From Busty Blackballer, year unknown
I was recently talking to a friend who was telling about the concept of sexual psychosis and her experience with it. She basically told me that after a traumatic incident, she coped by engaging in what is typically described as promiscuous sexual behavior. I found that to be very fascinating, so I googled ‘sexual psychosis’ and was surprised to see that nothing incredibly technical or medical popped up. ‘Sexual psychosis’ isn’t a term in the DSM, but if you extrapolate the definition of psychosis and apply it sexuality (i.e. hallucinations, delusions, catatonia and thought disorders), we may found the line at which sexuality becomes toxic.
During that conversation, I realized that I rue the concept of sexual psychosis. Seeing as it is not a term in the DSM (and therefore lacks medical credibility), it’s hard to not raise an eyebrow to what could be a preemptive and erroneous diagnosis of someone else’s sexual behavior. My friend admitted that the reason that sexual expression helped her feel better after trauma was due to the fact that it made her feel good about herself. It released the oxytocin in her brain, and who’s to say that doing something that makes you feel good is a bad thing.
It bums me out to see people pathologizing sexuality, especially female sexuality. When looking for the line between sexual liberation and sexual pathology, it’s worth noting that a lack of control over one’s sexual actions is what separates one from the other. Much like an addiction, when an individual loses control over their sexual appetite and their sexual fulfillment, and when those sexual actions threaten other areas of their lives, such as their job, their family, their home and their finances, that is when it becomes pathological. However, even with that in mind, our sexual and romantic relationships often times have the ability to negatively impact those areas of our lives without even necessarily being pathological. It’s easy to see a romantic relationship or promiscuous sexual behavior as threatening to a person’s well being and to then classify that behavior as bad or wrong, but often times this behavior is a part of growing as a person. Sometimes we have to learn these lessons the hard way, and it doesn’t necessarily mean that a person is sick or wrong or bad.
What’s important to note is that even as sexual behavior becomes pathological, often times this behavior is the symptom, not the cause. It’s easy to point a finger at outlandish sexual behavior and sound the alarm, but it’s important to consider that sexuality is about physicality, it’s about contact, it’s about touching, it’s about pleasure, and, lastly, it’s about other people. Sexual behavior necessitates other people as soon as it exits the masturbatory realm, and when you think of sexuality as a symptom of other toxic factors, we see that reaching out for pleasure with other people seems like such a natural remedy to interior pain. Pathologizing the desire to be close to other people, to touch other people as it exists within the realm of consensual, adult sex seems cruel because think of all the reasons why someone would want to be close to other people, and how that could manifest as promiscuous behavior in a woman.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with being promiscuous, which is why it was hard for me to hear my friend talk about her sexual psychosis. I’m not a medical professional, so I can’t really say whether or not that term accurately described her situation, but hearing her talk about it and feeling that there were striking similarities between her pathological behavior and what I consider to be my normal sexual behavior made me feel uncomfortable. Having gone up against people who have tried to tell me that my sexual behavior is aberrant and abnormal and having walked away from those conversations feel justified in knowing that what I do sexually is not only my own business but also perfectly healthy for who I am, I rue the idea that someone who is in full control of her sexual behavior can be told that she is, in fact, not. Sure, there were moments in my sexual history when I felt unhappy with what I was doing, but as soon as I felt unhappy, I changed what I was doing to feel better about my situation.
It’s easy for people to look at a woman’s motivations for sexuality and to say what is or isn’t the right reason why a woman jumps in bed with another person. Seeking comfort after trauma, seeking validation after a break up, assuaging loneliness, seeking validation of one’s physical attractiveness are all reasons that get poo pooed because a woman who has sex due to insecurity is for some reason socially unacceptable. For some reason, seeking attention, especially sexual attention, due to one’s insecurities is something that many people readily scoff at. Women who dress too flamboyantly, wear too much make up, or act out sexually in public are put down for their behaviors, yet in shaming women who seek validation or sexual experience or sexual attention, we shame something that is very natural and very human. Wanting to be validated as a sexual creature is a very natural thing, so much so that it’s hard wired into our DNA. Yet we say that if a woman is being sexual because of these reasons she is cheap or tacky.
