be the best person you can be’ self-help therapy stuff. This is being a consciously aware human being.
When I was eight I was having sex dreams. I also humped my teddy bears. Yeah. I said it. No shame. BUT I WAS EIGHT.
Our current understanding of anything to with children and sex is that, to them, it is explained in a manner that is all very mechanical and logical and maybe connected to this distant non-understandable concept of ‘love’ that our parents talk about, blushing and stuttering all the while.
The dreams I had were comprised of rather obvious symbols and images that would depict what the subconscious of a hypersexual eight year old might resemble; enlarged genitalia that you traveled through to get to other realms – but needed a password before entering – and strange naked games in which there were always boys, naked, jumping on top of me.