My little girl was but eighteen months old when she discovered that touching the tiny brown nubs on her chest felt nice. She did it repeatedly, all day, hands shoved up under her shirt to twiddle away as she carried out the business of being a toddler.
At home I largely ignored the practice unless she did it right in front of my face; for example, as I dressed her. “Those are your nipples,” I’d then point out. “Someday you can use them to help feed a baby.”
She’d been nursed and had seen other infants also drinking milk from their mothers’ breasts, so she accepted this information without much question. “Nip-pulls,” she’d parrot. “Feed baby.”
And then one day we were dressing for a play-date. “Drew is coming over,” I said, hitching shorts up beneath her round belly. “You get to play with Drew.”
Her hands went instantly to her bare chest. “Play with Drew?” I nodded. “I play with Drew,” she said. “I show Drew my nipples.”
I froze, her tiny shirt poised above her head. What should I tell her? Should I scold her for wanting to show off her anatomy? Caution her on the necessity of privacy? Ready myself to thwart any play-date efforts at nippular display?
In the end I did nothing. Drew’s mother and I talked while the babies played nearby; although I kept a wary ear on their babbling I hear no mention of nipples. It’s possible that she forgot. It’s equally possible that she whipped up her shirt and flashed the boy while I was fetching apple juice and crackers.
Would it have mattered? My daughter placed no more or less importance on her nipples than any other body part, whether toe, eyebrow or elbow. To her they were just a new discovery, as worthy of sharing as an ant strolling down the sidewalk or a new book to read.
There will be plenty of time in the future for body-based shame. I wasn’t going to be the one to set it in motion when she was barely past babyhood.
–Submitted by Anonymous
Spending a week in Greenwich Village in New York City was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. I was on Christopher Street, the literal birthplace of the gay rights movement. While some of you may wonder why this so deeply touched a married heterosexual mother of two, others of you understand the importance of this to me with no question.
Sexuality is one of the cornerstones of my life. Many people have commented to me that I am sexually inappropriate, as if they are the first person to tell me this. It is not something you need to tell me. I am fully aware that I tend to be obsessed with sex, and that I can make even the most innocuous statement into a horribly dirty joke.
I have poor boundaries about sex. I want to know about your sex life, not to judge or belittle, but to salivate and celebrate. Also, I am just plain nosy.
So to all of those people who think that I need to “grow up” and “shut up” here is my charge to you. Instead of telling me that I am sexually inappropriate, do as some of my other friends have done – tell me it makes you uncomfortable. Own your feelings. Think about what it is that I am saying that makes you nervous, and if you still don’t want to hear things from me, GROW UP and tell me. Do not pathologize my interest in sex, when to me your disinterest is just as odd.
Many people consider sexuality a private, intimate topic to be shared only within the bounds of marriage. Or, they consider sex a compartmentalized piece of their life, something that is great and all, but nothing to get so worked up about. I am not either of those people.
Without sharing too much of stories that are not mine, I grew up knowing the realities of sexual abuse. Although I was never the victim, I can’t remember a time in my life when I was not aware of the dark side of sexuality. Rape and sexual abuse are powerful, destructive forces, and can destroy even the strongest person. It can become not just an assault on the body, but an assault on the mind as well (I would say soul, but we all know I don’t believe in souls :)
I have always been the person that my friends came to to discuss sex with, including their sexual assaults. I have had more people disclose abuse to me than I can count, and once an interviewer even disclosed to me as I was interviewing for a job with her. She had never told anyone and was deeply ashamed.
In 1995, I began my career at a domestic violence/rape crisis center. For the past fourteen years, I have been exposed daily to the worst stories imaginable. Stories that I will not repeat, but can’t forget. Stories that have made me cry at the vulnerability of children, and seethe at the power of men in our society. I have seen women abused within an inch of their life choose to go back to their husband and abandon the child he also assaulted. I have seen boys who were abused as children grow up to become the very monster they feared. I have seen women who were sexually abused in childhood be aghast and surprised when the same abuser hurts their own children. I may not believe in god, but I have certainly seen the devil.
And how do you defeat the devil? With joy, love, and pleasure.
In my line of work, it is pretty easy to become jaded and bitter, and to blame sex, society, and/or men. I have chosen instead to fight from a position of love for humanity by seeking out the joy in sexuality. For every bit as destructive as sexual assault can be, sexual fulfillment can be healing. I will NOT allow the abusers, naysayers, and prudes of the world to deny that power to me or anyone else. In fact, I try at every opportunity to flirt with, celebrate, and encourage the multitude of good, decent, and loving men and women as a direct affront to the pain and suffering my clients and family members have suffered over the years.
I was raised to believe that my body belonged to me, that my sexuality was mine to own, and that sexuality was about pleasure, pure and simple. Sex was not a bargaining chip to get something from others, nor was it a chore that must be endured to receive love. My sexual power was not to be given to someone to else, but rather something to be shared. I was taught to never do anything sexually that I was uncomfortable with, and I never have. I was also taught that with sexuality comes personal responsibility, not only in terms of taking care of my physical and emotional health, but also my experiences. Orgasms were my right as a sexual partner, and a woman, and not a nice “extra” on occasion.
If people are allowed to be obsessed with science, movies, religion, sports, literature, Live Action Role Playing, midgets, ghosts, and lake monsters, why is it such a problem that I choose to focus on one of the most life affirming activities on the planet? There is nothing that screams “fuck you” to the pain and the hurt in the world than screaming “fuck me” to the person in your bed.
I have always loved the quote “The solution to bad art is not censorship, its better art.” Well for me, the solution to bad sex and the pain it brings is not abstinence, its better sex. And better sex will only come about when we admit, deal with, and respect the power that sexuality has in our lives.
