supersexyfun
Rachel Kramer Bussel’s post Sex in the possibly public square resonated with me in a lot of ways.
For me, sex still exists at least partly in the shadows, in the bad old days of repression and shame. Stealing my brother’s copies of Maxim and my mother’s romance novels; feeling an erotic thrill when the 1920’s movie heroine is kidnapped; operatic tenors singing “come to the window” when they mean “come to my bed”; the brown-papered windows of the adult video store…
Despite all the liberation and feminist consciousness and purchases of vibrators in garish colors, when I think “sex” (not the concept, but the things that make my stomach tighten) I think of that closed-off, simmering world, where the door is cracked open just enough to glimpse one fishnet-clad limb. Which doesn’t mean I think about it any less, or with any less authenticity, or that I think that door needs to stay closed.
So sometimes I read the work of sex bloggers and think I could never possibly fit in. I’ve had a limited number of crazy adventures, I’ve got a limited selection of toys in the nightstand, and in the end I’m not convinced that toys or fetish outfits or even specific acts are especially interesting compared to all the just-beneath-the-surface tensions. Occasionally I wonder if the toys and the outfits are just a crutch, a shorthand for sexuality, a way to keep things interesting on the surface because something is deadening underneath. And then I wonder if that makes me sound like a conservative.
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