Light of My Life, Fire of My Loins

I read Lolita at a young age. I found a PDF online, as I knew I would not be approved to check the book out at my local public library.

Vladimir Nabokov’s novel, originally published in 1955, is unreliably narrated by a man with the pseudonym Humbert Humbert, who is infatuated with his 12-year-old soon to be stepdaughter Dolores Haze. The novel is not circumspect of the taboo sexual relationship between Humbert and Dolores. I was practically reading erotica before I knew what exactly that was.

I recently repurchased Nabokov’s novel with intentions of re-reading it, hopefully with a more critical lens than my 14-year-old self. Especially after an article about Dominique Swain appeared my social media feed. The story of the then child actress who played Dolores in the 97’ rendition of the film Lolita resonated with me. Swain was fifteen during the time she auditioned for the 14-year-old role. Meanwhile, the actor who played Humbert Humbert, whom she had to film sex scenes with, was forty-seven. Brooklyn writer Lacy Warner wrote about her admiration for Swain’s nymph-like semblance and the way it manifested within herself in her teen years, writing “I didn’t understand anything about seduction — and I shouldn’t have had to — but I did think the way to a man’s heart was in the costume of a nymphet.” This is something I had also internalized.

Re-reading Lolita as a young adult this time was flagrant for me. I saw a lot of myself in Lo during the first reading, but felt more feelings of shame and sensibility during the second. Lo’s yearning for independence alongside her incumbent desire to appease a father-like figure in her life was familiar to me.

Furthermore, I too was a capricious, volatile, needy teen that was helmed in discovering my sensuality. I got my period at eleven, which is relatively early — but not obscene for a prepubescent girl. Soon after, I began to develop boobs, and then pubic hair made its debut. For my next endeavor as a tween– I begged my mom to let me shave my legs, the whole shebang. By fourteen, my boobs were bigger than those of my then 19-year-old sister.

I remember shaving my bikini area the first time around this age, too, and having the few inevitable razor bumps, but feeling cute nonetheless. Although very much a child, some would say that I had the “body of an adult.” Being told such things was always weird to me as my boobs didn’t magically grant me a later curfew or the right to vote, so what exactly about them made me an adult?

By fifteen, my body began to be maneuvered as a site to be gawked at by men — particularly older men. Their Lolita complex seemed to be more apparent than my presumed innocence as a child. I noticed the way men began to undress me with their eyes, looking at me in a way that was, at the time, new to me. I’d be lying if I said it rubbed me the wrong way then — feeling desired and sensual felt gratifying. I didn’t get all too much attention from the boys at school, and like many young girls, I succumbed to wanting that validation from men we are conditioned to believe we need.

Although the sense of rebellion, knowing that it was ‘taboo’ and most people wouldn’t ‘get it’ made me apprehensive, but I was assured that I was in my prime and thus it was normal for older men to desire me. I had received so many “you’re so mature for your age” comments from older men, both online and offline, that I had started to believe it myself.

I only just recently realized that I was never mature for my age. Not particularly immature, however, I definitely didn’t have the emotional intelligence or rationale of someone in their early twenties, or whatever age these men implied I acted to justify their preying on me. If anything, these men were immature for their age, but certainly not oblivious to the power they held over me and how to use it to fulfill their needs — not unlike Humbert Humbert.

Looking back, I wish I could shake my younger self for being flattered by this attention. I had to grow up fast because of this paradigm of prepubescent girls being hyper sexualized — the Lolita complex — and presumably the nymphomania surrounding child pornography. I was, and still am at nineteen, naive. I wish I could say I was one in a million in sending explicit photos of my underage self to men ten to twenty years my senior, but I know I was not. This behavior — that I can now acknowledge was unacceptable — was very much normalized by both my peers and the men in my vicinity.

The lens I began to view my body through and the ways in which I surrendered to desirability politics, infantilizing myself for the attention of older men is something I am still unlearning today.

Sometimes I feel uneasy posting risqué pictures now, despite being of the age of consent, because of the type of attention I may attract. I’ve internalized feelings of shame about the way I expressed my sexuality as a minor, and often blamed myself for such attention I garnered and having been preyed on by older men. I still get men admiring my “baby face” then proceeding to try to solicit sex from me. I only recently became comfortable with not always shaving down there, as I had grown up being taught men like hairless — men like childlike.

Admittedly, I still adhere to a sort of nymphet Lolita like style. I own a fair share of frilly socks and baby doll dresses. I still struggle to navigate relationships with the older men I find myself prone to. It’s difficult to decipher these men’s intentions — if I consented, is it still wrong?

Read Lolita, but read it without solipsism.

Gif by Emi Li. Photos (in order of appearance) by Alyssa Llorando and Willow Gray.

Confessions of a Teenage Virgin

Confessions of a Teenage Virgin is a digital diary by an anonymous 19-year-old girl living in the American Midwest.

Hi. I am 19 and I have never had sex.

Notice that I am not using the word “virgin”, as that very phrase connotes goodness and purity. It leaves very little space to interpret what it means to be the opposite of a “virgin.” In the eyes of society, especially in my town, the opposite of a virgin is a “slut.” In other words, someone who has sex and embraces it. The lack of fluidity and dialogue between point A and point B is stark.

Sex was never talked about in my school, at home, or even in my friend group. I grew up in a conservative household in a notch of the Bible Belt in America. I attended a Christian high school, where my increased interest in women’s rights deemed me “too aggressive.” I was never taught about sex or anything pertaining to the subject. Where I’m from, the mention of it is likely to cause shifting glances between parents, flushed cheeks, or a sudden change of topic.

I can now say, as an almost adult who grew up in such an environment, I am left with a seemingly infinite amount of questions and confusion surround physical intimacy.

It is not that I have not been curious or inquisitive about sex, but rather, I am too ashamed to ask or talk about it. If I was in a sexual situation with a guy I would not know how to give a blowjob, handjob, or even much about condoms. I would be going in blind (metaphorically speaking, of course) and naive.

I wish I could say that this is the story of how, despite these obstacles, I have successfully managed to undergo a transformative sexual awakening and have gotten my shit together. Unfortunately, this is not that kind of story.

