Okay, it’s time for me to do something I don’t usually do; write a blog post that’s a train of thought rather than a planned piece, on a subject that I’m confronting (is that even the right word?) for the first time ever. It’s an insight into something so super personal I don’t even know why I’m sharing it.
I know you’re probably thinking, could she really get any more personal than writing about how she likes having large objects stuffed up her arse? Yes, I could. I can and I’m going to, because I’m going to try to work my way through a shift in my sexuality that I didn’t ever expect to be having to deal with. So, here goes…
I turned thirty-seven a half dozen weeks ago. In my life, I’ve had two sexual partners, the second of whom I met at eighteen and married at twenty-one. All the people who’ve caught my eye in pubs, clubs, workplaces and restaurants have been men. All the celebs I’ve drooled over, fantasised over and even written erotic stories about have been men.
I was born female and have lived my life as a woman, doing all the things society expects of one. I embraced my femininity, celebrated my body (until I stopped), married a man and gave up my job (don’t worry, it was shit and worth letting go of) to raise our ASD child. If anyone ever asked me how I identified sexually, I’d answer 100% heterosexual…until now.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Before you start scanning the text, looking for signs that I woke up this morning and realised I was a lesbian, I’ll tell you now that I didn’t. I do still consider myself mostly heterosexual. I still look at the Fella and get a twinge in my groin, and I still see hot, tattooed bodies in the street and beautiful, muscled creatures on my TV and think, if I could, I so fucking would.
The thing is, I’ve come to realise that I’ve been feeling that way toward the beautiful, soft bodied creatures on my TV, too. A lip-glossed pout and smoky eye so easily catches my attention these days. I mean, they always did, but rather than feeling jealous that my eyeliner is never that fucking sharp, or that my pout never looks quite so juicy, they now make me bite my lip while I wonder what it would be like to see the woman in my gaze with her perfectly applied make-up in ruins, all because I kissed her.
I wonder if her smoky eyes would look even sexier, closing lazily while she enjoyed my touch.
This shift first occurred to me when I realised that female nudity on screen doesn’t make me blush anymore. Well, not for the same reasons it always used to, it doesn’t. I don’t glance away, not wanting to look at the unattainable perfection, not wanting to see the Fella looking at it, wishing he had someone like them in his bed instead of me. It makes me blush because my eyes follow the lines of their bodies, the curves of their breasts, hips and thighs. Because I want to see them.
These days, I don’t roll my eyes when they wake up at 6am after a night of fucking, just to hop out of bed with salon perfect hair and not a panda eye in sight. Now, I look at them and think, I’d mess that perfection the fuck up before your bones left that mattress if you were here with me.
Yeah, that’s the thing. I haven’t just realised that I suddenly find women intensely sexually attractive. I’ve realised that I see sex with men and women in a polar opposite light.
I look at men and want to get to my hands and knees, to crawl and mewl at their feet until they stroke, whip or fuck me. This is how I am with the Fella. Whatever he wants is what I want. I want to please, to serve. To be adored, used, cared for, tormented and loved.
But when I look at women, I don’t want to subjugate myself to them. I don’t want them to bind my wrists, cover my eyes, paddle me or make me come, I want to do that to them. To have them helpless before me, eager to please me because they know I’ll adore, use, care for, torment and love them in return.
I need to submit to my man, but I want to know what it is to have a woman to submit to me.
That’s a heady fucking realisation at my age, especially when I’ve lived a life where men have been the focal point of my sexuality. To realise that, not only am I not as hetero as I believed myself to be, but I’m not the 100% submissive I’ve always thought I was either, is a huge thing. It’s confounding. I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it at this stage.
If I think about it, I can’t really do anything with it at all. The Fella and I celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary last month. I’m a married woman in a monogamous relationship and I love my big dope to death. I’ve known temptation in the 19 years we’ve been together, but that was mostly easy to ignore. Risking what I had for another man was a bad idea, and not a risk I ever took or ever will take.
This feels different, though, because it isn’t a case of wanting to try a different flavour of the same thing. It isn’t like choosing strawberry ice cream when you’ve always been a card carrying vanilla lover. This feels more like hankering after something savoury when you’ve never had anything but sweet. The new, the untried, the untasted.
It’s possible that my mind has concocted this from almost a year and a half of being bombarded with sexual images of women’s bodies, of them having sex with men, women, neither and both, all in the name of finding inspiration for my erotica. But at the same time, it’s equally possible that this is all real. That my sexuality is becoming something else (I totally thought that line in Oliver Queen’s voice, lolz).
All I know right now is, it’s unlikely I’m ever going to be in a position where I can find out if this is a real thing I’m feeling or if it’s just something I’m imagining. And there, lovely reader, is the rub.