I couldn’t really have written this post before today. It’s New Year’s Day and I’m lying in bed, knickerless, unwashed and underslept after a very much- needed evening of slutty hedonism, silliness, dressing- up and legs akimbo laughter. In so many ways 2018 was a sparkling year in which I learnt and grew and achieved things about which I feel a lasting sense of pride. But there was also some really tough stuff to deal with, a lot of it quite recent. Until today this stuff was stopping me from being able to get any sense of perspective about the positive aspects of the 12 months that have just come to a close.
Luckily last night I had a gift of a reminder that I have some incredible people in my life: this group of dirty, hilarious, beautiful, creative weirdos who reflect my own dirty weird beauty back at me like a hall of mirrors. Two of them in particular have truly taken me to their bosom this year. They have welcomed me into their home when I was homeless and quietly taken care of me when I needed it most, and I am squishy with love and gratitude for their friendship. So having been reminded if the jewels I have in my life, I’m feeling more able to take a balanced view of a largely amazing year than I would have been even 24 hours ago.
(In other words: I got hella laid this morning for the first time in about six weeks. Sucking cock is MEDICINAL, you guys).
MISCELLANEOUS GOOD SHIT
There were some proper grown- up achievements this year. I trvelled on my own in India, I got a job I genuinely love which involves helping and supporting people and I graduated with a degree I’d spent 11 years studying for. The vast majority of that time was prior to my diagnosis with ADHD and therefore entirely unmedicated, which explains about 90 per cent of the deadline- adjacent absolute roaring shit- fits I have thrown since 2007.
As part of that degree I completed a 30 minute film script about BDSM, secrets and family dysfunction. I’m quietly prouder of this single piece of work than of anything else I’ve written all year. While I’m not prolific and seriously want to work on becoming more so in the next 12 months, I feel like I’ve written a fuck of a lot I’m proud of in 2018. Pieces like Domcels, about the space where bad BDSM and incels meet, or Compost, or Hatefuck, aka the scariest and maybe my favourite thing I’ve ever written.
I’m linking to these again because I want to actively remind myself of what I’ve proved myself capable of with my writing in 2018. I proved that I can write stuff that is visceral and weird and hot and completely my own. This year I just want to write more of it. I want to take more risks, to put stuff into the world that is flawed and promising but incomplete, rather than living in thrall to an inner critic who demands that everything I publish is perfect or thereabouts. That will require being vulnerable in a way I haven’t been with my writing up until now, and I’d rather not ever have to be vulnerable about anything ever if I can possibly help it (note to self: sub- optimal life strategy).
I submitted a piece to Chronic Sex about BDSM and ADHD (all the acronyms!) and um, put myself forward for the Kinkly top 100 because Sinclair Sexsmith said I should. And, there you go, I made it in. It was my only appearance in any of the big end of year lists, but Jesus, I’ll take it. And hey, even more reason to work and write harder this year.
SEXY BANGING AND SELF- IMAGE STUFF
I had a lot of good sex this year. I mean, a lot. I was single for much of the year and still feel like I lived my absolute Best Slut Life to a degree which I sincerely hope to replicate if not surpass in 2019. I had a lot of very silly, very passionate, very funny sex, in caravans and the back of a moving car, in a pub toilet and on a club dancefloor. I had my knickers torn off by a man with an imposing but not intimidating 9 inch cock- an encounter I’ve never written about because he sadly was not especially imaginitive when it came to doing stuff with it or anything else. I was led around a sex club on a leash with a bag of Babybels hanging between my livid beaten breasts and took a day off work to get fucked with a strap- on. I came a lot and I came hard and I came loudly, triumphantly and defiantly.
I also discovered a deep and I suspect enduring love of latex and danced to Janelle Monae topless at Torture Garden, Not only this, achieved a degree of love and accomodation of my body that I never would have imagined possible as someone who has dealt all their life with the after- effects of trauma and sexual violence. This year, after a lifetime of not really inhabiting my body, I really feel like I have almost completely taken it back into my own possession. Some of this is down to yoga, some of it is down to a weird kind of letting go in my eating disorder recovery, and some of it is down to latex and corsetry.
Some of it, though, is just simply due to getting fucked extremely enthusiastically by a handful of people over the course of a 12 month period, to fully inhabiting my status as Triumphant Slut and Disgraceful Fucking Pervert. This is the body of a Triumphant Slut, I say when I look in the mirror. It is therefore de facto astonishingly beautiful.
This year I still have some really enduring internalised fatphobia stuff I need to deal with. I need to stare that shit down. My body is a site of privilege in many ways, and I need to get to grips with that.
I was talking to my friend C this morning about what I want to focus on when it comes to relationships over the course of the next few months. I think the answer is platonic intimacy, intimacy within friendships, both emotional and physical. More hugging, more letting myself be held and helped, more kissing and hugging and playful touch. I have my kinky friends and I have my wholesome friends, I have my therapist, I have yoga. There’s really a lot of love in my life- I just don’t always open myself up to it, let myself soak it up, learn how to feel safe in it. That means that when I’m offered intimacy in a sexual romantic relationship I very quickly LEAN IN without really knowing if the person I’m leaning into is someone I can lean on.
I need to not do that any more. For all of my exuberant pursuit of this stuff, the truth is I’m still working with a background of a lot of grief and a lot of trauma (most of which I’ve made a decision not to write about in detail on this blog yet, as annoyingly relevant and rich in content as it might be). As much as I’m doing the work around all of that stuff, I can’t handle the after- effects if it all goes south.
I’m excited about 2019. I’m always excited on New Year’s Day. This year I have a job I want to bed in to, I have a NEW BLOG, I’m doing stuff with the script, I’m almost definitely going to enter the Smut Marathon. I’m looking at starting EMDR for trauma recovery and really working on setting up a proper regular yoga practise. I’m going to try to read more smut, comment more widely and make more friends in this community. I have to admit to not being great at this- I get overwhelmed by the mass of faceless people and never- ending stream of sometimes intimidatingly good writing sometimes. But I do know what rewards can be reaped on a personal and writerly level from just a little investment of time and the desire to connect.
I’ve still only been part of the Twitter- based sex blogger community for 9 months, and it’s become such a huge part of my life- sometimes lately I’ve wished it was less so. But it’s changed my life so profoundly in those 9 months; the sense of having found my people, of having found a community of people who are doing what I want to do with my life, of friends and inspirations and role models. It’s my community, and even if I’m still just a quiet voice on its outskirts, I’m not going anywhere. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.