In reality, this is the story of a 19-year-old who is just beginning to learn what sex means emotionally, spiritually, and physically. I write this in hopes of reaching those who really have no idea what sex education is, and to relate to those who need and desire the journey. This is a journey to bring together people who are just like… well, me.

I don’t want to think that sex is wrong. But that is certainly how it was always portrayed to me. I was never offered a class on safe sex. The closest I got was a class on abstinence.

As a young woman about to enter her twenties, I have had to educate myself through the use of websites, peer advice, and word of mouth. Premarital sex, for example, was never presented to me as an option, but rather, as a shameful and perverted deviation from the norm. As a result, I began to judge others who had premarital or casual sex.

By simply saying “don’t do it,” our “teachers” ensure anything but safety. People will continue to have sex, whether they know how to engage in the act safely or not. Yes, others will refrain, but this certainly does not mean it is always of their own volition. The dismissive nature of abstinence education only works to build a wall between educator and student, between parent and child. We as a society need to acknowledge the naturalness of sex.

We also need to provide teeenagers with a safe environment to ask questions, be curious, and explore their sexual nature without the shame that has been tied to sex for far too many centuries.

Talking to my parents about sex was never an option for me.

It was no coincidence that related topics, such as boys, crushes, or even attraction led me to feel equally as ashamed. Yet, perhaps even worse than the shame I have felt surrounding these crucial human experiences is the fear and loneliness I now feel, left to navigate this complex world of intimacy by myself.

I want to research safe sex practices, the art of oral sex, and to embrace the sensuality of my own body and what pleases me. I am done being ashamed of my body, my sexual cravings, and my fear of not knowing what to do in the bedroom.

Honestly, I am scared — terrified even — to explore sex because of the possibility of disappointing a partner, having an unwanted pregnancy, or sexually transmitted diseases. But as a young woman who is struggling and fighting to feel confident with sex, I want my peers to know that they’re not the only ones who feel overwhelmed and nervous, and that the best way to feel more comfortable is by asking questions and starting the conversation.

So, hi. I’m a 19-year-old virgin. Let’s talk.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Dariana Portes, Janeva Simone, Daniela Guevara.

The First Time I Was Groped

The following content may be triggering.

We all have first times. The first time we had sex, the first time we fell in love, our first kiss, our first concert. I remember one of my firsts very clearly.

I was 15 years old at a Chance the Rapper concert in Denver, Colorado. It was Chance’s 21st birthday, so my friends and I were expecting to have fun. We danced, laughed, and recited every lyric to Acid Rap and Paranoia. Eventually, we decided to leave early, mobbing from the front of the theater to the back. But before we could make it all the way out, I was stopped by a man, not looked in the face, and groped. Bulky, heedless hands covering and feeling up on my vagina. I kept walking.

That was my first time — my first time being sexually assaulted. One of many.

At the time, I was so young, so full of joy, so full of love that I didn’t think anything of it… but now when I think back on 15-year-old Shyanne, I want to scream. I want to throw up and I want to fucking punch that guy in the face. But by the age of 15, nonconsensual touching was already so normalized that I didn’t really think much of it. What’s worse, I didn’t even know I could.

Over the next few years, I would develop into a woman. Before even reaching that chapter of my life, I would have men near the age of 45 come up to me at the mall telling me to “smile” and “grow up faster” as they stared at my pre-adolescent body. The body of a child.

As I continued growing up, I realized that this is just the way things were. Guys were meant to grab you, grope you, and yell at you in the streets. As a Black woman, I was constantly fetishized, instead of being validated for my beauty, femininity, or personhood. I was referred to as foods and animals, because I guess the traits I embodied didn’t quite add up to “human being.”

I’m writing this on May 15th, 2019. The day after Alabama and Georgia decided to essentially ban abortions for those with uteruses. As much as I have felt the trials of being a woman of color in America, I have to acknowledge my privileges where they do exist. For one, I have never been raped, and I also come from a liberal, middle class area with access to education and broad acceptance… but what about those who aren’t as lucky?

Alabama and Georgia are home to three cities that have some of the highest percentages of Black Americans — specifically Black women. This new law will not only greatly affect women in general, but will disproportionately target poor minorities who never had adequate access to healthcare in the first place.

Black women are 2.5 times more likely to experience physical or sexual violence from a partner or spouse — this is a problem, and it is a dire one.

We need to be educating the masses about this discrepancy and increasing protections and healthcare for these already vulnerable communities — not further restricting their access to reproductive services. As much as I have been followed around on the street, cat called, pulled toward unwanted advances, kissed without permission, slapped on the ass, referred to as foods because of my skin color, and threatened with death because I didn’t give a grown man my number, there is a bigger picture here that all these “little” clues are begging us to focus our attention towards: how our culture bolsters one gender and, in the process, endangers another.

My first time changed my life, because I realized that it was going to be a long fight until it was over. Even then, “over” is a luxury afforded to very few, because ultimately, nothing will ever be over until those other than the survivors take a fervent and unwavering stand against these injustices.

I see little difference between the boys in high school who commented on my friends’ and my asses when we were fourteen– children — and the men in political office today who believe that they can control our bodies.

What is certain is that the allies that we need are not these men. We need men who can look at that type of behavior, and before even batting an eye, call it out as the deeply harmful and scarring violence that it is. We need men who are willing to listen, to educate themselves, and to unabashedly educate other men.

To the women reading this, I am so sorry… but the fight for us is nowhere near over. I’m dubious the that the violence that we face at the hands of men will not end anytime soon. But, still we fight. And I will fight alongside you for the rest of my life, as will my kids, who I will choose to give birth to WHEN and HOW I decide. We’ll all be there.

As for men, the good ones and the bad ones, I used to think you guys were all just driven by testosterone. But now, I’ve figured it out. When you choose to be sit silently real-life nightmares playing out for more than half the population right in front of your eyes — you’re not power hungry, you’re not egotistical, you’re not consumed by toxic masculinity. Not obsessed with sex, you’re not “guys just being guys.”

You’re cowards.

Because, how is it that every single woman I know has been sexually assaulted or raped, and yet none of you seem to know any rapists?

Photos (in order of appearance) by Willow Gray, Sweet Suezy, and Tamara Chapman.

How Do I Identify?

Happy Pride Month — I think I’m pansexual.

Sexual fluidity is a norm nowadays, and it’s especially apparent living in a city like New York where pretty much anything goes.

