Being Alone With Arousal

Note: this post talks about my eating disorder, including mentions of purging through vomiting, and my experiences of being sexually abused, including subsequent dissociation and general difficulty being alone with arousal. If any of those are tough for you, give this one a miss – I’ll be back on Saturday with a post about why you might find more autistic people than you’d expect in your local kink scene!


My fear of wanking came up in eating disorder therapy.

This is not wholly a surprise. Lots of things come up in eating disorder therapy, because eating disorders are deeply rooted, born of decades of cultural conditioning, dysfunctional coping mechanisms and adverse childhood experiences. But the more I’ve reflected on it, the more I’ve come to realise that my fear of wanking and my fear of food are two heads on the same beast.

One common starting point for eating disorder therapy is to consider what we’re actually afraid of. In my first round of it, two years ago, we unpacked a lot of my internalised fatphobia and my fear of taking eating to its extremes, which is an offshoot of my anxiety: it’s pretty common to consider the logical, if unlikely, extremes in any scenario. But I only got six sessions, and we didn’t have time to dive any deeper.

This time, I get a whole eight.

The thing that scares me about food is that I enjoy it. Enjoying things, I have learned, is scary and dangerous and often has real and terrible consequences. Having lived with abusers during a few critical formative periods, I learned and internalised that nothing good is without cost and that the more pleasant the calm is before the storm, the more devastating the storm will be. Best not to let my guard down, enjoy anything too much, or trust my senses to tell me when something is safe or nice.

Then there’s the complicating factor of having learned to wank through being groomed. As well as reinforcing my existing belief that my own sensory pleasures must always come at a cost, it created some really specific associations between the physical act of masturbation and a strong sense of danger. Specifically, fucking myself with an object when nobody is watching feels so wrong that it’s akin to practising a secret handshake on your own,  and fucking myself with fingers is very much the same. If there’s no webcam between my legs, nobody watching my face and nobody talking dirty to me – if there’s no audience to validate my pleasure and benefit from it – it not only feels asymmetrical and disconcerting, but dangerous.

Indulgence has always led to violence in my life.

I am now, of course, free of all the abusers who have made and reinforced that connection, but that doesn’t undo it. It’s wired into my brain like the connection between an object flying at one’s face and one’s inclination to duck. And because I’ve had so much else going on, and so many spectators available to me, I haven’t had time to rewire it.

Being horny alone feels like being in pain. It’s frightening and distracting and I don’t want it. If I do attempt to masturbate, I usually dissociate, failing to orgasm and also failing to feel my own face or entirely remember where I am. If I don’t, I have this constant nagging sensation somewhere in my physiology that feels like an alarm going off, reminding me that indulgence is possible, and therefore, so is danger.

I am fucking sick of it.

I wrote out a plan for a Masturbation Boot Camp (and yes, I titled it exactly that) which instructs me to spend day zero practising mindfulness, day seven touching my body and exploring sensation, and day fourteen actively attempting to come, with every day in between requiring an incremental step towards these goals. I showed it to my tipsy, dyslexic girlfriend, who saw straight through me and said, “And how much of this is procrastination so you don’t actually have to wank?”

It’s a great idea and it’s one I’m going to try, but she’s right. I live in fear of my body and the pleasure I can experience within it, and even the idea of self-massage or watching porn for fun fills me with sickening dread. I suck at most mindfulness activities because, between the chronic pain, the chronic trauma and the violations I’ve been subject to when I have indulged in pleasure, I don’t want to be in my body. I don’t want to ground myself in it. It’s a horrible place to be.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any other vessels to contain my soul (this is a Kingdom Hearts joke), so I’ve got to get used to this one.

I’m getting better at indulging in food, and even at indulging in food without punishing myself. Sometimes I devour cheap kebabs with gusto, and sometimes I go halvsies on a £27 Hotel Chocolat Easter egg with my partner and savour tiny mouthfuls of gourmet chocolate. I’ve managed to bully myself out of the bulimic practice of purging my meals – at first, this was because I was and am on oral hormonal birth control, and consider it a consent violation to jeopardise that without notifying anybody who might jizz in me, but over time, once I’d detached the act of eating from the act of puking, the mere hassle of purging became enough to deter me from it. Eating can still be a challenge, but it’s a rewarding one.

I’ll get back to y’all about my success with Masturbation Boot Camp. I’m hoping it’ll be a challenge, but a rewarding one, and I’ll learn to indulge in self-pleasure like I’m about to indulge in a sliver of salted caramel chocolate.

