A Sex-Repulsed Sex Blogger

Content note: this post refers to both self-harm and sexual abuse, but doesn’t go into excruciating detail about either, and of course deals with being sex-repulsed as a result of sexual trauma. If that’s gonna be hard for you, give today’s post a miss – as always, your wellbeing comes first! 💙

I don’t exactly keep it a secret that I’ve experienced sexual abuse. There’s no shame in having been subjected to that, and I try to be vocal about the importance of consent and the devastating effects its absence can have. I talk about struggling to masturbate and about PTSD symptoms like anxiety, hypervigilance and self-hatred, both on and offline. But one thing I feel vulnerable and frightened to post about is the sex repulsion that so often accompanies sexual abuse.

Among my friends, I am the sex nerd. I am known for loving sex – having it, learning about it, celebrating its importance and beauty. I started a sex blog because I love to think about and write about sex. The fact that I sometimes experience severe sex repulsion is not exactly in line with this branding; even though “sex-positive” and “sex-repulsed” don’t have to be mutually exclusive, it feels incongruent and, frankly, embarrassing. My personal branding aside, I’m a human adult in 2021 and to admit that there are times I find even hints of sexual activity decidedly icky kind of makes me cringe. I’m also worried about lending credence to the perception of all promiscuous people as traumatised individuals who secretly hate sex, and themselves for having it, because there are people who have a lot of sex simply because they really like it. Typically, I am one of those people.

Except when I’m not.

There is nothing about experiencing trauma-related sex repulsion that makes you less sex positive. Our brains are great at finding and remembering patterns; the traumatised brain will link various sensory experiences to memories of abuse, so that the same suffering can be avoided in the future. Fear of, or being grossed out by, sex in response to trauma is common and it’s your brain trying to keep you safe, regardless of your values regarding sexual freedom that exist separately from all that. Going through this doesn’t mean you’re weak and it doesn’t mean you’re permanently doomed to be afraid of sex, either; time as well as counselling and other mental health support can help you to tackle that, if it’s something you’d like to work on. With work, you can decouple the sensory experiences of sex from the abject terror and ickiness associated with your trauma, so you can return to enjoying sex (when and if you want to). I know all of this, and I say it to you compassionately, but I struggle to believe it when I say it to myself.

It sneaks up on me. I find my interest in sex education-y content waning, but chalk it up to unusually-limited processing power, and wanting to “save that for when I’ll actually absorb the information”. When my fiancée, who I live with, suggests sex or kink things, I end up giving her a thousand reasons why “not tonight” – I’m tired, my joints hurt, I just ate and my stomach is still full, anything that makes it clear it’s nothing to do with her or my attraction to her. I kind of convince myself that the reason I give her is the only reason, because I don’t want to dig into why sex and kink seem unappealing. I ignore porn on my Twitter timeline and assume it’s because, you know, there’s a lot of porn around and I’m looking for news. Eventually, though, I run out of excuses, or get tired of making them, and I acknowledge that I am experiencing a problem. It becomes apparent that the thought of sex makes me increasingly anxious, and that my own arousal in particular triggers a desire to just turn inside out, escape my own body somehow. Trying to engage with sex and kink when I’m in this state is likely to give rise to thoughts of self-harm, and/or dissociation. And then I have to ask myself: do I care?

Once I’m sufficiently sex-repulsed, usually through a refusal to address whatever is triggering me, sex is scary and gross on an animal level, and it takes effort to walk my brain back to a state of neutrality around it. I realised recently that one of the reasons I typically immerse myself in sex ed materials and kinky communities is so that I can’t reach the level of disconnect I’m currently at, and can instead maintain near-constant contact with the bit of my brain that actually likes and is not scared of sex. Once I’m this far out to sea, though, I’m well aware of how much effort it will take me to swim back, and I’m too disconnected from the liking-sex part of me to actually want to put that effort in, because I can only understand on the most abstract of levels that I will enjoy sex again, but that the longer I wait the harder it is. The more often I’m triggered by sex or kink things, the more closely my brain links sex and suffering, as is always the case with encountering triggers outside of a very purposeful interaction with them. It’s therefore necessary for me to find ways to encounter sex/kink things without spending the whole interaction in fight/flight/freeze/fawn mode, if I can actually find the motivation to arrange those encounters.