I’ve always been in heterosexual relationships and have no regrets about the deep connections I’ve shared with men throughout my life. However, I realized very, very young that my sexual orientation was not deeply fixed to one side of the spectrum.

When I was about 11 years old, I stumbled upon Cruel Intentions. It seemed okay enough, nothing out of the ordinary — until I saw the infamous scene. You know the one. Sarah Michelle Gellar and Selma Blair sharing a steamy makeout session during a picnic in the park.

I couldn’t look away. I felt something. I felt aroused, and then I felt ashamed. I shouldn’t be watching this. I shouldn’t feel this way. Why am I so turned on and how can I make it stop?

As I matured and internet access became more available, I spent late nights with the door closed searching the web for all versions of sapphic imagery: photos, videos, written erotica, etc. This curiosity was a dirty secret I could only share with myself.

Once I went to college, I felt an unparalleled pressure that — if I was actually in any way something other than straight — being at college was the place to explore this. I kissed a few women here and there, mostly feeling nothing, but nonetheless felt the compulsion to open my laptop before bed a few times a week for a X-rated video nightcap.

I’ve typed into Google “Does watching lesbian porn make you gay?” countless times, and judging from the results, thousands of other women had, too. After doing my research, the takeaway was: No — watching lesbian porn does not make you gay.

However, even though I felt validated by sexuality-questioning forums and advice columns, I still felt like I was not actually straight. These webpages mentioned almost nothing about watching exclusively lesbian porn, and being virtually unable to get off to man/woman porn (with a few exceptions).

I have never been in a relationship with another woman, but I have a prominent anxiety that one day, when I’m in my 40s and married to a man, I’ll house some semblance of regret that I never explored that side of myself.

And yet, in my current life, I don’t feel compelled to.

I’m currently in a relationship with a man. A beautiful, generous partner who satisfies me emotionally and sexually on a regular basis. I don’t really feel like I’m missing out on a side of myself that I haven’t tapped into yet, but I do worry that I’m missing my prime experimentation years… whatever that means.

I have my finger on the pulse of this anxiety, and I monitor it regularly. To quell this feeling, I think it’s best for me to cross that bridge when I come to it.

This essay has no takeaway. It’s Pride Month and NYC is swarming with people unabashedly being themselves and expressing love to whomever they choose. It just has my gears turning. Am I actually pansexual? Am I bisexual? Am I a straight girl with a strong preference for exclusively lesbian porn?

I don’t know, and I don’t think I need to know right now.

Photos by Dina Veloric.

Talking Gender with My Mom

One Saturday afternoon, at my monotonous service job at a New York theater, a man with salt and pepper hair walked up to me. Clutching his plastic cup of beer, he inquired, “Isn’t New York one of those places where they let the men use the ladies’ room?”

It took every ounce of my self control not to clock him on the head with the giant basket full of wine-in-sippy-cups I was holding.

This wasn’t the first time I’d fielded a remark of this sort, nor was it the last. For me it was irritating and uncomfortable, but for members of the trans community these interactions are harmful and potentially dangerous.

In this day and age, media representation of trans and genderqueer people is better than it’s ever been, but we still have such a long way to go. We still have cisgender actors playing transgender characters. Our armed forces are still intolerant of trans people. When older generations are shutting doors on gender nonconformists left and right, it can be difficult to imagine them ever understanding a narrative beyond the hetero, cisgendered normative one that has prevailed in this country for centuries.

This begs the question: in a nation divided on gender, can we bridge the generational gap? I talked with my mom who is a baby boomer — but doesn’t look a day over thirty three — in pursuit of common ground.

Let’s go back to ten years ago. How did you understand gender then?

Mom: Well, there was the binary. There’s male-female, there’s boy stuff-girl stuff. And as a feminist, I never believed that girls couldn’t do some things that boys could do and vice versa. There are no girl careers or boy careers, or girl toys or boy toys, but boy/girl was either/or.

I first became aware of the spectrum when, as you remember, the school I work at accepted two students who were trans.

And who were out.

Who were out, right.

The summer before they were to start [the] ninth grade — I was diversity coordinator, so I had to understand what it meant to be trans. I was given a book that really changed my paradigm completely. It was called “The Transgender Child”, and that’s where I was first introduced to the idea of gender as a spectrum and of gender as being separate from sexuality, as two distinct parts of someone’s identity.

That really made me understand the complexity of it much more than I had before. Before that I understood that people who were transgender were born with the physical sex characteristics, but felt that they were the other gender.

Now, twenty years ago you have two young children — you’re forty. How did you understand gender then?

I think I was even more steeped in the stereotypes of looking at it from a binary perspective. I’d say twenty years ago — I’m embarrassed to admit it — but I thought it was a choice or that there was something disturbed about someone who would dress or present as a gender different from their sex. I’ve learned a lot.

How do you identify in terms of gender?

I identify as a cisgender woman.

What does being a woman mean to you?

It’s kind of hard to answer that because I don’t really have anything to compare it to. It’s just [such a] big a part of my identity that it’s hard to kind of tease it apart and isolate it. Can you come back to that one?

Sure. Are there any moments that make you really aware that you’re a woman?

Well, yes. I think within the last couple of years, especially in the political environment that we’re in, it sometimes feels very frustrating to see what happens when men, especially rich old white men have the power.

For me, I think the #MeToo movement made me re-contextualize what being a woman meant, because I lead a very privileged life, a life in which I am safe and accepted by those around me. But it’s scary sometimes, to be a woman.

Yes. I think it’s even scarier to be a young woman. I feel less threatened at times in public than I did when I was younger.

When I was your age and in my thirties and even forties, there were times when I felt inhibited from doing things because I was a woman alone. I couldn’t run by myself at night…I think it is harder for you as a young woman at times.

On the other hand, I think that young women are so much more powerful today than when I was a young woman. I think young women see their power and feel entitled to it much more than when I was young. On the flip side I think, in the culture we’re in, it can be easier to be a woman when it comes to expressing emotion. Being able to understand how we’re feeling and being able to talk about it… and not only to express feelings but to express gender with fewer constrictions.