It’s hard for me to believe that because this kind of sexual behavior is part of the initial steps of sexual exploration. We learn how to be sexual by being part of a community, and being sexual within that community by seeking attention even when one is unsure of what she is doing is part of that process. Often times, this kind of sexual behavior is just a phase. It is an initial phase, and sometimes it can be hard to watch people who are not able to grow beyond the initial sexual phase of attention seeking and into secondary sexual phases such as forming long term, fulfilling relationships and being confident and secure in one’s sexual ability to find and satisfy new partners. The fact of the matter is, sexual attention feels good. It’s fun. It makes us feel pretty, and what’s so wrong with wanting to feel pretty? Sure, it might not be the loftiest goal in life, but ego validation is cheap, so why not get it while we can.
I realize that even while talking about what the limits of female sexuality can be, and the fact that these limits are probably way beyond where our society currently places them, there are still occasions when we can fall into toxic sexual behavior. Learning to pinpoint where toxic sexual behavior truly lives and differentiating that behavior from societal pressures to keep our sexuality within a certain, prudish, well kept box is an important part of developing one’s sexuality. Specifically as toxic sexuality refers to promiscuous behavior in women, all I can really say is what I learned from my personal experience: if you are unhappy within yourself, then something is wrong. It’s pretty much as simple as that.
Of course, it’s easy for us to be unhappy with our sexual behavior because society tells us that we’re dirty and we’re wrong, but I’m not talking about that kind of unhappiness. I’m talking about the kind of unhappiness that lives in the pit of your stomach when you feel like everything should be right, but for some reason you’re missing something in your life. If you have lost control over your actions, if you are under duress from your sexual partners, if your sexual behavior is not motivated by your own empowerment and pleasure but rather a perfunctory sexuality, then reassessing what you want from your sexual behavior and finding a way to attain what you truly want will help bring you more joy. Seeing a therapist and attending your local Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings will help you get in tune with what kind of sexual behavior is right for you. Sex is fun, but meaningful, loving relationships with the people in our lives are important and often times more fulfilling that rapid fire casual sex, so finding a balance between the two while also being able to healthily attain your desires will help you find what truly makes you happy. However, if sleeping around for right now is what makes you happy, then go for it.
We all sit around this table with our drinks in our hands, being pretty in our own ways while somewhere across town there are boys wondering what the fuck what we’re doing and what we’re talking about. But we just sit here and smile, and the things we talk about are as diverse as we are, discussing our sexual tactics for male domination and what’s the best way to ruin a man with your pussy? How can we be pretty and mean at the same damn time? What can you say to a man to dismantle his ego in one fell swoop? This is what we do to ensure that he is still thinking about us while we run away into someone else’s arms.
And then we laugh.
These are the things that our mamas told us, and these are the things that we tell each other. Sitting here, conniving, right before we get drunk enough to run back home and practice what we preach. We call it feminism, although the female pursuit for power – whether on a social level or in our relationships – might not necessarily be about equality anymore. Maybe this isn’t feminism, but we are existing within the long standing tradition of being women in a world built for men. We have our tricks, we have our marks, we have our way of getting things done. We have our way of finding love and then sabotaging it, too. We are women, doing what women do best. And no man can stop us.
I had accidentally left my phone ringer on, which is why I woke up to a phone call at 7:52 am on a Sunday morning, followed by the above text. I was still feeling bemused and slightly sleepy as I ogled the laconic text which, I must admit, intrigued me. It was coming from a guy that I thoroughly enjoy fucking, and knowing him, he probably still thought it was Saturday night.
Hmmmm I replied. Mostly because I’m a freak, but also because, well, why not? Why not start the day with a bang? Even if he is coked up and oozing Hennessy out of pores, and I’m completely sober. That could be an interesting experience.
I can bring ***** Those few stars filling in for the letters of some girl’s name, she being a tertiary party in my sexual relationship, but also best friend and occasional sexual partner of the guy I fuck. Now, I have to admit, being the freak that I am, that it had always crossed my mind. I had always thought about fucking her, mostly because I knew that she had fucked him, and I fuck him, and, well, doesn’t it make sense, because, y’know, I’m hot, and she’s hot, and he’s hot, and we all love fucking, so if you take all that and sprinkle a little bit of cocaine on top and then douse it with Hennessy:
I ran to the bathroom to freshen up and make myself some coffee before disrobing appropriately and draping myself across my bed in my bra and my panties and my sleepy morning eyes while I waited for them to come over. I was excited, mostly because this is the kind of thing that dreams are made of. This is the kind of thing that I wish every lover I had would be down for, but even after twenty seven years of fuckery on this planet, it seems that the mystical three way is still so elusive for so many people. Me? I’ve done it before, clunkily so at times, but definitely never at 8am, and also never while totally sober. Three ways seem to occupy the realm of ‘totally drunk and fucked up on drugs’ sexual acts, but not today.