So what now? Well, tonight I’m going to a very familiar kink event populated by very familiar people, with the option of hiding or leaving if needs be. Things which are specifically sex-related are really challenging for me to engage with, but the biggest challenge is engaging with my own arousal, so I think a good first step for me is to engage with educational media rather than strictly erotic media. Hopefully, the familiar educators whose content I follow will reassure my brain that sex is not a faraway scary thing, but a familiar and safe part of my life. From there, I also have to, at some point, try to actually do sex things with my actual body. I can’t even contemplate having solo sex yet, so I imagine I’ll end up doing some kink things with my fiancée that maybe do or maybe don’t escalate into sex-and-kink things, since she is also very familiar and safe-feeling. Eventually I’ll be back up to my neck in sex ed stuff, kink plans and orgasms, but I am going to try and take it slowly to avoid reinforcing the stress response.

Wish me luck!

Smut Saturdays #18: Intoxication

Content note: This post goes into detail about intoxication, and sex whilst intoxicated. The ethical implications of pairing intoxication with sex are for another blog post – this one is just supposed to be fantasy-driven smut, but if intoxication squicks you out for any reason, please do give this one a miss 💙

We’re sitting on your sofa. Sort of melting into it, because we’re drinking, but still keeping a careful distance between our respective thighs. No part of us is touching, and the tension is absolutely crushing.

None of what we’re talking about is boring, but my mind keeps wandering. I find myself staring at your neck, your lips, your hands. I don’t know whether or not you notice.

I finish my drink. As with the last two that I finished, you swipe my empty cup off the coffee table almost as soon as it lands. “Another?” you ask, and it finally dawns on me: you’re trying to get me drunk.

I decide in that moment that I’m going to let you, and I say, “Yes, please,” with the most innocent smile I can manage, my mind full of your neck, your lips, your hands…

When you return from the kitchen with a vodka lemonade that’s even stronger than the last one you mixed me, I take it gratefully and resume the entirely vanilla conversation we’d been having. I already feel hazy – antidepressants have made a lightweight of me – but I don’t yet feel brave enough to close the gap between us, so we talk. And I stare. And my mind wanders.

I keep sipping at my eye-wateringly strong drink until it doesn’t taste quite as strong any more. I can feel the heat of tipsiness creeping into my face and I hope you don’t think I’m blushing. I don’t blush. I’m not flustered. I haven’t been closely monitoring the distance between us, watching you fidget yourself closer to me, longing for the moment our knees will touch. Honest.

I fuck up a sentence. I think it’s that I’ve said “par cark” in place of “car park”, like I used to when I was little. I laugh, and I admit, “I’m really tipsy,” and to illustrate my point, I very boldly lean my head on your shoulder, for a moment, while I’m overtaken by a fit of giggles.

“I know,” you say warmly. “You’re also really cute.”

I pull my head up and look you in the eye. Sober Me would find some way to brush the compliment off, or else change the subject. But Drunk Me blurts out, “And hot?”

You nod. “And hot.” You sip your own drink – beer, which is almost definitely not as strong as the vodka lemonade I’m nursing. “Very hot.”

I bite my lip. “So are you, though.” I’m fighting the urge to make sexy eye contact with you while I suck on my straw – but you’ve been stealing glances at my mouth every time I put anything inside it, and that’s been often, since I can’t go ten minutes without chewing on the pen I’ve been fiddling with.

The conversation moves away from how hot you are, but my mind doesn’t. Your neck. Your lips. Your hands, and the things they could do to me.

You say something that requires a response, but the vodka in me has elongated my processing time, and I’m extremely distracted. So instead of answering your question, I just say, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

I once had a creative writing teacher tell me that people don’t smirk in real life nearly as often as they do in fanfiction, and he was right – but the only word for the look on your face right now is ‘smirk’. A suppressed, slightly condescending curve of the lips, as you watch me grow more embarrassed by the second.

“Is that really a good idea?” you ask, an edge of teasing to your voice.

I frown. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re drunk.”

“You got me drunk!” I can’t keep childish indignation out of my voice. “You got me drunk on purpose.”

You feign innocence even less convincingly than I do – or maybe you’re being sarcastic. I get more autistic when I’m tipsy, and I can’t compute subtext, and you know that. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

“Because,” I say, leaning closer to you, “you want me to do a thing like this.”

I press my mouth against yours, clumsily, and I’m about to pull away and apologise for overstepping when you start kissing me back. Enthusiastically. With tongue, and then with your hand on the back of my neck, and then with your teeth digging sharply into my bottom lip, making me squeak in faux-protest.