Smut Saturdays #12 – Girls Are Just Different

Stock image of a light purple orchid which looks vaguely similar to a vulva in sharp focus, with a blurry greenish background

I should write more about fucking girls. I should also write more about fucking cunts. (Not everyone with a cunt is a girl; not every girl has a cunt.) And at the moment, I have been thinking a lot about fucking girls who have cunts (usually, these are cis girls) and how much I enjoy it.
If I had to choose one gender, or one genital configuration, to fuck for the rest of my life, I sincerely don’t know if I could do it. (Being autistic and indecisive, I’d probably become overwhelmed, cry a bit and never fuck anybody again.) I am nigh-on obsessed with my Daddy’s cock, and foreskin, and the taste of cum; but I’m equally fond of slick, swollen cunts, tits bouncing in the same rhythm as whichever dildo I’m wielding, soft inner thighs I can bite and pinch…
The thing is, it’s easier to write about fucking dudes. I’ve done more of it, and I have a sort of script that I’m happy to stick to: rough making out, a bit of dick sucking, maybe getting choked a little bit, and then PIV til I come and so does he. Sometimes I deviate from this, but not often. I have a lot of data on how being penetrated by a cock feels, on how the weight of an erection in my hand makes me sigh with impatient wanting, on how I respond to getting pounded by someone who’s capable of pinning me to the bed one-handed.
I’ve fucked girls before, including girls with cunts and girls without ‘em, but not nearly as frequently. This is largely due to my own fear of “doing it wrong” and my complicated relationship to topping clashing with my intense desire to beat the life out of consenting women. I rarely, if ever, want to bottom to girls (partly because the kinds of girls I’m attracted to are usually natural bottoms/subs anyhow), and I’m still having to work hard on topping anybody without getting the nervous giggles and/or the irrepressible urge to curl up and sob. Even disregarding that, it’s a lot harder, statistically speaking, to find girls who want to play with my vagina than it is to find boys who want the same thing. My nervousness around topping and my nervousness around writing things I’m not convinced are well-researched enough have created a relative dearth of non-cock-centric content on my blog, which in turn has created a sense of guilt and queer Impostor Syndrome in me that I cannot shake.
All of this is to say that today, I will write in detail about fucking girls.
I just love cunts. (I love girl dicks too, but that’s a discussion for another day.) I love the sensation of a hardened clit under my tongue and the process of turning a girl on so her labia majora puff up with arousal. I love slipping my hand into a girl’s pants and feeling slick, hot desire. I love the way that girls’ knees drift apart when they want you to put a finger in them. I love the word “cyprine” and I love licking it off my fingers. I love the give, the squish in a girl’s G-spot when it’s as swollen as her clit is, and I love pressing, massaging, fucking it with my fingers until I feel and hear her cum.
And that’s just the cunt!
I also love how soft girls are. It doesn’t matter how much they weigh or what their skincare routine is; they’re just indescribably soft in a way that boys never are. I love the way that girls kiss, their lips as hesitant as butterflies, their tongues as gentle as their hands. I love the way girls’ tits look when I tie their wrists above their heads, rounded and lifted, and I also love the way tits look when their owner is slouching on my bed, spilling down their torsos, as relaxed and warm as can be. I love the amount of lovebite real estate bigger tits provide and I love the extra pain I can cause by pinching smaller ones. I love touching, kissing, biting or squeezing every inch of a girl other than the square six or so that constitute her vulva, perineum and anus, sucking on the shelf of flesh at the top of her thigh until she’s all but thumping her mons pubis into my head with desperation. I love teasing the anus first, providing we’ve talked about that, and moving lube-soaked fingers up and down the perineum while keeping my eyes focused on my partner’s face. I love girls’ faces, their widening eyes and their trembling lips and the colour rising in their cheeks, the way they sometimes shyly cover them up with their hands when they’re close to coming (like I do when I’m bottoming) and the way their mouths stretch open when I’ve tied up their wrists and covering up just isn’t an option. And I love the way girls’ lips look stretched around a dildo, whether it’s strapped on to me or in my worn-out hand after fucking them with it, and I love the way that they look covered in my own cum, when they look up from between my legs and smile proudly at the sight of me recovering from an orgasm.
I love the fact that every girl I fuck is different, but they all have things in common. I love the fact that our genitals match so I know my way around the neighbourhood, but our experiences differ so I still have to stop and ask for directions now and again. I love that girls giggle at my stupid jokes even when I’m telling them from between their legs. I love the camaraderie of fucking someone whose gender is near to mine and the affirmation of it not being exactly the same. I love cuddling with girls and commiserating about periods and the patriarchy and feeling like best friends and beyond.
And I love writing smut about them, so I’ll endeavour to do that more often.

What Should I Do With My Body Hair?!

Image is a close up of a white person's skin with dark brown curly hairs growing out of it. It is unclear what body part the image is of.

I grow a lot of body hair.

Not a truly atypical amount for an assigned female, estrogen-influenced person’s body, just kind of… a lot. My hair is thick and dark, so it’s noticeable as soon as it grows in – on my legs, under my arms, along my forearms, between my tits, in a trail down to my mons pubis, and all over my pubic area itself. These are all very typical places for an adult mammal such as myself to sprout hair.

The conundrum is whether I should keep it.