They stumbled in my room moments later, flushed and rowdy in the bright morning light. They were still fucked up on blow and booze, passing a bottle of Hennessy among us, but I was bright eyed and bushy tailed as they perched on the edge of my bed. I had fucked him many times before, in a state similar to this, but she was a new element to the fuckery. As he cozied up along side me, as I was all clad in my panties and my panting expectation. We chatted, much like people chat, to break through the initial moments of awkwardness and sexual initiation.
“She’s nervous,” he said to me, his arms wrapped around me, me around him, and her on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he said to her, disentangling himself from me and yanking her pants down. She looked nervous as her clothes came off, but she gave no resistance while I watched him disrobe her. None of us were chatting nervously as different layers hit the floor, and then suddenly she was naked, next to me, in the bed. So I did the only thing that came to my mind at the moment. I reached over. I touched her. Lightly on the arm, and then folding into each other with kissing while he watched.
The beginning was sweet and simple just like that, but everything was so fast as he went down between our knees alternatively while we kissed. It was a juggling of positions and the addition of my hitachi wand that made everything wonderful, with her on top of me while I nuzzled her tits and he licked my pussy and she used the wand. She loved using my wand, and I could tell because it was only a few minutes before she started cumming like crazy, still stradling me, with him on my pussy, and her writhing on top. It was wonderful to lie there, myself likewise careening through ecstasy as she crammed the wand even more intensely onto her clit.
We were merely minutes into what was going to be hours of fucking as he lifted her off me and started fucking us alternatively as she continued to thrust into the vibrator. Cycling through a variety of positions, settling into her eating me out while he fucked her from behind, all of us throbbing in mutually induced pleasure. Her eating me out, moaning into my crotch, and using the vibrator while he fucked her, coming again and again. Him fucking me with the vibrator on my clit, making me come like crazy while she watched. Him fucking me while she fingered my ass and sucked my toes. Him fucking her while I use the vibrator and cum. Him on top of her, fucking her, wrapping his fingers around her throat, turning to me and saying, “Wanna watch her go crazy?” as he tightens his grip and she starts to squeal, “No, no!” Him fucking me while she was sitting on the edge of the bed, doing her hair again like nothing was happening. All of us lying there, kissing and cuddling, the chaos of sex subsiding into the past.
The aftermath of fuckery was dizzying, filled with the heaving sighs of satisfaction and the as yet unabated pursuit of pleasure. I’d seen her cum at least four times already, and he was covered in sweat, as we lay on either side of him, still tangled up and sticky. Still petting. Still purring. I had forgotten for a moment how fucked up they still were, until one of them reached for that ever present bottle of Hennessy.
She turned to me and asked, “So?” I knew what that question meant, as ten o’clock started creeping into my bedroom. “You had fun with me?” she continued.
I laughed. The two of them were silly and still voracious. “Yeah,” I replied.
“Dude, chill out!” he snapped at her.
“Ah, what, I just wanted to know if she liked sleeping with me!” she retorted. They were beginning to put themselves back together, bickering with each other as they pulled on various garments and reassembled themselves for the rest of the day.
“She doesn’t even sleep with women. She’s not bi like you, she’s just a freak,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s true, but you were still better than the last chick I had a threesome with. That bitch was straight joyless and unfun.” I said. Ego validation is cheap, and the cost of seeing them fighting in scenario like this wasn’t something I was interested in so early in the morning.
“Aw, thank you!” she cooed at me, beaming somehow even after all of this. His response to that, of course, was to push me back on the bed and start kissing me. I was still fully naked, watching them get dressed in the mid morning light.
“Aw, you guys, I’m gonna get jealous,” she whined after a few moments. He grimaced, and I laughed.
“It’s okay, baby girl, I’ll kick him out and it can be just you and me if you want,” I said as he got up.
“Hey, can you give us a ride back?” he asked, ignoring my clever quip.
“Oh, you guys don’t want to walk the five blocks back to your house?”
“Fine,” I said, pulling myself up and into some clothes, the smell of her pussy still all over my face and hands. We hopped in my car, and I drove them and their half empty bottle of Hennessy five blocks over to their house, where they did god knows what for the rest of the day. Me? I went home, showered off, and went to my friend’s house for breakfast, where I grinned gleefully and recounted the sordid details of having been woken up at 8 am by two people who wanted to come over to my house and fuck me. Sundays don’t really get any better than that.