You pull away first, and you scrutinise my face – probably trying to assess how drunk I am, and whether it’s too drunk to meaningfully consent. But you know how much I like tipsy sex, because you read my blog, and you know how much I like you, because I’ve told you directly. After some excruciatingly long moments of thought, you say, “Maybe that was the plan, yeah.”

And then you kiss me again.

It all blurs together – kissing, tongue, teeth, you pulling my hair, your hands on my waist, my thighs, my tits, getting rougher and rougher as we go. I have my own hand on your thigh, timidly creeping closer to your crotch, and eventually my clumsy hands find the bulge in your jeans. I paw at it uselessly, too busy snogging you to try and unbutton them.

You laugh and pull back from the kiss, one hand still firmly holding my left boob. “Do you need some help?” you tease, moving your free hand towards your buttons.

I nod, my brain hopelessly fried by vodka and lust. “Please,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

I watch as you undo your buttons, seemingly in slow motion. There are four of the bastards, but with each one undone I see more of your underwear, and your hardened cock underneath. Its silhouette looks unbearably tempting, and the mystery is killing me, but you don’t reach for the waistband of your boxers. Instead, you pull me back into another kiss.

My hand drifts back to your crotch and starts caressing your dick through the fabric, eliciting sighs from you that make me even more incoherent. I’m not confident I could string a sentence together, especially when I feel your cock twitch under my fingers at the same moment as you dig your fingernails into the soft flesh of my hip. I take hold of your boxer-clad erection, squeezing gently, and you growl against my mouth.

At this point, my cunt is aching with arousal. I can feel a damp patch forming in my own underwear. I pull away and, still struggling to form entire thoughts, I yank my T shirt off, messing up my hair in the process, in the hopes that this signals to you, I would like to move on from snogging now, please.

But there’s more snogging, because you want to draw this out, and you’re amused and turned on by how much I’m suffering at this slow pace. I even writhe a little when you start pinching and twisting my nipples, trying to grind my still-fully-dressed cunt against your sofa.

“Is there something you want?” you murmur into my ear, still playing with my nipples. I whimper. “Tell me what you want.”

I point vaguely to my crotch. “I’m… you… please…”

“That’s not a sentence.” Still, you reach for the leggings I’m wearing. “We’ll have to get these off you, won’t we?”

“I can do it myself,” I say petulantly, standing up on wobbly feet to yank my leggings down to my ankles. My thong comes down too, mostly accidentally, but you don’t look displeased to see me and my cunt entirely naked. You pull me back down onto the sofa by just grabbing one of my wrists and tugging gently, your mouth still quirked in that smirky, smug look, like you’re amused by how pliable I’m being.

Your hand creeps up my inner thigh until you make contact with my mons pubis. I bite my lip and refuse to look at you. I’m watching your hand, broad and strong, as it cups my cunt. You slide your fingers up and down the soaking wet slit between my labia, then start teasing my clit with one slick fingertip.

“Is that what you want?” you coo, as if you didn’t already know. “Do you want me to play with your cunt?”

I nod, still not looking at you. “Mm-hmm,” I manage, as you circle my clit a little harder and a little faster.

You use your free hand to take hold of my chin and gently guide it upwards, so I have little choice but to look you in the eye. “Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers?” you whisper, and as soon as I nod, you push your middle finger into me, slowly, until I sigh with relief and want. “Is that the spot?”

I nod again, and you start rocking your whole hand, massaging my A-spot with relentless precision. I whine and mewl and groan and gasp, and when you pause for a moment to slide off the sofa and onto your knees, I whimper dramatically.

“I just want to taste you,” you reassure me, as you return to finger-fucking me. Your mouth meets my clit, and I put a hand on my lower abdomen, pulling upwards to try and encourage it out of the clitoral hood. “You taste just as delicious as you look, you know.”

You slide in another finger, and you fuck me harder and faster, until my legs are shaking, your mouth always on or around my clit, all the sensations melting together in harmony. I feel like this could go on forever and I would be perfectly happy about it.

Until you pull back and say, “Am I going to get to feel your perfect little cunt twitch as you come on my fingers?”

You pair these words with continued hard, precise finger-fucking, and I can’t help but come in response, my whimpers building into wails as I grind my hips desperately against your hand. My legs shake as the orgasm peaks, and you keep fucking me until I’ve stopped humping your hand. The burn-tingle-pulse of pleasure radiates through me, and I can feel my own heartbeat in my clit.

