Last weekend, some friends and I made chicken curry and opened a bottle of pinot, which, (un)expectedly, provided the perfect setting for a conversation about sex. “So, earlier this summer, I asked him [quasi-boyfriend] to tie me up. It was SO fun. The best sex I’ve ever had,” one friend revealed. My response was something along the lines of, “That’s awesome. I’m proud of you for asking for what you want. But damn, I’m lame.”
Fast forward two days. 11am. I randomly decide to text my own significant other: “I think we should tie each other up.” His response?
“You’re funny.”
Okay… so… that wasn’t really the response I was looking for. Or was it? The more I thought about both the text I sent and my boyfriend’s response, which clearly lacked serious acknowledgement of my proposition, I realized something that felt strangely profound and horrifying: I don’t, actually, have the desire to be “tied up” in any fashion, with any materials, or in any location.
Oh god, I’m boring, aren’t I? My intimate life must be like that of an 85-year-old Jewish grandmother’s whose social life revolves around bridge tournaments and matchmaking. I quickly sunk into panic mode. That night, as I lay in bed cloaked in my own mortification and shame, the question haunted me: why didn’t I want to be tied up too? And what did it mean about me as a human? I just couldn’t shake it. Rather than let it go, this “inadequacy” I had discovered became a projection of my whole being. Sure, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but how else does effective story-telling work?
The next morning, I woke up determined to flesh out what the f*** was happening in my absurd mind. I propped up some pillows on my bed and placed my stuffed penguin, Popsy, and my sloth, Charles, on each side of me. (I’m still at 7-year-old with pigtails when it comes to stuffed animals.)
“Self,” my internal monologue began, “it’s time for a pep talk. You are you! and… that’s good enough?””
“Damn it self, you suck at internal motivational speeches. Try harder.”
So, I started perusing Instagram.
Just kidding.
Two cups of coffee and an hour of good ol’ self-reflection later, what I discovered, or rather taught myself, began to feel like a necessary and crucial reality shift.
Who gives a crap if I want to wear a blindfold in bed or not? Is that the sole indicator of adventurousness? Probably Most definitely not. I’m not my friend, and I shouldn’t be. Her pleasure is hers, and my pleasure is mine. Her fetish doesn’t have to be mine. That’s okay. It’s time for me to find my own form of intimate adventure. When I do, I might let you know what it is. Or maybe, I’ll just encourage you to do the same.
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