The obvious answer, the one that everybody I ask defaults to, is that it’s my choice, and I should do whatever makes me most comfortable. But therein lies the problem – what makes me most comfortable is changeable and confusing. There are so many components to my comfort that it’s almost indecipherable, and I’m easily overwhelmed – so I figured I’d break down these components in a blog post, partly so that people in similar tangles can come to their own conclusion about their own hair, and partly as therapy for me.

First of all, there’s the gender thing. My gender is… unpredictable. Sometimes I’ll have a masculine-of-centre phase so long, so intense and so dysphoria-laden that I’ll genuinely consider medically changing my body through HRT or surgery… but then the pendulum will swing and I’ll find myself watching hours of makeup tutorials, dressing exclusively in skirts and contemplating growing my hair back out to shoulder length.  Equally, sometimes I’m just indifferent to gender and I simply want to do whatever is most convenient. As far as I can tell, my genderswings (y’know, like moodswings, but trans) aren’t linked to any environmental factors (though my masc phases sometimes coincide with lower mood, but that may well be because the low mood is caused by the dysphoria that accompanies my masculinity). There is no way for me to anticipate them, so I just have to maintain a level of androgyny that can be accessorised with to match my moods. Of course, body hair isn’t inherently gendered, but it’s perceived by other people as masculine and it feels masculine to me – so when I run into a masc phase the day after I’ve shaved my pits bare, I’m disgruntled. Luckily, my body hair grows fairly quickly, so as long as a masc phase lasts longer than a few days, I can revel in my hairy armpits for at least a little while.

That is, until the sensory side of it becomes unbearable. Autistic people can be acutely sensitive to particular stimuli – and, in my case, I’m hypersensitive to some tactile inputs. It’s not usually the hair that bothers me, though. I barely register my leg and arm hair, noticing them more by sight than by feel. The two big problems I have are my pits and my pubes. I use stick antiperspirant almost exclusively (due to my lack of proprioception making it inevitable that I’ll get spray deodorant in my eyes or mouth, as well as having lived with an asthmatic mum and then an asthmatic housemate for most of my deodorant-wearing life) and when you apply that stuff to a hairy armpit, it takes an age to dry, and feels slick and slimy for a ridiculously long time. Application to a bare pit, on the other hand, means that it dries in moments, as well as getting all over the actual skin I’m trying to deodorise, so I don’t have to deal with sweaty pits either. (For the record, I like other people’s sweaty armpits just fine, especially if I’m being sorta headlocked into them – but my own sweaty pits give me the bad autism somethin’ awful.)

Meanwhile, the pubes issue is rooted in a deep hatred for the way that menstrual blood interacts with hair, but is also complicated by vaginal discharge, lube and other people’s sexual fluids whenever those things enter the region. I hate having wet and/or clumped-together hair anywhere, but I have some particularly vivid memories of my labia literally being tangled together by menses-soaked pubes back when I used pads (and had heavy, birth-control-free fourteen-year-old periods, rather than the more manageable ones I have now), so now I keep my pubes trimmed out of habit and fear.

The third and final component of this conundrum is the feminist one. I’ve spent this evening researching criticisms of neoliberal, uncritically choice-oriented feminisms for a module I’m doing at uni, and it solidified what I’ve felt for a long while: that blindly advocating for personal choice in all matters is a woefully lacking feminist strategy, since all our choices are going to be influenced by patriarchal bullshit. To painstakingly remove all my pubic hair in an emulation of porn performers’ genitals (which are, as I understand it, hairless for cinematic convenience more than anything else) and insist that I’m doing it solely for myself, without pausing to consider why I think that emulating porn produced by cishet men counts as an act of self-care… it would be naive at best and wilfully ignorant and apolitical at worst. So instead, I have spent many, many hours agonising over what I should do with my body hair, well aware that I’m taking into account my own aesthetic preferences (influenced by pop culture, porn and patriarchy) and those of others (including people who don’t even see my genitals any more!) alongside the factors I deem more “legitimate” like transness and autism. Then I get myself into a spin about why I don’t prioritise my aesthetic preferences (regardless of where they come from) and whether disregarding what I want to spite the patriarchy is still letting the bastards win, and, and…

And it barely matters. It’s a few square inches of hair that always grows back. The people who get to see my genitals are ones who already understand and respect my feminist principles and who understand that free choice under patriarchy is virtually impossible, so, while we should all be as self-aware as we can, we should also be kind to ourselves and to each other, and save our energy for things that have more real-world consequences than “I have once again had to dredge pubes out of the shower drain in order to prevent overflow”. At the end of the day, in this case, I really should do what makes me feel best – and if that means spending a few minutes before each shower doing a little introspection, feeling around for my confused and abstract gender, and prioritising my sensory needs over the bold statement I could make with my underarm hair, then I think I’m okay with that. I don’t need to have a fixed body hair policy.

I just need to be self-aware, and to be kind to myself.