Once I’ve collected myself a bit – only a little bit – you look down at your hand, soaked in my cum, and frown thoughtfully. “Now, I could get you to suck this off my fingers,” you tell me, “but, equally, I could use it to lube up my dick.”

“I vote option two,” I say, my eyes darting back to your open jeans and bulging underwear. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the fabric is darkening with the wetness of precum. It’s unbearably sexy.

You stand up, looming over me as I slouch, naked, on the sofa, and you pull your cock out with your non-soaked hand. I have to bite my lip hard to keep myself from moaning out loud with want – or from saying something filthy about where I’d like you to put it. “So fucking hard,” you murmur, more to yourself than to me, and I sigh.

I watch you stroke the length of your shaft with the fingers that are coated in my cum, entranced. I keep glancing between your impossibly hard cock and your mildly strained face, and I find myself starting to stroke my own clit, which is still hard and wet and tingling a little.

“Where do you want this?” you ask, still toying with your cock. “Mouth? Cunt? Cleavage?”

The booze and the snogging have already made words difficult, but being in a post-orgasm haze and watching you mix my cum and your precum into a thick, shiny coating has left me literally speechless. Instead of speaking, I just mimic what you did a few moments ago, sliding off the sofa and onto my knees. In answer to your question, I just open my mouth, wide, and let my tongue hang out a little.

You grin down at me and stroke my hair with your dry hand. “You look so pretty down there.” Your cock is only centimeters away from my mouth, but you keep it there, out of my reach. “Do you want my cock in your mouth?” I nod. “Do you want me to fuck your throat?” I nod again, distinctly aware that I’m being teased. “Do you want to gag on it, you slut?”

“Please,” I breathe, staring at the swollen head of it as your hand slips up and down.

The hand you’re using to stroke my hair turns into a fist, twisting my hair between your fingers and tugging on my scalp, as you pull my head forwards to meet your cock. You only let me have the head, at first, rubbing your frenulum against my tongue, but then you slowly give me more, and more, until you’re sliding the whole length in and out of my mouth, listening to me gag each time it hits the back of my throat. You pull my head in so close that I have to try and swallow the very end of your cock down, and I find that if I try really hard, I can flick my tongue against your balls at the same time.

I also find that you like that – you groan, your grip on my head tightening, and you only let me come up for a breather when I can’t hold back urgent-sounding choking noises any longer. At that point, you tease me again, just rubbing the head of your dick on my tongue, until I’ve taken some deep breaths and seem ready for you to suffocate me with your cock again. Tears and eyeliner start leaking from the corners of my eyes each time we do this, and they end up rolling all the way down my cheeks.

“Do you want my cum in your mouth?” you growl during one of the short pauses we take between the cock-swallowing. I nod, and you yank my head a little further down. “Then lick my balls for me, bitch.”

I do as I’m told, making broad strokes with my tongue and managing to smear my own spit all over my cheeks, whilst you stroke your cock with ever-increasing fury. It’s not long before you guide my head backwards, place the head of your cock on my outstretched tongue, and shoot thick ribbons of cum into my mouth. I wait until you’re completely done to swallow, making sure you have a chance to admire my cum-covered tongue first.

“Fucking hell,” you pant, sinking back onto the sofa. “That was so fucking good.”

I smile, and climb back onto the sofa next to you. “I did my best,” I say, as you scoop me into a cuddle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

You chuckle, and you brush some of my hair away from my eyes. “I think ‘liked’ is an understatement. I might have to get you drunk again soon.”

Every fourth Saturday (unless I need to take a break, which has been the case for the past couple of months, or unless I need to cheekily leave it ’til Sunday instead, which is the case this time…) I’ll be posting smut based loosely on the fantasies or sexy experiences I have, for your wanking enjoyment. Take a look at my last ‘Smut Saturdays‘ post by clicking the link, and maybe check out my Patreon too ($10 Patrons get access to my smut 24 hours before anyone else, so you can get a head start on enjoying it!)
Oh, and in case you wanted a clearer view of the header image for this month’s smut, here it is:

How To Have Sex In A Body You Hate

In an ideal world, I would love my body.

We don’t live in an ideal world, though. Specifically, I live in a body which hurts a lot, and which is the site of both my trauma and my eating disorder. Very few people I know actually love their bodies, and quite a few actively dislike theirs – and I’m no exception. Instead of telling you to love your body (because I’m sure you’ve never considered that before /sarcasm), I thought I could give some tips as to how you can have sex even during those times you hate the body you live in.