People who identify as male have a narrower perimeter of what is accepted in terms of gender expression. This is maybe more true for older men in the U.S., but if you’re a man and you wear feminine clothing — that’s not often accepted. Women can dress in a more masculine way and it can be stylish and fashionable and acceptable.

Have you ever questioned your gender?

No.

Have you ever questioned gender itself?

You mean the concept of gender?

Yeah, the concept of gender.

I think I’ve learned a lot more about it than I thought there was to know within the last several years. Like most people, I grew up steeped in the dichotomy of male or female with nothing in between.

Now I’ve learned over the course of the last several years working in a school that’s had to educate ourselves in order to serve our students the way they should be served, that there’s so much in between the two ends of the spectrum and that there’s a whole range of not just identity, but of expression and behavior. That’s how I’ve grown to understand it.

You know, I feel like there was a learning curve for me as well. Binary trans-ness was a concept that was very easy for me to understand. I learned about it in middle school, from “This American Life” actually, where they did an episode on trans kids. The binary is so ingrained in our society that I was able to understand [being] trans as long as it was binary. I remember starting college, and I hate to admit it, but I had trouble grasping the concept of nonbinary identity and they/them pronouns. I was one of those people for a short period of time.

Thankfully, I learned, grown, and evolved. But everything is gendered, everything in our world. Like sunglasses, like school supplies and lotion, you know, razors. Everything that we consume is gendered. And it doesn’t need to be.

The power of the media and advertising hasn’t failed to reach the young kids I work with. I have lunch in [the] Early Childhood [department] on Fridays, and I see the girls’ Hello Kitty lunchboxes and the boys’ superhero lunchboxes and I’m sure that they’re saying to their parents, “I want a pink lunchbox, I want a superhero lunchbox.” So they’re being influenced by the media and advertising say boys should have… and girls should have… even as three and four year-olds. Now what they’re learning from their school is very different, and I can hear their learning and understanding of that in their conversations with each other. For example [I’ve heard kids say to each other],“Girls can do that, too.”

[And the other kid says back], “I know girls can do that, too, I just wanted to play with my friend who happens to be a boy.”

You know what I’m saying? They understand and can articulate that there’s an equality. In fact, just today I heard someone say the name Sal and a girl said “Sal can be a girl’s name or a boy’s name” and another kid said “I have an aunt named Sally,” and someone else said, “My neighbor’s name is Salvador.”

You’ve got two perfect examples there.

So this year in our K-1 class they’ve done a lot of work on identity and gender as part of identity, as a piece of it. The kids all made these really cool life-sized portraits that are hung up all around the balcony in the foyer of the new building. It’s really cool looking. They hung smaller self-portraits on these strings [which represented] the [gender] spectrum and the kids put their self portrait where they felt they identified, closer to boy, closer to girl. Some were right at boy, right at girl, and some were right in the middle.

Their expression was clearly one way or the other, but the way they were feeling was a little less binary. And so they talked to the kids about how that can even change day to day. Some days you might be closer to one side or the other, or not. You might say “every day this is how I feel” and that it’s all okay.

That sounds like a really wonderful project.

It was a really good lesson.

And it’s amazing that they’re learning it early.

Well, they’re learning it whether they’re being explicitly taught or not.

You know, I’ve actually questioned my gender before.

Have you?

I have, yeah. What I ultimately came to realize was that I was confusing gender identity and gender expression because I do tend to present in a more androgynous way.

Our society tells us there’s one specific way to be a woman, and I thought if I didn’t fit into that box, then maybe I wasn’t a woman. And it wasn’t just me. Sometimes other people are confused by me. In my classes in college, I remember there was a man who would just never use any pronouns for me. It was a theater class and he was directing us at one point and he was like, “Okay, Nora’s gonna go over here and Nora’s gonna do this and Nora’s gonna do that,” and I remember thinking, “You are playing a strange game.”

Still, I feel really lucky to have a community of people who I can talk openly with about gender. And at the end of the day, I take a lot of pride in being a queer woman and in being a woman who presents in a way that is not always deemed acceptable and is sometimes frowned upon.

I hope that even if there’s one kid in the afterschool program I work at who is, one day poised with a razor in the shower about to shave their legs and stops and thinks, “Oh wait, I had that one afterschool teacher who didn’t shave her legs. Maybe I don’t have to shave mine.” If I can be that for one kid, I will have done my job.

I think you already have been just by being there for them to see. You’re that window for them.

I’m the window.

And I’m sure there are kids for whom you are a mirror.

I hope so.

* * *

Photos (in order of appearance) by Adyana Covelli, Kate Phillips, and Antonia Adomako.

Thank U, Next

I’m so fuckin’ grateful for my ex…

___

I was supposed to lose my virginity when I turned twenty-three. Not necessarily on my birthday, just within shooting range of my “Jordan year.”

There was neither a plan nor itinerary attached to the event except to find a consenting partner and to do the deed. According to my timeline, revised over years of restless nights and diet consultations with an eating disorder, twenty-three gave me enough time to become desirable — that is to say twenty-three years gave me enough time to lose weight. And not just the physical weight on my body, but the emotional weight of living on the margins of normality as a fat, black, queer teenager.

Twenty-three felt distant enough from seventeen that I could manifest my future, one that was completely in my control and within the realm of reality. I forgot that this was imagination.

I was nineteen when I actually lost my virginity. The dawning of the digital dating age expedited that process with access to the world (at least anyone within a 100 mile radius of my current location) and effectively deluded my perceptions of desire. Of the millions of fish in the sea, I am destined to catch at least one. There’s someone for everyone, right?

Logan happened to be someone.

We were both nineteen, attending university in North Carolina, looking for “fun and seeing wherever it goes” on Tinder. Tinder was less intimidating than other gay, hook up apps like Grindr — which required too much experience. Top? Bottom? Kink? Right now? All questions I couldn’t possibly answer without having the experience to know for sure. Tinder was safe and so was Logan: 5’9”, white, blonde with dark eyes. Handsome but not so much that he was unattainable. And most importantly, we matched.

Logan was into bears. He mentioned it during a flirty text exchange. It wasn’t a “thing” — it was just how his cookie crumbled.

Up until meeting Logan, my sexual partners had all been fat. But I was not attracted to fat people. I had no desire to be with people who reflected the physical traits I disdained. I avoided any pornography that featured fat bodies. And that cognitive dissonance made arousal with those partners impossible. My options were slim, and I found myself in a rush to the virginity finish line.

