I have a passion for sexual freedom. That's why I am honored to serve on the Board of Woodhull, which works every single day across a vast array of local and international sex-positive initiatives towards eliminating prejudice and injustice against all those who seek nothing more than to love the way they choose to love.
We know this is one of the most ambitious socio-political agendas in the world, but we do the work anyway, because we believe that ALL forms of consensual adult sex deserve the same rights. Maybe if enough of us sex-positive people band together, we can see all those changes in our lifetime. Please join Woodhull, follow us, and please support our special holiday fund-raiser.
My fund-raising goal is $1000! PLEASE help me reach it. Every donation, no matter how small, is meaningful and REAL. Every penny of our budget goes to the work we do. THANK YOU!!!
I've shared 44k words of my new book with you. I'm going to write 2 more chapters -- the story of my first purchases of a vibrator and a book of porn, and then an afterward called "Why, Gloria, Why?" where I talk about some of the feedback I've gotten and the burning question of why I undertook this project and my mission in doing it. Then it'll take a couple of weeks to re-edit, tweak, improve transitions, find typos, and obsess over it some more.
And then I'll be done with what looks to be the first in a long series of autobiographical memoirs.
This book is titled NAKED MEMORY: secrets of a sexual revolutionary
It will published under my OWN new imprint with CCB Books, Moons Grove Press! (So excited!)
If you're a blog subscriber, thanks for your support and enjoy having 90+% of the forthcoming book on your hard-drive. Others, if you want to catch up, do so now. I will be deleting the whole lot of them in a couple of weeks.
I can't believe I was able to meet the challenge I gave myself of writing a complete essay every single day. I hope I can keep going for years, because I have a lot more books to write.
If you're reading my autobio, and you like it, please share it with as many friends as you can. I don't advertise, I don't have publicists, I'm too controversial to be popular so I just give myself to my mission of demystifying sex through reason and truth and focus on producing the best work I can. I depend on people like you to let others know that the work is here. Be a friend and tell someone about this autobiographical project today.
Tonight's podcast was an in-depth discussion with therapist and sex researcher Galen Fous ("Daka Dom") about his theory of Personal Erotic Myth and Jennifer Bangs and I had LOTS of questions.
But this holiday season, we're going to try! The Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance works year round to help bring the dream of sexual freedom closer to fruition. Now we need your support. We are crowdfunding to built a stronger infrastructure to support our plans for future growth and greater visibility. How much do sex, gender, and reproductive justice mean to you? Join my team at the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance's Holiday Fund-Raising Challenge on CrowdRise.
Updated 11/20 -- listen to Hardy Haberman and me discuss the holiday drive.
Looking back, and despite the hormonal storm that seized me since first menstruating, what really made me want to push the bounds of sex was a combination of two factors.
First, I was a lonely and emotionally abused child who felt unloved at home, so I craved affection desperately, no matter its source. If someone was nice to me, I liked them. It didn’t go deeper than that.
Second, I was filled with ideas I got from books, and very keen on developing, even as a child, a kind of moral system modeled on lessons learned from novels.
So while I responded to affection immediately, I secretly yearned for the types of sophisticated love affairs I had read about. I had no interest in fucking or sex per se, not even that entire year I spent hounding older boys until one finally did the deed with me. What I wanted was to get fucking over with so I could enjoy the thrills and chills of an adult romantic life. Losing my virginity, I'd thought, would guarantee my passage to a better, more emotionally fulfilling life.
My experiences with Amos and Jack gave me pause. I didn’t know how I felt about sex or boys anymore. It seemed like a whole lot of complication for too little reward. I was avoiding Vaughn’s house too. I knew he gave me Chloe as bait, to lure me in to have sex with him. Now it seemed like he felt I owed him for allowing me to caress her soft nipples and kiss her cupid-bow lips. He’d intimated that he was sure sooner or later he would find the chink in the armor that led to my pussy. His sarcastic jokes and attempts to get a rise out of me put me on edge.
I had noticed there were amazing numbers of good looking boys at the new high school. It astonished me how handsome some of them were. Apparently, while I was joining riots and marching in protests at Erasmus, the boys of Sheepshead Bay had been playing sports and buffing up to look fabulous for their age. They were cleaner and more pampered, cooler and better dressed than they'd been at Erasmus. I noticed them. But.