Oh, and I am still really nosy.
–Submitted by Heidi Anderson from The Fat One in the Middle
My kids are young, so I haven’t had to address this topic yet, but I’m laying the groundwork now by using the correct words with them. I have taught Bean that she has a vagina, a urethra, and an anus, and what comes out of each. I haven’t explained that something things go in those places yet, though. *uncomfortable chuckle*
She has noticed that her brother’s “vagina looks funny” (her words, not mine), and I explained that he has a penis and testes, instead. Every once in awhile, she’ll say something while I’m changing his diaper. “Why do you hide that in there, Mama?” I had to laugh at that. “I’m not hiding his penis, Sweetie. The diaper catches his pee when it comes out so the floors don’t get dirty. Once [Man Cub] learns to use the potty, he won’t wear diapers anymore – just like you!”
I did have a “private places” talk with Bean the other day. Now that she’s going to school one day a week, I wanted her to know what is appropriate and what isn’t. I think I’m sensitive about the topic because I had a few inappropriate experiences when I was a child; situations that weren’t wrong enough that I knew they were wrong, but wrong enough that I now recognize them as abuse. I don’t want Bean to suffer from that same confusion.
I told her that her body is her own and no one else’s. I told her that she can touch her body whenever and however she wants, but that others may not. I told her that it’s okay if she wants help getting dressed or using the potty, and that her teacher may sometimes help her with that if she wants help. But I told her that if anyone touches her in a way that she doesn’t like, she can tell them “no,” and she can tell me and I will see to it that they never do it again. I told her that no other children should touch her “private parts,” and that she should never touch anyone else private parts, either. Then I followed up with a statement to the effect that when she’s older, she might want to touch and be touched by others, but not until she’s much older and that we’ll talk about that another time.
I wonder how I’ll handle sex talk later. I want to be sex-positive, I really do, but I also know that I have my own hang ups. I want to let my children know that sex is enjoyable and something they should explore… but deep down, I regret “exploring” as much and as early as I did (starting at age sixteen), and I wish I had waited. In fact, I would say that I regret nearly every sexual experience I had until age twenty!
Luckily for me, I have time to figure that one out.
–Submitted by C from Leap and the Net Will Appear
In 1994, my parents divorced. I was nine.
It was winter, and we were in the middle of the biggest ice storm my town had ever seen. My mother packed my sister and I up, and we left to go stay with my Aunt and Uncle in the next town. I had always enjoyed visiting with my aunt and uncle. They lived in the country and let me roam around freely.
One afternoon my sister and I were home alone with my aunt. We both both followed her into the bathroom when she had to pee. My sister, four at the time, pointed at my aunt’s vagina when she sat down on the toilet. My aunt tickled my sister’s vagina and laughed.
I was standing by the sink. My Aunt leaned over and tickled my vagina. I remember it making me feel really uncomfortable that she had done that. When I finally returned home, I told my grandparents what my Aunt had done to my sister and me. They recorded my story.
My parents fought a lot about the situation, and one day I was told that my sister and I were not allowed to visit my Aunt and Uncle’s house anymore. We never discussed what happened again.
I had nightmares. My mother never believed my story. She said I had made it up. I didn’t make it up. It really happened, but thinking back on that day, 15 years later, I have to wonder if what I thought was wrong, if she was just playing. My grandmother had drilled into my head from a young age that if anybody ever touched me between the legs that was not her or my mom, that I should tell somebody.
It haunts me. Did I accuse my aunt of doing some horrible thing that was really an innocent action? I have not seen her since we left her house that February. I’ve often thought about going to see her. I’m afraid though; afraid to find out if I was wrong, afraid to find out that I was right, afraid of facing my past and letting in demons I had hoped would disappear.
–Submitted by C
“Dad are you wearing mom’s jeans?” the 10yr old son asks.
“No, they’re my jeans.” They are low rise stretchy denim with flared legs and I hike them up a bit to make sure my pink panties aren’t peeking out the top.
“I’ve seen him wear those before,” says the 17yr old. “They’re girl jeans. Don’t you think those are girl jeans?” He asks the new girlfriend. “First painted toe nails now girl jeans, mom is turning you into a woman.”
“And don’t forget he even had painted finger nails that matched his toes for a while last summer,” says the younger kid, pulling off a sock to show the new girlfriend that they’re not making it up. “If mom told you to wear a dress and a purple wig you would do it wouldn’t you?”
The new girlfriend is clearly rattled by the conversation and my pretty pink toenails. ♀ saves the day by announcing that dinner is ready.
I wonder if this is the best approach with the kids; letting them see a little bit at a time. It is possible that either of them could walk in on me and me see fully dressed en femme and that wouldn’t be so good. I could sit them down and tell them straight out that I’m a cross-dressing sissy and explain what that means. Though that could be difficult since ♀ are still exploring that ourselves.
Also, the younger kid is only with us part time. Would his mother haul my frilly ass back to court for deviant behavior?
When we picked him up from school on Halloween, ♀ told him she wanted me to go to the school dressed as a woman (for a costume), but that we’d ran out of time. She asked if he would have been embarrassed. He laughed and said no, he thought it would have been hilarious.
I don’t think either kid would be very surprised. ♀ & I have been painting each others toenails for years, they’ve seen some unusual clothing choices, they know I brush and braid mom’s hair every night. And neither of them expect me to be a ‘normal’ dad, what ever the hell that means.
If it was my dad and I was their age…hmmm…. I think I would probably accept it, but I think I would prefer not to know about it. The thought of my dad in a dress with fake boobies and a wig is not an image I want to dwell on.
–Submitted by Sweat Shop Sissy
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