We met at his university, a forty minute drive from mine. Logan was shy in person, almost sheepish. His bold, well-calculated responses via text fell flat in person. It often felt like I eclipsed him. He gave me a long tour of campus, pointing out which fraternities had the highest population of queer folks, then showing me where he had sex for the first time. And finally we stopped in the arboretum where I would bloom for him.

I remember refusing to take my shirt off. Logan gracefully placed my hands on the bed and took it off for me. His eyes traveled from my forehead down to my neck and then to my chest. He stopped there.

It was the first time that someone admired that part of my body. Desired it. And there, in those five seconds, I understood desire — there were no doubts, no questions. Just an incredible security and safety in the gaze of my partner. I worked years to de-sexualize my body — to deny it pleasure and the sanctity of love. Though the shame lingered, I decided to surrender to desire in this moment. And that became the duality of my sexual experiences thereafter: a persistent feeling of inadequacy despite partners who expressed their sexual interest.

After that first encounter, I made up for lost time, treating myself to hours of bear porn, Tumblr hoes, snapping nude selfies, feeling and exploring all of the darkest and least “admirable” parts of my body. This was an expedition, a series of small explorations and trips around myself.

Porn helped. Seeing fat bodies represented as sexual, autonomous, and confident dedicated me to the process of knowing, feeling, and sharing myself. It forced me to confront what I already knew: I’m fucking hot. Affirmations from my partner helped, too, but nothing fulfilled me more than my own sex. I was drunk on myself, the hangover cured by the embrace of a man more sure of my beauty than I was.

After we ended our relationship I remember feeling an intense loneliness.

In my solitude I returned to moments in our partnership that went ignored for the sake of companionship. I remembered asking if my penis was big enough for him. And asking if he was sure his attraction wasn’t momentary. I remembered comparing myself to his other partners — was I too fat? Was I not fat enough? The years after our separation looked and sounded the same. Why was I not good enough for him? But I never asked why I was not good enough for myself.

To be desired is to not ask if you are desirable. It is a state of knowing, reinforced by depictions from television and magazines and peers and porn. So the under-representation of people like me — fat, queer, and black — on television, in magazines and in porn enforces more than a lack of societal desire: it erases me. How does one exist in the absence of himself? And so I am: absent.

Logan helped me to see myself.

Literally. I had never seen myself, at least in a way that I wanted to. Our relationship was the first time I gave into myself, but at the expense of attaching my value to his desire. When he didn’t want me, I didn’t want myself. And that’s the weight so many fat bodies bear — without any affirmations of our beauty from the world around us, we must rely on ourselves to define the standard, or else all of our desire is contingent upon the pursuit of our fetishized bodies.

One may argue that all attraction is fetish. But try explaining that to a fat, black queer person who is consistently reminded of their marginalized status in a world that only seeks their sex in the shadows.

Thank you, Logan, for walking me to the door that I would open and find myself. And find many selves. And selves yet to be touched or desired.

Thank you, next…

___

Art by Emily Millar.

My Pussy is More of a Britney Spears Than a Kate Upton

Rediscovering my sexuality after getting diagnosed with herpes.

___

It was the first week of 2019 and I was laying on my boyfriend’s couch with my legs splayed open, trying to get a better look at my vagina.

With my legs in the air, I balanced my iPhone between my feet, using its flash to shed some light on my “situation.” I winced. I was inspecting my vagina in an attempt to find the source of the pain I had been experiencing for nearly two days. It was a pain that felt entirely foreign to me, and which, despite my best efforts, had amplified.

Every time I went to the bathroom, it burned. Even the slightest touch left me reeling. Neither sitting nor standing nor walking offered any relief, and though I tried to push my hypochondriacal tendencies aside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was actually wrong.

Looking intently at my vagina, I noticed two small sores near its opening. They weren’t menacing, exactly, but they were certainly shocking, and they were indicative of a problem I wasn’t yet ready to come to terms with. Everything else looked swollen and red and entirely unlike the vagina I had known and loved — I was stunned.

I quickly booked the next available appointment at the nearest gynecologist, and the following morning my fears were confirmed: “Looks like a classic case of genital herpes,” she said.

Happy fucking New Year.

Over the next few days, the sores began to multiply as the virus took effect, and my vagina morphed into something completely alien that I could no longer recognize as my own. I became fixated on examining this strange new vulva and mentally cataloging all of the changes it underwent. Had the pain not served as a reminder that my genitals and I were connected, I would have felt like a third-party observer — like someone who becomes entranced by a car wreck, but who doesn’t bear the emotional repercussions because they don’t know anyone involved. While I no longer felt a personal connection to my pussy, I didn’t have the option to forego the emotional repercussions. The pain kept me tethered to my new reality– a reminder that, on some level, this was my fault, and I would have to take ownership of the pussy that lay before me.

Maybe it’s vanity, or maybe it’s a well-fed ego, but the physical changes to my vagina seemed to take a larger toll on my mental health than the sores did.

Sure the pain was intense, but the dysphoria I experienced upon looking down at my vagina was difficult to reconcile. My “porn star pussy,” as one ex had dubbed it, had always been a point of pride for me. To me, she was attractive: discrete, symmetrical, and perhaps a bit mysterious. The sort of pussy that never feared having sex with the lights on or being naked in a women’s locker room. The sort of pussy that never felt inclined to Google “is my vagina normal?” I always thought that if my pussy were a celebrity, she would be Kate Upton — obvious hot girl with girl-next-door charm.

And what about everything we’d been through together?

She had been a loyal and adventurous comrade through many o’ late night romps. She had been patient when dozens of men failed to find (or even look for) her clitoris. She had endured razor burns and amateur bikini waxes, periods that felt more like hemorrhages, G-strings that hugged her a little too tightly, and an endless slew of incorrectly inserted tampons. Hell, she was even a survivor of sexual assault.

But here she was, bruised by a little bout of herpes. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed in her for going down without a fight, or me for putting her in this situation in the first place. I felt no synchronicity between myself and the part of my body with which it had always been the easiest to connect.

As the days passed, I worried that I had lost my porn star pussy forever. That sex would never be enjoyable again, and that even when the sores healed, things would always be “different.”

