Towards a new definition of sexuality

TMI warning for sex talk.

I had an interesting conversation with my sister tonight, instigated by my confusion over my sexual identity.  This may sound ridiculous, but it was prompted by the purchase of a sex toy.  I am not sharing details, but using it is far more pleasurable than any sex I’ve ever had with anyone ever.  (Sorry, any former lovers reading this.)  It made me start thinking about what sex means to me, about who I am as a sexual person.

My sister gave me food for thought that I’d never considered.  She described the majority of my pre-marriage sex life as “performance-based.”  Which is true.  I did have sex because I was attracted to people on occasion (really attracted to, with some people), but a lot of it was because I wanted to be seen as a sex goddess whom everyone wanted.  And I succeeded at that, back then, largely because I was willing to fuck almost anyone who asked.  I had sex because I wanted to show off, because I wanted people to like me, or because I felt sorry for them.  I frequently didn’t enjoy it except for the satisfaction of achieving one of the previously-stated goals.  I mean, it felt nice, but I faked a hell of a lot of orgasms, even with long-term partners.  (My wife and I had a conversation a few years after we got married in which we realized we had both been faking our orgasms during sex.  Not much point in trying, after that.)

Interestingly, my sister was recently discussing my gender transition with an old friend of hers, whom I dated for a couple of months when I was sixteen.  He thinks I was trying to perform “girl” even more than I was “slut”, it’s just that being “girl” was easiest for me by being the town bicycle.  (My words, not his; I assume he was more polite.  Also, “town bicycle” makes me laugh like a drain, which is why I used it here.)  Apparently it was obvious even back then that I was trying to be more female than I was.  I knew that to some degree, but really, my sister tells me that I was the last person to realize I was trans, not the first.  There’s a reason (she says) why my family’s first reaction was “…and?”  People who knew me back then haven’t been surprised, either, even the ones who’ve slept with me.

Anyway.  Back to sex.  I… don’t want any.  At least, not the kind involving a partner.  My libido is higher than it was when I was married, but if my sex toys make me this happy I don’t want to bother with anyone else.  At least, not right now.  Someday (hopefully very very far in the future) I imagine I’ll have feelings for someone and want to share my body with them, but sex for the sake of sex?  Toys.  Hands down.  I don’t know how to have sex with a partner where I don’t feel I have to perform, even with people I’ve enjoyed sleeping with.  And, frankly, I’m not interested in learning right now.  I’m enjoying being self-contained.  (Well, I’m dependent on vibrating things, but you know what I mean.)  Also, I have a very active fantasy life, and fantasy is always better than reality.  For one thing, I get to have the body I want.  Including a fully functional, working cock.  That’s not going to happen in my lifetime.

As far as the identity-questioning goes, my sister pointed out that my self-definition as queer still stands.  I’m certainly not heterosexual.  I don’t think I really qualify as asexual, since I’m still a bit enslaved by my libido, but I’m quite happy to call myself celibate for the indefinite future.  (And hey, if BBC Sherlock — not Cumberbatch, but the fictional character of Sherlock — showed up on my doorstep tomorrow and offered me a night of extremely kinky sex with no strings attached, hell yeah.  But he’s not real, and I’m glad he isn’t.  Mostly.)

To change subjects a bit, but related to me feeling self-contained: I’ve been thinking a lot about my early twenties, when I lived in south Florida with an awesome roommate.  I was single and able to support myself financially.  I had a solid social circle.  I traveled a lot.  I wrote fiction every day in my spare time.  I occasionally had sex with people, but on my terms and with no strings.  I was sane.  I wasn’t anyone’s doormat, which is what happens to me in relationships (my fault, not my partners’.  I do it to myself and I know it).  My life is starting to feel like that again, a little bit.  Different — I can’t fully support myself, and I struggle with the mental illness — but Mom and I live like bachelor roommates (we’ve lived here over two weeks and have yet to turn the oven on, but we know every detail of the microwave and where the nearest cheap takeout joints are) and I have my own space to do what I want with and I’m feeling independent and… self-contained.  I have family, friends, and sex toys.  Life isn’t perfect, but it’s improving every day.  And I’m happier than I’ve been in years.

Also, my sister has grown up to be exceedingly wise and I love her to pieces.  Thanks, kiddo, for being awesome.  I love you.

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