1. Try to forgive yourself for not loving your body.

I know this is hard. When I catch myself feeling shitty about my body, my knee-jerk response is to say to myself, “Fucking stop it! You’re supposed to be body-positive! This simply will not do!”

In reality, this kind of thinking isn’t just unhelpful in your journey towards self-love – it directly undermines it. It’ll take a lot of work, but making the switch from the “Fucking stop it!” mentality to a more gentle pattern of thinking (along the lines of, “It’s okay that I feel like this, even if it doesn’t line up with my body-positive ideals. Everybody resents their body sometimes, especially in this awful diet culture we live in, and I’m not a bad person for falling prey to that,”) will cut short the cycle of self-criticism and free up your emotional energy for the task at hand: sex.

2. Spend more time being naked in non-sexual settings.

You’ve probably heard this one, but it bears repeating. Be naked, or half-naked, while you watch TV, while you cook, while you write blog posts – whenever you can manage it. Get used to the way your body really looks, rather than the way that it looks when you’re taking nudes, stretched or contorted or sucked in or freshly voided of pee. Spend more time around mirrors, while you’re at it, and get used to the way your face looks from unexpected angles. It’s going to be hard to feel great about everything you notice at first, so try making neutral statements, out loud or in your head, instead. “My face looks rounder from this angle,” “My tummy folds when I sit down,” and “My knees are kinda wonky,” are all entirely neutral observations to make. Try, if you can, thinking them in a gentle, neutral voice, and you’ll start to understand that your sexual partners view your body in a way that’s separated from value judgements. (Unless they’re judgemental bastards, in which case, tip 2b is, “Only fuck people who aren’t dickheads.”)

3. Wear things that make you feel cute!

I know that I literally just told you to spend more time being naked, but if sexytime is on the horizon and you haven’t magically repaired your relationship with your own nude form yet, I think it’s an okay short-term solution to wear something that boosts your confidence a little. The primary aim of this exercise isn’t necessarily to cover up (although, honestly, your comfort is more important than some externally-imposed ideals regarding body confidence), but to embolden you by making you feel like you’re putting your best foot forwards. Maybe for you, this means nothing but cat ears and a tail, or maybe it means a long, flowing, opaque nightgown. Whatever it is, the key thing is that you love it! Customising your body with clothing or jewelry can help you feel more in control of it and will draw your own attention to the cute things you’ve deliberately added to yourself, rather than the physical traits you perceive as “flaws”.

4. Voice your boundaries and your needs.

Sometimes, I will ask my partners not to touch my tummy. This is usually when I’ve had a fair bit to eat, or have eaten something that my body firmly disagrees with, and I’m a little bit bloated. Whilst I’d love to be able to embrace my body in every one of its states, I’m just not there yet – and that’s okay! (See tip #1.) Working through my trauma has taught me that there’s no point in knowingly setting off triggers when you’re not equipped to handle them – it only reinforces the stress response you experience, which will reinforce your negative feelings about your body. If you’re having a really bold, self-loving day, you could touch, examine, or ask your partner(s) to interact with an area that you’re usually self-conscious about, but you’re also well within your rights to say, “Actually, I feel a little negative/dysphoric/delicate/etc. about [body part] at the moment, so could you avoid touching it?”

Additionally, you can ask your partners to reassure you about your body. Try to steer clear from things like, “Tell me I’m not fat!” because those will reinforce to you the (entirely incorrect) idea that being fat is bad. Instead, say things like, “Can you tell me that you find my body attractive?” or, “I’d like some reassurance that my body looks nice today.” If you don’t have a partner on hand, you could ask a friend for a boost, or even try to give yourself one by listing all the parts of your body that you do like. You might find it reassuring to look at pictures of other people with bodies similar to yours – chances are, you’ll be able to see their beauty, and that might help you absorb the notion that you’re not so unattractive yourself.

Oh, and posting pictures of your body on the internet, especially if you’re not posing in such a way as to maximise your conformity to Westernized standards of beauty in said photos, can help boost your confidence as well. Like these photos of me, which feel even more vulnerable than that one photo of my entire cunt.

Me, a white, curvy, boob-owning person, twisting my body a little bit so that my back rolls are readily visible My curvy white butt, with little red lines across it from sitting still too long Me, a white and curvy boob-haver, sitting a little slouched so my tummy is squishy and foldy

Did you love this post? How about connecting with me on Patreon, where you can influence what I write about next and get exclusive early access to some of my content!