To add insult to injury, the pain seemed only to worsen. I created a contraption out of a sliced up water bottle just to prevent pee from cascading over my sores every time I used the bathroom. It was one of those things that felt embarrassing, even when I was the only one there to witness it.

Amidst all of the pain and embarrassment, I tried to keep moving forward. I found solace in oversharing, in telling my friends about my herpes and my experience. I quickly discovered that, for me, herpes was like the opposite of Tinker Bell; the more attention I paid it, the weaker it became. I started incorporating herpes jokes into my Sunday night stand-up shtick, knowing that 1 in 6 audience members could probably relate. Even if they couldn’t, I was putting a face on the “Hot Girls With Herpes” movement, and I felt a strange sort of bravery for doing so.

Before contracting herpes I had always assumed that getting an incurable STI would be the end of life as I knew it. Herpes, especially, seemed incredibly daunting. It is the go-to STI for scaring teens into abstinence and warning women about the dangers of being “too slutty.”

I distinctly remember sitting in my high school health class as dozens of students screamed in horror when a 3×5 foot projection of genital herpes lit up the chalkboard. I was convinced that anyone who contracted it would become a social pariah. However, once I became infected with herpes, it didn’t seem all that life-altering. Sure it was ugly and painful, but it certainly didn’t result in my societal isolation. In fact, several of my friends had been quietly living with genital herpes for years, and were more than happy to share their tips of the trade. Herpes, as I discovered, is far more menacing when shrouded in mystery than it is on the flesh.

After about two weeks, the sores began to heal.

I watched in amazement as my porn star pussy made her triumphant return to the spotlight; her resilience was uncanny. I almost felt foolish for doubting her. What had seemed like irreversible damage had faded away to reveal the precise pussy I had always recognized as my own, but this time, she was stronger. I realized that her celebrity persona wasn’t Kate Upton after all — Kate simply lacked the depth of my pussy. She was more like Britney Spears: a divorced mother of two who overcame an addiction problem and reclaimed her place on the throne, hot as ever.

Of course, I would never overcome herpes entirely, but knowing that my pussy and I could withstand its wrath, fostered a deeper connection between us. My dysphoria turned into a re-centering, and I felt confident that my mental revival had catalyzed my physical one.

I often categorize my life into a series of “before and after”s. Who I was and who I became resulting from my experiences — things like living abroad, my parents’ divorce, and my first real heartbreak — each landmark an era of becoming that has changed me irreversibly. I assumed getting herpes would be another one of those “before and after”s, that I would look back on herpes-free Jessie and feel that, in some consequential way, I was different. That my vagina, my sexuality, and my personal connection to both could never feel quite as strong.

Instead, contracting herpes became an exercise in my ability to remain unchanged — to reconsider the idea that having an STI made me any less sexy, funny, desirable, smart, or womanly. That the aesthetic value of my vagina was indicative of my sexual prowess. That my personhood could, in any way, be shaken by the presence of a few open sores. Herpes was a bold reminder that I was placing too much stock in others’ perceptions of my desirability, and that this mindset, more so than my herpes, was making me sick.

Contracting herpes made me realize that perhaps a porn star pussy is not a pussy after all, but a commitment to coexisting peacefully with the most unlovable parts of yourself. And I think that’s something worth spreading.

First photo by Eileen Kelly, the following two by Dina Veloric.

No Labels

I think I first noticed it when I was 11 years old.

The Sims computer game was my religion. I created families. I killed families. I made my first elementary school crush, and made him marry my Sim-self. I learned every cheat code, and got every expansion pack over the course of several years. I learned how to make couples have sex, and despite not being able to see any details apart from rustling covers and tiny fireworks, it gave me a feeling, a pressure, deep inside my stomach.

The Sims taught me a lot about adulthood, such as the importance of a smoke detector, and why you have to check your mail every day to make sure you pay your bills on time. I also learned that if you wanted to get another $10,000 for a hot tub, you’d have to make a family move in with you and then murder them. But most importantly, I learned that two women could love each other.

One day my mother found me making two female sims cuddle on the bed. She wouldn’t let me play again for two weeks. I didn’t know what to say to make her less concerned — would she have punished me if my Sims happened to be a man and woman? How could I explain to her that, just because I loved watching two women together romantically, I didn’t want that for myself?

I had always been a curious child. Being the youngest of three, I was exposed to a sort of PG-13 lifestyle. I remember watching Grease for the first time, couples making out in the back of their baby blue Chevrolet — it was exciting. I was fascinated by the idea of bodies, particularly bodies being together. I was obsessed with what little I knew about sex, and I thought that penises — whatever they were — were hilarious. I assumed I was supposed to like boys, so I did. Turns out I liked girls first, in a way I wouldn’t be able to understand for a long time.

Nick and I were Facetiming for what must have been the fifth day in a row. I was 13 years old and thought that staying up until 2AM talking on the phone to a boy was the epitome of “grown-up.” We chatted while I scrolled through my Tumblr. Out of nowhere, I stumbled upon a short blurry GIF of two women, naked… together.

I let it play out maybe five or ten times. Then I clicked on the blog, revealing an endless stream of photos and videos. Nothing was blurred — nothing was left to the imagination, yet my imagination was running wild.

Nick was still talking, his laugh brought me back to reality. I was short of breath. I had completely forgotten that I wasn’t alone. After a string of half-ass excuses, I hung up, giving myself a moment to take in what was in front of me. The light from the screen lit up my face, and the darkness, which hid the rest of my body, felt comforting.

My parents were asleep, and carried by this new feeling, I was unashamed. The wooden chair in front of the computer was big enough for two of me. It was painted bright green and sanded back on the edges by my mother. Its structure held me up while I sank into it, my head tilted as not to break eye contact with these women, who looked at each other as if nothing else in the world mattered. And to me, nothing else in the world mattered.

I practiced every night, late enough so I wouldn’t have to worry about disruption, but early enough that I had time to figure out what the fuck I was doing. What the fuck was I doing? After I had my first orgasm, the shame brought me back to reality.

I typed…

“Does watching lesbian porn make me gay?” Enter.

I scrolled until I found the source that told me what I wanted to hear. I think it read something like: ‘Not necessarily, it just means penises and men aren’t something you’re attracted to.’

