Surviving with my Vagina

I wish I could break the stereotype of sex-worker who was sexually abused growing up – but I can’t. You’re right, Tina Fey, you rat-faced bag of dicks.

While faux-feminists of the like try to shame hyper-sexual and sex-working women and put them all in the “daddy issues” box – nothing more than products of the abusive men in their lives. Fuck you Tina Fey. We honestly are awesome fucking people.

I’m understanding more and more why people who have lived through abuse are referred to as “survivors”. It is something that you must live with every day, and every day you continue, you’ve survived. That is quite remarkable.

As a sex worker, often times it is incredibly helpful to gain mastery over what has been taken from you by putting the control into your hands again and providing a sexual experience. This is a concept that has been backed and supported by my long-term therapist, btw. Sex work is real work. Sex work is healthy work. It has helped me greatly.

However, when I have sex for work, I don’t have to be vulnerable. At this stage in my life, sexual vulnerability is hard. I had been previously working through the mountain of childhood trauma at my own pace, working happily and having personal sex happily and freely.  Then my ex boyfriend raped me. I was just as good at blocking those horrible feelings as I had been as a kid. And then I gave birth, and an avalanche of shit came down on me.

So now I’m a bit out of place. It’s been some time since the most recent trauma, but I found the combination of sobriety (due to pregnancy and breastfeeding), the medication-free home birth, and finally coming down off of the whirlwind of hormones, enough to finally see my true form.

For my kids, I became motivated to have a clear mind. I was not expecting to then see exactly how much pain I am in.

Where this leaves me is in a seemingly impossible place. I connect sexually so regularly but in those circumstances, I provide a dream for my client. I love it, and I don’t know where I’d be without my work sometimes. Working does still turn me on.

Outside of that, however, there is a lot os real shit, and there are a lot of tears. If there is a shred of vulnerability at play, there are tears. I miss feeling vulnerable. However now the slightest sense of vulnerability brings an extreme awareness of my body, my vagina and it’s ability to be penetrated, the fact that I have been penetrated without consent, my dryness (inadequacy), my shame, and the range of potential outcomes each sexual situation can bring.

Today I shared a sexual experience over the phone with a good friend. I trust him and as soon as we entered into a space where my trust for him and acknowledgement of my sexuality both resided, I cried. I still let myself be in the moment as much I could and I found it enjoyable although confusing as tears streamed down my face . It was difficult to not be able to hide behind the experience of providing something; to let someone truly see me. If he could see me crying I probably would have burst into sobs of shame immediately.

This even happens with my partner… and no one wants to be the bitch who cries during sex. I do not want sex to make me cry. It is the one thing I have always relied on to connect to people.

I find myself so disconnected from my body. The process that should allow a healthy connection seems to let in so much pain.

This is why I am a survivor. This is why I am (now) a feminist. Every day I need to fight, some harder than others. And I turn to the power of feminism and lean on my feminist sisters (and brothers) so that I will one day no longer have to feel like my vulnerability is a flaw that allowed me to be hurt.

There is no happy ending to this particular post. I’m still stuck. I still hate the tears that flow with the true acknowledgement of my vagina. I want it to be my strength, not my weakness.



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