This is my third sex blog. Falling Into the Blissful Sublime feels a lot happier for me than the previous two sex blogs I wrote. I’ve been sex blogging for more than 15 years.
It’s a bad habit, at this point. But I need to talk about sex a lot, clearly! Well, it’s very clear, but obfuscated also. I wanna tell you about someone I met through sex blogging long ago who changed my life.
I’ve been thinking about this lady I met through my first sex blog. I advertised differently then and got many readers I didn’t know. They would visit over and over, and sometimes comment.
I made friends with this lady in San Diego who I liked, and a man also who was an ass and criticized me for being young. Reading my sex blog, he had no idea I was in my 20s, found out through a conversation we had about music, and discredited me for that. Yuck! He’d been enjoying my writing, so it didn’t make much sense that being 30 years younger than him made me irrelevant.
The lady in San Diego was much more fun to talk to. We emailed each other regularly for a couple years. She was older than me also, in her late 40s, so the age my parents were. She helped me learn about sex from her more experienced, mature perspective. Also, she was white and had money.
Our friendship seemed unlikely, but we needed one another, for a while. I’m not saying she was a MILF! Though sex brought us together, we didn’t want one another like that. I think she was straight, actually. We just wanted to write emails to each other and share ideas and low key connection.
I wanted to say casual connection, but I don’t think it’s casual to relate for two years rather often. We chose one another in a meaningful way. I was lonely then, and I appreciated her checking in. I didn’t feel a lot in common with her or a deep heart connection, but I did feel long term curiosity.
the point of sex
I remember she told me about orgasm not being the point of sex. I was very orgasm-centric, when I was young! She’s the first person who ever said to me that sex can be connective, pleasurable, and worthwhile without orgasms. Took me a minute, but I did agree with her–I definitely agree now, many years later.
As a kid masturbating, alone in my bed at night, or masturbating in the bathtub–orgasm was my goal. I was overwhelmed by hormones and desire. I needed orgasm for stress relief, and something about power. If I could make myself come, I would be less beholden to the teenage boys and grown men who were preying on me. The more I could come on my own, the more I could resist the temptation of doing it with people who were bad for me.
Orgasm was also the most transformative, religious part of sex. That’s how I saw the angels–the overwhelming light, the moment of losing myself. Orgasm was an important part of the ritual, as culmination, and how I knew when I was done. Moderating has always been difficult for me; I liked orgasm as an endpoint.
I mentioned in my sex blog how I was curious about anal sex–I really wanted to try it. This lady asked me why I wanted to have anal sex. I said it was a new sensation and I wondered how it felt. The idea was edgy.
She told me her opinion that the anus is not for sex, and explained some possible health issues. She said the ass is easy to harm. I can’t remember if she personally was harmed, or she’d just heard horror stories from friends.
I hated the idea “the anus is not for sex” because it seemed homophobic. I’d heard that idea as prudish and classified it with “it was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” Queerness was and is everything to me, and I felt atheist about body design.
The idea that God made certain parts for certain purposes seems stupid. Were hands not designed for masturbation? Our bodies weren’t designed at all–they evolved. Seems hubris to declare what parts were deigned for what activities. For example, my cunt was never for making babies–it’s for pleasure.
Still, even while I bristled, I considered her opinion and knowledge as a person decades older than me. Did a lot of people hurt their asses, with anal sex? If I ever had anal sex, I thought I should use way more lube than I guessed necessary, take it slow, and be alert to injury.
My strongest memory of being friends with this lady is the fire that burned her house down. I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks and wondered what happened. I assumed she got bored of me and didn’t want to be friends anymore. Then she emailed to say there had been a terrible fire, and she’d lost everything.
I felt weird about that fire, her grief, and the struggle she had, getting insurance to pay, and getting her new house built. It was very uncomfortable for me because of the huge disparity in how much money we had. She was a rich person, and I never heard exactly how much her house had been worth, but I think a million or two?
Back then I was living in poverty. I struggled to pay rent and have food to eat. My parents gave me money sometimes, and I had a lot of credit card debt. The money pain was wrapped up with a lot of guilt. I felt guilty for buying anything unnecessary, but I was so lonely and depressed! My life was livable through pleasures, and pleasures often cost money. So any time my ex and I went out to eat, went on a trip, bought books, it was a huge struggle emotionally.
This lady would mention money, and I was like the starving kid looking in the window of the candy shop. My eyes were filled with tears, and I couldn’t help but feel awkward. Money was nothing to her, and so much to me. It hurt a lot, to be excluded.
I see now that part of the pain for me was the emotional labor I was doing for her as she grieved the loss of her house and complained about rebuilding. It took a while, and then there were so many choices to be made about the new house. Location, design, materials. Slow red tape and contractors.
I was supposed to feel sorry for her and maintain compassion. But really I was angry that we live in a world where she was hurting about what flooring to choose, while I was struggling to eat. It’s not like she was smarter, kinder, or in any way more deserving of comfort. Everyone deserves their basic needs met.
It was hard to feel sympathetic for a long time, when I’d never owned a house and assumed I never would. Now I’m almost the age she was when I knew her, and yes, I have never owned a house, don’t own a car… I wish she’d been more compassionate to me.
That’s how the friendship must have ended. I don’t remember an argument, though there might have been one. The problem was–I wasn’t a real friend to her, another rich, white lady she could invite out and have drinks with. I didn’t drink then, and I don’t now. We didn’t even talk on the phone. I was elsewhere, someone she met on the internet, and she kept me in that specific cubbyhole.
I supported her emotionally, and it wasn’t balanced. Now I see that pattern has been repeated a lot. I meet someone and open my heart wide–they take and take. Then I get burnt out from the lack of balance, and things falls apart. Or we have something that feels good to me, and then they get a girlfriend in Real Life, and zoop! I’m forgotten. I’ve had so many people disappear on me ghost-style, it’s normal. I don’t bat an eye, anymore.
Yes, I am not real. Feel free to dip in to get your needs met, and dip out. Or use me like a tv show–something else distracts you, so you take a month off, and then come back to watch the Nest show with no explanation. Like I feel zero feelings and have zero needs.
Many people are using everyone and everything! No wonder Mother Earth is so harmed, when many people are consumers, 100%. The planet exists for them to take from. And people do too.
Yes, I am hurt by this, but also, I have to shrug. That’s how people are. Why did I ever expect people not to be people? I will love them–I will give, listen, try, show up, express care. They will do what they do. Sometimes I get lucky and find balanced connection like with my spouse and closest friends. Thank Mother God for that.
That San Diego lady did change my life, with her ideas and stories. I’m grateful to her. She must be in her 60s now. I hope she’s thriving and happy and enjoys her home.
This song from before I was born.