“Straight porn” Enter. Click. Exit.

Okay, so I’m not gay — I just don’t like penises.

In the shower, I thought, Don’t panic Caroline, it’s going to be fine. This is just going to be a secret you’re going to have to keep for the rest of your life.

Go figure.

In high school, I’d get drunk with my best friend and all I could think about was kissing her. I hoped she wanted to kiss me, too. It happened once in the back of our friend’s car while he was doing donuts in a parking lot, but she was so drunk and the cops came and made us go home — which probably overshadowed her memory the next day. We never spoke about it after that.

One afternoon, we were sitting outside when she asked me if I was interested in dating women. I was so embarrassed I spent 20 minutes tripping over my words trying to explain that, No! I was not attracted to women, but because I believe in sexual fluidity, and I wouldn’t be opposed if the situation came to be.

To this day, I’ve only ever dated men. I’ve only ever been with men. In high school, I wore push up bras and lacey underwear. I pretended I wanted to suck their dicks. I kissed them the way Cosmopolitan told me to. I couldn’t open my eyes, because if I had, then I would have laughed. Men and their sexuality was laughable to me. So rigid, so expressionless. No passion, no response — it made me feel nothing. Their fingers made me feel nothing, and their dicks were so one dimensional. I gave my body to boys because I wanted to be liked and I wanted to feel beautiful and I didn’t want to be gay, because being gay was absolutely terrifying.

I didn’t love dick for a long time. I didn’t love dick until I started to love myself, and I’m not sure whether or not that’s a coincidence. It didn’t matter though, I would still let them inside of me and I still pretended to moan. At the time, I couldn’t possibly imagine dating a woman. Men were easy to understand, and it was easy to make them like me and I had a textbook of dating vernacular already established. What language did women speak? And more importantly, how could I learn it?

I came out as bisexual to a handful of people during my freshman year of college, a year into my last relationship. It feels good to say, even though I hardly say it to anyone.

I watch straight porn now. My experience with men has become more than just an experience I think I’m supposed to have. The dick that I engage with engages with me too. But there is always something inherent within this sex that holds me back from pure, unapologetic sexual pleasure… a feeling that my pleasure comes second to men, their comfort above mine. Although, lesbian porn will always be special to me. It showed me selfless pleasure, and it showed me selfish pleasure — it was the first pleasure that I didn’t owe to a man.

Sometimes I’m insecure. What kind of bisexual only dates men? How could you possibly be attracted to women if you’ve never had sex with one?

I find it easier to just not acknowledge my sexuality than to answer their questions.

Photos by Lia Madeline.

A Valentine’s Day Game

Save an Uber, Ride a Cowboy is a column exploring queer millennial sex culture. The stories presented here are based on true events. Identities have been changed to protect the privacy and reputation of those involved.

Sean leaned back on the couch, still in the new fur coat he had just finished showing off. Given that it only cost him $20 from L Train Vintage, Reed wasn’t too impressed. “So where’s your man tonight, mama?” Sean asked.

It was Valentine’s day, and Reed was sharing his chocolate with Sean, someone he most definitely would not share anything else with because they were both just friends and just bottoms.

“He wanted to sleep early tonight, claims he’s busy with work and all,” Reed popped a chocolate in his mouth but kept talking, he couldn’t shut up when it came to Scott.

“I’m not mad. We had planned to hang today, but I’m trying to play it cool. You gotta be patient when you’re fishing in a big one. And I’m reeling him all the way in…” Reed was still motioning a fishing reel when Sean showed him his phone.

“Well, it looks like he’s gone fishing too, sis.”

Sean was on Grindr, as usual, and the profile he was showing Reed made no sense considering Scott had shown Reed only a week ago that he had deleted the app — which Reed interpreted as a declaration of love. But there was Scott’s picture, the one with his arm wrapped across his body to make his bicep look bigger.

Fuming, Reed pulled up his own account to find Scott. “This makes no sense. He literally showed me he deleted both Grindr AND Tinder.” Reed launched into a recounting of the coffee shop date they were on when it happened. It was raining in Cobble Hill and Laura Linney was at a table by the window as it all went down.

“I mean… it did seem a bit performative, because even then he insisted on not being in a monogamous relationship.” At the time Reed had decided not to delete his various dating apps until Scott wanted to be monogamous. Scott seemed fine with it, but now Reed was realizing he couldn’t find him on the app.

“Holy shit, he blocked me,” exclaimed Reed, ellicting only a snort from Sean. Both boys decided to message Scott, Reed via text and Sean via Grindr.

Right away Sean got a response. “Ohhh girrrlll, he already messaged me.” Reed leaped onto the couch beside him.

“He said he just wants a quick fuck before bed.” But then Reed’s phone chimed with a different story. According to his text, Scott wasn’t feeling good and going to sleep soon.

Reed panicked. He was flailing at this dream job and struggling in his classes as well. Through all of it, a cute boy felt like the only thing Reed really had going for him. If he didn’t have Scott what would he do?

Sean wasn’t exactly the kind of friend Reed could lean on with these troubles — none of his friends were for that matter. It’s this isolation that made the thought of losing someone Reed had pinned all of his hope on unbearable.

Reed didn’t know what to do, but his mind was honed in on Scott now. There was no way he could just sit and gossip with Sean the rest of the night. In a few minutes the boys had donned jackets, Sean trading his fur for more practical denim, and headed out the door. The city wasn’t too cold for February, and the nearly full moon made them feel restless — restless enough to pop on over to Scott’s and see what he was really up to.

“He has a giant open window to his room you can see into from the street,” Reed said laying out his plan, “we can sit at the 7/11 across from his apartment and see who he decides to spend Valentine’s with.” To Sean’s disgust Reed started smoking a cigarette (Juuls had yet to be created, and he liked to do something while he walked). Sean considered going home but 9-something felt too early, plus he secretly enjoyed watching this train wreck unfold.

The boys continued to pour over Scott’s Grindr messages while they moved. Sean was typing whatever Reed told him to when he suggested, “maybe you should see if he’ll fuck you.”

Sean was floored. “What the fuck. Isn’t he into BDSM and shit? I’m not trying to mess with all that.” (Reed suddenly regretted telling Sean about that time Scott playfully requested to fist him.)

