Sex is so intricately woven into my identity that I do not know how to separate myself from it. Where does my sexuality end and the rest of me begin? Of course, it is not so black and white as that, but nonetheless, my sexuality oozes into every aspect of me.
There are rarely times when I am not completely aware of the fact that I have a tingling clitoris, and that it longs to be enveloped in someone\’s — anyone\’s — mouth. There are rarely times when my cunt does not feel the need to be filled to the core with something — be it cock, fist, dildo, bottle, vegetable; I feel empty, and I need to be filled.
I begin and end with my sex organs, and every day is a constant struggle to either fulfill their overwhelming, aching desires or to ignore them. It is my sexual compulsion that drives me, my sexual ego that gives me the power to do what it is I do in my day to day life.
When I am not having sex on a frequent basis, I get a hell of a lot more accomplished, because I am channeling that energy elsewhere, pouring it into the rest of my life like so much rushing water out of a canal. The supply is never ending, and I have been like this for as long as I have memories. That is at least seventeen years of over-sexualization.
I have always had more interest in sex than my peers — not necessarily more knowledge, but more interest. I remember in fourth grade having to ask how it was that gay men had sex — what did they do, just kind of knock their schlongs together? When explained anal intercourse to me I was horrified. At that point, no one had explained intercourse to me at all, and the idea of having something up one\’s ass was petrifying. Little did I know that in just eight years I would be begging my lovers to give me just that, as hard as they could and as often as possible.
My parents never told me about sex. My older female cousin implied some fucked up things: you did \”it\” and that meant you got married and pregnant. The two were intrinsically tied and inseparable. This explains a lot about my cousin\’s psyche and her later behavior in life, but it did not do much to further my education. Instead, sometime in the spring of the fourth grade I locked my bedroom door, hauled out some mirrors and went exploring my ass and genitals for a few hours with my fingertips and the eraser end of a pencil.
Not satisfied with simply looking at myself, I hauled out a teeny bopper magazine and masturbated to Joey McIntyre of the New Kids on the Block, glancing from his picture to the mirror and then back again. Something was not quite right. I rubbed myself on the magazine. Nope, that was not it, either. And then it hit me — Joey was not doing anything for me, but watching myself in the mirror was. That was the last time I bothered masturbating to the picture of a guy for almost ten years.
In those ten years, I was rarely attracted to manly men unless they were willing to smack me around. If I actually wanted to have some sort of emotional attachment to a man, I had to look for an effeminate male. Generally these were found in the goth, indie, punk or geek crowds. I went through scenesters like someone with diarrhea goes through toilet paper. But still, I was not satisfied. I needed more.
I could have sex all day long, wear out my partner and go get another, wear that partner out and have my body collapse, and still my genitals would be crying out for me to satiate them. The never ending need for fulfillment, centered between my legs. I think not with my brain, but with my clit. I speak not with my mouth, but with my cunt. I act not with intellectual intentions, but with libido.
Each journey outside of my front door is another chance at yet another conquest — a conquest that could potentially end in that ever elusive fulfillment. Every time I deny myself the opportunity to fuck, I both kick myself and congratulate myself — good job, this is the right choice! No exposure to dangerous situations, no disease problems, no adding to the reputation, just clear sailing. Bad choice! You need sex! You need sex right now! That could be it, the one great lay, the one you have been waiting for, and you just blew your chance.
Intellectually, I have enough knowledge of psychology to know that one fuck with a stranger is not going to get me the fulfillment I am looking for, which is why I have basically stopped that sort of behavior. But try telling that to the blood gathering in my ever swollen vulva. There is no rational answer that will make her listen to reason, nothing that will calm her. Ever hungry, ever desirous, ever wanting control — control of me, control of my partners, control of the situation. Perhaps control is the real issue here.
I feel the need to have control in just about everything in my life, however, it is when I am not in control that I am the most sexually thrilled. I dominate most frequently, but when I really want to get my rocks off, I become a submissive. The sexual terminology for this is called being a \’switch\’, as in switching between the two roles. Most people see me as a domme. Few people know that I will consent to being a sub. Truthfully, there is nothing more arousing to me than having my power stripped away from me, being humiliated and forced to do things that I would never do otherwise.
Use me, abuse me, tell all your friends and then ask them to queue up and take a number, because honestly, I like it.
BDSM entered into my life early. When my first sexual BDSM partner whipped out a pair of handcuffs without first consulting me, I did not even blink — I held out my hands eagerly and waited in expectation to be held down against my will. Spanking went with the same territory, as did power struggles, all with the same partner. I wanted him to be more violent, but he refused. I was not yet fifteen.
Since that tender age I have been strapped up, strapped down, spread open, tied shut, bound, gagged, whipped, blindfolded, sliced open, beaten, and mock-raped — amongst other things — and given the same in return, all in the name of the almighty self-indulgent orgasm. Granted, most of this has taken place in the last four years, but nonetheless, at times it weighs heavy on my mind.
I am comfortable in my sexuality, in my skin, but not always with the individual red notches on the invisible bed post in my mind, each one counting every individual encounter. The faces I do not remember, the names I never knew. The faces I will never forget, and the ones I am not sure if they exist.
I question the reality that I know to be, and the possibilities that are hinted at in my character. The facts exist that I was sexually assaulted at age fifteen by a friend who was into BDSM, and prior to that, at age eleven by the friend of a friend. Obviously, these added to shaping my personality. The problem with this scenario as an explanation for my over-sexualization and avid interest in sex is that I have been like this since a very, very young age — long before age eleven.
While it is possible that I somehow simply ended up with a precocious sex obsession that I never grew out of, it is highly unlikely. What is unfortunately more likely is that I was sexually abused as a very small child, and that I have no memory of it. Sure, it sounds like I am attempting to pass the buck for my thoughts and behaviors, but there are facts that add up and paint a picture that shows distinct possibilities. And besides, as a child I always drew trees with giant dark holes in them, and art therapists will jump at the chance to tell you what that means — supposedly it symbolizes childhood sexual abuse.
Is it any wonder, then, that I have come out of all this completely focused on sex? To be fair, many people experience far more and sex is insignificant to them, but I cannot say that I really mind having this interest. At least it seems like something I can do, while my other burning passions — music and social work in the vein of the community space idea — are either not something I want to risk making a career out of (music) or are probably not possible with my health (the community center), at least as these things stand. But academia — research, writing, perhaps teaching — is probably something I can eventually do. I always joked about getting a degree in sex. Now it looks like I am actually going to attempt to do it.
They say that people get into psychology and psychiatry initially to figure themselves out. Perhaps I am getting into sex to figure out how to stop myself from always wanting it. Somehow, though, I know that is not the case. It resonates deep within me that this is simply my passion. I have not been able to stop thinking or talking about it since puberty, and it drives everyone around me crazy. \”Cassandra, can we please talk about something other than sex now?\” Maybe now I can legitimize myself and get paid for it.
To the many who will be reading this that I have bedded — thanks. The experience has been educational, if not enjoyable, and I am sure the memory of the act will be useful in the future. If I end up calling or e-mailing you to have you help me remember the details at some point, do not be surprised — it is all in the name of research, and I promise to not use your real name… unless it was that good and you really want me to. In that case, I will even give out your number, if you so desire.