Repeat, rinse, rewind

Ok, I decided that I was going to write about sex, among other things, on this blog when I started it, to push beyond the limits of propriety and personal comfort in the process, searching for something more tangible. And while I don’t think anyone can accuse me of not writing about sex, the limits-pushing hasn’t really been that enthusiastic or thorough. In fact, while I’ve been trying to be as honest as possible (and also figure out for the first time how to write about something as complicated and weird and wonderful as sex) , I’ve been almost unknowingly building up yet another persona, another ‘socially acceptable’ image, another facade to hide behind. And now, a few months into this, I look at my posts, and the half-written drafts I’ve stockpiled, and see traces of the internal censor all over the place again, and I realise that I have to come out all over again.

This coming-out business is really never-ending; tiny, daily revelations, interspersed with climactic earth-shattering ones, all life long. Sometimes just the idea of having to constantly assert and reveal myself, tearing down the self of two minutes ago, the self at that coffee date a week ago, the self who wrote last month’s post, is enough to make me depressed. Maybe you thought you were getting a standard-issue Indian daughter, but no, sorry, someone forgot to tell you that there’s a switch in there somewhere marked “Queer” that will get irreversibly turned on when she turns 21. Maybe you thought you’d get a standard issue international student college best friend, but no, it turns out that you get an emotionally complicated on-again off-again romantic, sexual, co-dependent relationship that lasts at least a decade. Maybe you thought you’d find a standard-issue demure femme woman, with her long hair and skirts and heels, to flirt with, but no, sorry, she holds open the door and insists on paying for her share of things, and why the hell does she dress like that, why does she act like that, if she isn’t going to be like that? Why can’t what you see ever be what you get? Well whoever you are, you can’t possibly have asked that question as desperately as I have. Why the hell can’t I just be what I am?

To me, the answer to that question’s bound up with being uncomfortable in my feminine body, in the crossed wires between the signals it gives and how I feel. Circling around sex again, I find it relatively easier to write and talk about being receptive than about being the one doing (even though I do!) because, as a femme-ish receptive person I know where and how I am in control, how I can express my desire, it’s pretty straightforward, both for me and for anyone else involved. When I am ‘on top,’ though, well, it’s scary, and unsure, and some part of my brain always steps back and criticises mercilessly. But also, there is that feeling of amazing tenderness, of wanting to cherish and worship and protect this beauty, this opening, this trust, with every last iota, and I don’t know how I can possibly have written about sex without mentioning it even once and deluded myself that I was being honest .

Back to the drawing board, I guess.

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~ by mortarandpestle on March 8, 2008.

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