“No, he won’t do anything to crazy with you if he doesn’t know you,” Reed pleaded, “I haven’t shown him a picture of you so he wouldn’t even know that we know each other.”

“Girl, why the fuck do you want me to fuck your man?” Sean was incredulous, but Scott was hot and it had been a while since he had any good action.

“Better you than some random, right?” Reed shrugged. “And this way, I’ll have definite proof he fucked someone else, so I can call him on his lies when he denies it.” The boys went back and forth like this for a few blocks, Sean vacillating between indignation and consideration.

Soon they were at the Scott’s building, but Sean still wasn’t convinced that he wanted to include himself in this drama. The window to Scott’s room on the fourth floor was still unblocked, providing them a view of Scott on his bed.Reed was getting frantic thinking a boy might have already gone in without them seeing.

“Girl, just do it! You know he’s hot. He has a great dick. And you were on Grindr anyways…” Reed continued to push Sean, feeling the terror of losing control of yet another aspect of his life.

After a few more minutes of pushing, and a few more Grindr messages, Sean relented: he would give Scott a blowjob.

Reed watched his friend cross the street, on his way to suck off his sort-of-boyfriend. Excitement replaced his initial panic. He hated Scott now — if he wanted to play games, Reed would play dirty. He saw no other way. If he was going to lose Scott, he would make sure it was his choice. He would have the control.

From the other side of the block, Reed watched Scott pin up the quilt that served as a window curtain while trying to push down what was beginning to feel like regret. More than anything, he just wished it was him up there. Reed had tried so hard to be what Scott wanted, memorizing his favorite Vine references, biting his tongue when Scott criticized a movie he liked, and letting Scott bite him even though he wasn’t into it.

Instead of watching the giant windows of Scott’s “modern” apartment building, one of those hideous brick blocks rented out exclusively by Nooklyn to the gentrifying crowd, Reed went in the gas station to grab a snack. He couldn’t even enjoy his 7/11 hotdog thinking about how out of control this situation felt. Already he knew he shouldn’t have pushed Sean onto Scott like that.

What was the point? Reed was so scared of being alone, but all he seemed capable of was scaring people away. Reed wasn’t sure how to climb out of this spiral, but soon Scott would wise up and jump ship. (Because, of course getting your friend to blow your man isn’t the way to keep him.)

Sean would soon move home — just for a few months to save money, he promises. And Reed would look for a new guy to unload his emotional baggage on and hinge his happiness to.

All art by Jared Freschman.

The Erasure of Teen Sexuality in Film

Teenagers fuck, right?

This seems like a universal truth. Our adolescence is a critical period of sexual discovery, experimentation, and foundational growth. The experiences we have throughout our youth inform the way we will perceive our own bodies, romantic relationships, and intimacy later in life. So why do movies about teenagers get it so monumentally, hilariously wrong?

There is a dichotomy in films that handle teen subjects. Sometimes, the characters are presented as sexless, chaste automatons. Movies like Love, Simon and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before take this approach. Whatever sexual behavior or intimacy depicted in films like these is marginal and brief. Haphazard make outs and uncomfortable first kisses are offered up as if to allude to the fact that, yes, these kids do indeed fuck — or at least, will at some point. But, they stop just short of ever depicting any genuine expression of sexual intent or behavior.

Why does this happen?

On one hand, depicting underage sexual behavior will more likely than not leave your teen-oriented film with an R rating, thus limiting its reach and scope of audience. Most sixteen-year-olds won’t even be able to legally see the film. On the other hand, America has a habit of brushing its legions of horny teens under the rug. In his (amazing) essay, “Afternoon of the Sex Children”, culture critic Mark Greif pinpoints the general attitude with which teen sexuality is treated by the adult arbiters of American culture: “…yet in public we want to believe that children are not prepared for sex as we are, do not understand it, and have a special, fragile, glassy truth inside them that will be endangered by premature use — as if the pearls of highest value for us, our chase after sex, our truth of ‘sexuality,’ should not also be the treasure for them.” This is where the cognitive dissonance lies.

In public, moralists shun honest and wholly natural explorations of teen sexuality as being pornographic or shameful. Yet, in private, these same moralists fondly look back upon their own youthful experiences as part of the greater tapestry of their adult sexual development. These experiences can only be enjoyed and appreciated once adulthood has been reached and the taboo has been lifted. But the fact of the matter is, teens are having sex before being able to contextualize these experiences in a lifetime’s worth of sexual encounters. Thus, in an effort to appease both the moralists and the wider culture, filmmakers attach figurative chastity belts to their teen protagonists.

The other method used to depict teen sexuality is equally misinformed. The kids found in these films are deranged, maniacal sex freaks looking to get off anywhere and in any manner they can. Boys are presented as frothing-at-the-mouth perverts hellbent on “punching their v-card” or getting head. Girls are Greek nymphs, running from their pursuers with perky, voluptuous breasts and perfectly manicured vaginas in tow. Some examples of this approach can be found in films like American Pie, Not Another Teen Movie, and Superbad. While they may be fundamentally more honest than the spayed-and-neutered approach previously discussed, these films also fail to paint an honest and relatable picture of teen sexuality.

Did we all, more than likely, spend a lot of time thinking about sex as adolescents? Yes (most of us do as adults, too).

Did we all behave in the way presented in films like these? Mostly, no.

This approach to the presentation of teen sexuality is unhelpful because it is generally unrelatable for countless kids and can set unrealistic expectations regarding our high school sexual development. It’s a carnal caricature of youth that most people simply don’t and can’t relate to.

None of the films I’ve discussed here are necessarily bad films (maybe Love, Simon — but that’s a topic for another piece). They simply portray sexuality in a mythic way that does not speak to the way sexuality exists today for most of America’s teens. I want to see movies that show sex and intimacy in all its configurations. Teen sex needs to be portrayed as what it is. At different times and all at once, it can be awkward, passionate, life-changing, boring, uncomfortable, painful, freeing. It can be awkward makeouts, clandestine car-hookups, or intimate firsts in bed. Sex can lead us to better understand ourselves and others — and it can lead us into trouble. Sex is not good or evil. Sex is sex.

But teen sex is still sex. So, let’s start treating it as such.

First two photos by Haley Hasan, and the third by Brianna Saenz.