Caveat, Qualifier, Disclaimer …

I just finished reading an article on the secret desires of husbands that is cringe-worthy in its “men are from Mars, and here’s a translation of our secret language” sort of way. And you know what? I didn’t cringe, get mad, or write an angry tirade on why it’s degrading to men and women everywhere that such generalizations be posted. Nope. In fact, I enjoyed it, found a nugget or two that resonated with me, and moved on. Further, I totally believe the author’s explanation that he wrote the article because so many men tell him the same things.

I started reading Cosmo again for “research” purposes, something I haven’t done since my days of slathering on tanning oil and lying out over summer break. I don’t give a shit what color is in this season, I don’t want to lose weight, I doubt that they have 50 “new” tips to tease him every month, and I thoroughly enjoy “Cosmocking.” But every issue I find one or two things that they write that their demographic probably benefits from, like the idea that guys like to cuddle, too (yes, I DO think that there are people out there that don’t know this). I make a distinction between a generalization that might be relevant to someone, versus the inane comments like “what do guys want after sex, besides pizza and beer?” that are just always stupid and offensive.

Since I began this blogging journey a year ago, I started reading dozens of smart, sex-positive bloggers who I find in turns to be inspiring, instructive, and hilarious. But I’m also scared shitless of this group, who I’ve seen turn on others’ ideas like a lynch mob whenever they’re the tiniest bit un-PC or unrepresentative of every single possible sexual permutation that exists. It’s exhausting to write a post on, say, women initiating sex without contemplating a three paragraph disclaimer stating that you understand that some women do initiate sex, some get off on being submissive, some have sex with other women, some are totally asexual, etc. While I get that blogging is about starting discussions and even stirring up controversy, I don’t want to be considered stupid because I missed a caveat.

There’s a difference between speaking from your experience and believing that your experience is the only valid, moral, or righteous way to live.

The reason that I talk about sex is that I’m comfortable doing it, it’s as simple as that. My “expertise” comes not in the depth and breadth of my experiences in kink, polyamory, bisexuality, etc, but rather in my ability to think and communicate about sex. I have the audacity to continue doing so because since I’ve started, a number of acquaintances, men and women, have come forward with questions and stories they’re too embarrassed to ask anyone else. The fact that I have a girlfriend who went to college, read Audrey Lorde, had numerous sexual experiences, and still hasn’t orgasmed tells me that a lot of us are pretty fucked up about sex, and I’m frustrated enough to take part in the discussion.

I’m just tired of worrying that in my attempts to reflect on my predominantly white, middle class, heterosexual experiences I may come across as remotely vanilla-only, anti-feminist, or LGBTQ-unfriendly. And I just don’t think it’s an insulting Cosmo-style gimmick to suggest a guy light a fucking candle every once in awhile. I like candlelight while fucking. Other people, though not all, do, too.

The point is that however broad or limited one’s experiences are, they are probably truth for someone else out there, too. While I don’t want to promote or reinforce gender and sexual orientation norms, I recognize that I am also a product of them, so writing about sex is really a process of triangulating where I am in relation to those old norms and what ideal sex values could be. And I simply write from that place in the middle, to whoever finds what I say to resonate.