I was on my own trip. My experiments in sex left me feeling skunky and morally ambivalent. Instead, I hung out with some high school girls who looked like me: short, busty, frizzy-haired Jewish girls. We’d read Cosmo together, talk about sex, and listen to Elton John and John Sebastian for hours.
One of the girls told us how she caught her father brushing his teeth late one night, after there had been a lot of noise in her parents’ bathroom. She was sure they’d been having oral sex.
Such stories always made me wonder about people. Her parents were the last people in the world I could imagine having oral sex, both of them middle-aged and out of shape and very proper Jewish people. She claimed that when she questioned her dad about it, he merely grinned at her and slipped back in the bedroom. The thought that a child could even raise the subject of sex, much less oral sex, with a parent blew my mind.
With winter coming on, I was also home more, watching tv every night after dinner with my parents. We never talked about sex, or anything that was particularly interesting. On the other hand, they never talked during shows, so I could spend the entire evening engrossed in the fantasies in my head while donating my body to family time.
When Robin, the girl who sat next to me in poetry class invited me to hang out with her clique shortly before Christmas, I was dubious. She was fresh-faced and wholesome, dressed in colorful, cheery outfits and had flawless teeth and skin. She was far too straight to be interesting, I thought, but she was super-smart and we had a lot of fun joking together in class, so I agreed to show up.
Her friends routinely met at yet another basement apartment inhabited by yet another disaffected teenager. A low-key boy named Manny ran this party. When I knocked on the door, Manny politely shook my hand in the vestibule before leading me into a dark cavern with day-glo posters on the walls. A seating area was arranged as a stoner mosh-pit with a hookah set out on the coffee table.
My eyes adjusting to the dim light, I looked around for Robin. She was sitting on the couch, with boys on all sides egging her on, and sucking down a joint in a lung-busting super-toke that made everyone shout yay. Obviously, Robin was not too wholesome. She was just right!
Someone passed me a pipe and then a joint and before long, I was on the couch with Robin, and we were laughing and getting high. They were incredibly mellow, and they were all my age. This was new and strangely comfortable. I could let down my guard with them. They all seemed really nice.
Robin dragged me to a corner. She was filled with wonderful surprises. Her sense of humor killed me, she had strong opinions about life, she was a staunch feminist, and she was uninhibited about sex. Under that supremely wholesome presentation, the product inside was deliciously wicked and delightfully wise.
After a few hours, things quieted down and Robin went to sit with her boyfriend. I realized there was one boy who’d been there all night that I hadn’t met. He was off by himself, strumming a guitar, having a more meditative high than the rest of us. He seemed different from us too, older, more serious.
“Who’s that?” I quietly asked Manny.
“That’s my friend Aaron,” Manny said, “He’s a year older than us, but I’ve known him all my life. He lives down the street. You should meet him. Come on.”
Manny introduced us, and I sat down to hear him play the guitar. Aaron was proud of his skills and with good reason. His riffs were soulful and sweet. His fingers made love to the strings. He was self-taught. Music was his life. The more he talked, the more handsome he grew.
He was the real thing. He was sexy and he was an artist. Fair blonde hair stuck out of the top of his pale blue shirt. He was tall, a little thick and very masculine. He looked more like 18 than 16. He had a red beard and hurt, gentle eyes. He didn’t smile much. His air of sadness touched my heart.
We talked for a while, as he strummed some chords and then he asked. “Would you give me a back massage?”
I suddenly knew I wanted to be with this boy physically. I wanted to touch him, to feel his shoulders and thighs, to kiss his lips. It was more than wanting. I needed to feel his flesh against mine.
I followed him to the couch and he lay down, telling me it was okay to sit on him, and please would I rub his shoulders first. I straddled his spine and dug in, wordlessly. I could feel his young muscles through his shirt, solid and strong, and pushed my thumbs into his flesh as deep as I could. He writhed a little and I clamped my thighs tighter, the seam of my jeans digging tighter into my pussy.
He smelled of Brut cologne. The smell was fresh and earthy and minty and I wanted to dive into it and under it and be covered with his smell. Everything about him was so beautiful, so perfect, so sexy, so masculine. He was hairy in all the right places, and his beard was so soft it was like velvety fur. His long blonde hair fell in shimmering strands. His ass was full and round like a girl’s, but his legs were all man.
