Lust-ful life

I’ve gotten 2 “get out of jail free” cards in my life.

  1. After 10 years of smoking, I woke up one morning and didn’t need a cigarette. That was 9 years ago. Haven’t had one since.
  2. Sometime last year, I woke up one morning and I was suddenly excited  about sex again. All my emotional baggage around sex had sloughed off overnight. Freedom.

Yes, these both qualify as miracles to me.

Over the last few years, my interest in sex had decreased to almost nothing. Oh, the shame that followed.

What I used sex for, according to my age:

11*-27 To try to get people to love me – Sometimes hot, often awful

27-31 To connect and bond with my amazing boyfriend/husband – Super hot

32-35 To resist embodying the reviled wife in a family sitcom – Sometimes hot, often eh, sometimes frustrating and embarrassing as fuck

35/36 For fun and pleasure – Hotter than a 1,000 fucking suns

*FYI – I wasn’t having sex at 11, but my breasts grew in early and that was how old I was the first time someone treated me differently because of it.

Is that a good enough reason to start a blog?

With this miraculous appearance of an enthusiastic interest in sex (unladen with societal expectations I’ve been absorbing for 35 years) has come courage. I was mired in shame about my disinterest and what it might mean about my worth, and I was so confused because my husband is fantastic – plus I’m a feminist, so I was further convinced that I wasn’t “supposed” to feel shame about what I wanted or didn’t want.

Only now have I had the courage to go back and investigate what the hell was going on when my interest was non-existent. So, I have immersed myself in all the material I can get my hands on.

Guess what I learned?

I was and continue to be 

perfectly fucking normal.

Ya heard?

I’m writing today because I wish I’d known how normal I was at the moment when I had the most doubt about myself.

Joseph Campbell has this great quote,

“Where you stumble and fall, there you fill find gold.” 

Metaphors about wings and flying speak more to me than treasure, so I’ve modified it to suit me better. Whenever I stumble, I’m tripping over a mound of soil hiding a pair of wings buried just beneath. Instead of running away, feeling defeated and shitty, I can pause long enough to wipe away the dirt and collect my wings. Plus, bonus time, with my wings on, I won’t have to stumble there anymore.

Hafiz tells us

The small man
Builds cages for everyone
He knows.
While the sage,
Who has to duck his head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.

Well, I was a rowdy prisoner. Today, I’m a disobedient…I don’t know, fugitive? I do know this: now that I’m free of some shit, just the thought of anyone else being as wrong as I used to be, and hating and fearing themselves despite being so, so whole, I can’t abide it.

This is a feminist blog about shame, anxiety, courage, finding liberation in the very things that scare us, and learning to simply fucking be. You will find shit about bodies, fat, sex, the patriarchy, shit I have successfully gotten over, and some shit I’m just not over yet. Oh, and as much swearing as I can possibly fit.

I believe in your wholeness and my wholeness. That we don’t feel whole every single moment of every day is nuts. I want to stop forgetting that I’m good and shit is okay. I want that for you, too.

Finally, yes, yes, yes, to this:

Relax, nothing is under control.” Adi Da Samraj

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