Courtsey of Facebook

Courtsey of Facebook

Warning: I’m going to try not to be too ranty here.

I like sex. A lot. I like all that it entails. I like the foreplay. Penetration. I like it vanilla and I like it kinky. I like when it lasts all night and I like it when it lasts 5 minutes.

I like oral sex, anal sex, solo sex. I like sex that leaves you exhausted in a heap of sweat and I like sex that is slow and relaxing.

I like the feel of his cum inside me, whether it’s in my mouth or in my pussy. I like the velvety skin of his cock and the roughness of a day old beard on my inner thighs. I like his fingers on my breasts and in my pussy.

I like to make him cum. With my hand, my mouth, my body. I like to watch him get hard, with my words, my touch. I like to pleasure him. Make him want. Watch the pleasure move across his face.

I like to cum. From his cock, his fingers, his tongue, his words. I like orgasms that are quick and intense and those that are long and sensuous. I like them from nipple play, from fingering, from anal, clitoral, vaginal and G-spot. I like squirting, soaking the sheets and slashing cum off his hand.

I like to masturbate. Make myself cum. I like circling my clit and pulling on my nipples. I like using vibrators, dildos, and my hand. I like to read erotic and watch porn.

I like sex. I like to talk about it, read about it and write about it.

I am not embarrassed.

I will not throw it in your face, or make you feel uncomfortable. Honestly, I probably won’t even bring it up first. I will not give you raunchy details or false impressions. If you ask questions, I will answer them. If you ask for advice, I will give it.

I like sex and I am not embarrassed. Don’t expect me to be. Sex is a natural part of life. It’s enjoyable and I like it. I do what I do behind closed doors and there is nothing wrong with it. Nothing immoral, indecent, unethical or unnatural. It is sane, safe and consensual.

I am not embarrassed.

……………………………………….

Courtsey of Facebook

Courtsey of Facebook

A few weeks ago, on a crazy Friday afternoon, I finally made it into my office around 3:20, with only 10 minutes before my next appointment. There was a yellow sticky note on my desk, a quick note from a supervisor (not my direct supervisor), asking me to come see them. I make my way through the maze of cubicles and stick my head through her office door.

“You wanted to see me?”

She welcomes me in, and nods towards her door, which I pull shut behind me as I  sit down across from her. We are pseudo-friends,this supervisor and I. Our kids go to school together, we belong to the same church, know a lot of the same people. I’ve been to a purse party at her house and have drank wine with her and her husband.

She begins by telling me she’s “just going to say it” instead of beating around the bush. Someone in my office, someone in “administration,” is apparently friends with someone I’m friends with on Facebook. I nod, confusion spreads across my face. She goes on to say that with our job, “being in the community,” that we have a reputation to uphold. I agreed, explaining that I haven’t used my Facebook in almost two years for that very reason. I have no desire for any of my clients to have that much of a glimpse into my personal life.

She acknowledges that she “saw that” when a co-worker came to her, unsure of what to do, not wanting to go to my own supervisor, an uber-conservative, ultra-religious man who blushed when I asked if he had any more condoms, because the supply I had for my teenage clients was running low. This co-worker, they came to her to show her that I had a few (less than 5) Facebook “likes” for sex toys, dated from October of last year.

“Ahh…” I say, remembering a text message from my bff last fall, telling me my “like” of a butt plug just jumped up on her screen. So I explain. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but I’m a writer.” She nods, says she remembers me mentioning that. I explain that last winter, when I decided I was going to start writing again, I was researching all sort of ways to earn compensation. I tell how I found edenfantasys, how I write sex toy reviews for them. I describe how they have a point system, and that you can earn points for “liking.” I say that I have a separate Facebook account, one that is protected, that has no connection to me, my name, my phone number, my email, that I use for that purpose. I tell how my computer synced to the wrong account last fall, I found out about it, and had thought I deleted them, but apparently I missed a few.

She stares at me. There is long, awkward pause. “You write reviews for sex toys…” her voices raises at the end, asking a question that is not really a question. “Yes,” I say, and give her a few details about edenfantasys, explaining how I started by doing lingerie reviews. She leans across her desk, interested. She asks a few questions. I answer. She tells me how her husband had joined her in a “thong-of-the-month” club, where he would pick out a pair of panties and have them mailed to her, a secret surprise when she’s find them in the mail box. We chat about this for awhile, discussing both programs, the pros and cons of each.

I glance at the clock, and realize I’m already 15 minutes late for my last appointment. “I’ll delete them when I get home from work,” I say, standing up, “I’ve got a home visit I’m late for.” She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then she remembers. She straightens in her seat and her hands move to fumble with papers on her desk.

“Ok. That’s good.” She looks at me. “So… This conversation can just stay here…” There she goes again, her voice asking a question that isn’t a question.

“Yes. I’ll take care of it.”

She nods, blushing as she realizes the conversation went a little different than she had anticipated, perhaps a little concerned with what she shared, with the questions she asked. “Good.” She looks down at her desk. “Well, I’ll make sure it ends here. There’s no reason for it to go any further.”

“Agreed.” I smile at her as I stand. “Thank you,” I say and walk out of her office, laughing to myself that she gets thongs in the mail and fuming that I was Facebook stalked by a co-worker. I was frustrated that they didn’t come to me before going to a supervisor and pissed off that it was not “okay” for me to like a sex toy.

…………………….

I guess what it comes down to is that I don’t understand why sex is such a big deal. Why does it make people so uncomfortable? Why are people embarrassed about pleasure? About sex? About something that everyone does, but doesn’t talk about? What is so fucking shameful? People can talk about divorce, about hemorrhoids and financial woes. They discuss medical procedures, politics and religious beliefs. They tell about 401(k)s, their children’s poop patterns and their husband’s snoring. But sex? Sex is off the table.

I don’t fucking understand.