Within a few days, I was his girlfriend. I was incredibly happy about it too. He was nothing like any of the boys I’d known. He was so serious about his music, it was all he ever thought about it. I did not entirely mind that he placed our relationship second to his relationship with his guitar. That made sense to me, and made me respect him, and even envy him. His passion was so intense, it was impossible not to think of Aaron without thinking of his commitment to music.
It wasn’t perfect. He was not a reader, so outside of music and mutual friends, we had little to talk about. He spent most of his time in his room practicing, and both of us were broke, so there were no dream dates or exciting adventures. Still, I couldn’t complain about Aaron, even if secretly I was a little bored, because the things we did have in common made up for everything else.
We were both stoners and since Aaron provided all the pot, I was grateful. I loved getting high and I loved getting high with a man. I could completely relax and find the humor in every situation when I was stoned. He made sure I was provided, even when we were apart.
Best of all, though, was the sex. Aaron was the perfect partner for me at that moment in my life. His willingness to be the submissive receiver, rather than aggressor, gave me a sense of control over partnered sex that I’d never felt before. He was horny all the time, and content to lie back and let me do him. His ever-ready virility meant that any time I was in the mood, he was in the mood. This was like having my very own sex man-doll!
Until then, sex was a bewilderment of clumsy advances and awkward caresses, confusing needs and weird, often uncomfortable sensations. But now, Aaron let me do whatever I wanted to him and just lay back. It took my pussy off the table, both as a conversation piece and a commoditized object, and let me hide the shameful truth that I wasn’t as fuckable as I looked.
I spent hours touching his naked body. Caressing him, exploring him, watching his dick get hard, then shoot, then grow soft, then get hard again after a while so the cycle could repeat. I’d watch his balls crawl under the light scattering of red fur between his legs, and I’d watch the muscles on his torso stretch as he arched and succumbed to orgasm.
My lust had come to life. My vagina throbbed for him, profound, almost excruciatingly painful and yet wondrously ecstatic deep throbs that emanated from my core. Mere affection, mere intellectual commitment to adventure? Nevermore. I wanted sex sex sex.
Or at least a kind of sex. The kind where I was in total control.
I didn’t want Aaron in my pussy. Instead, I waited until I got home, and then masturbated frenziedly, as if there wouldn’t be time for orgasms when I grew up. The more he bored me, the less I talked to him, the more I focused on worshiping his nakedness with my hands and seeing how he reacted to the sensations I gave him, and then jerking off to the memories of what we’d done. I sensed he wanted more – more blow jobs than handjobs, and maybe some fucking too but I loved what we had and getting to play with his body whenever I could.
One day, about six months into our relationship, Aaron called me on the phone. He told me he had to break up with me. I was shocked. He explained that a girl we both knew, Ophelia, had tried to commit suicide the night before. Ophelia had been wooing me as a friend for months. We met in dance class and she claimed she was a professional ballerina, but I knew she was too fat to be a ballerina. I liked her well enough but she was clearly very troubled. She’d cut her wrists repeatedly with light cuts that had left faint scars, and was given to bizarrely dramatic reactions to minor problems. When I discovered she’d lied to me about a few things, I stopped answering her calls.
So she called my boyfriend. She had called him after midnight last night, he explained. She had locked herself in a closet. Only he could save her. Valiantly he went there, and rescued her from the closet. She flew into his arms. He spent the night.
Something told me he fucked her too.
“But you know…” I stumbled, “she’s always threatening to commit suicide and never does? I mean, you know she’s really really neurotic, and why did she call my boyfriend in the first place?”
“Well….” He got suspiciously quiet.
“Isn’t it strange that, out of the blue, she would call my boyfriend to rescue her?”
“Well, urm,” he hemmed and hawed. “We’ve been talking for a few weeks.”
“You mean you’ve been dating her behind my back?” I felt all cold inside.
“It’s not like that,” he said.
“What’s it like?”
“She needs me, Gloria,” he said pleadingly. “She’s weak. She needs me.”
And that was that. I couldn’t argue with that. I was not weak. If he needed a weak girl, then we were wrong together from the start. I heard the clear implication: she needed him and I didn't. He was right. I didn't need him because I didn't need people, not the way other people needed people, not the way girly girls seemed to need manly men.
It was okay. It would be fine. It wouldn't have lasted anyway. I didn’t want him now. He was tainted. He'd lied to me. My lust for him died with that lie.
Besides, my lust was my own and I had lust enough in me for hundreds more men.