The “Cis” Issue

I created this blog as a place to discuss sex toys and sexuality. However, I knew there would be other tangential topics covered here, because, for anyone who cares strongly about sex, it is inevitably bound up with politics. Fighting for what you want in bed is connected to fighting for how you want the world to view sex: it’s all about bringing down walls and destroying shame in any way you can.

For the past nine months, I’ve been volunteering at an LGBTQ organization, and for the two years before that, I volunteered in a trans-and-genderqueer-specific space (I’m not trans, myself, but have dated a trans person, been friends with trans people, and consider myself an ally). In all that time, my knowledge and understanding of trans issues has steadily grown, and I wanted to talk a bit about that today.

I’ve recently gotten into two different debates with two different people online about the term “cis.” Incase you don’t know, cis (shortened from cissexual or cisgender) simply means “not trans” – i.e. born with a body that matches one’s gender identity. I’m a cis female, for example, because my body indicated that I was female when I was born, and I have grown up to feel that I am, indeed, female.

The people I got into debates with had two different points to make, but they were essentially the same thing, because they came from a similar place of ignorant cis privilege:
1. “Though my body has always matched my gender identity, I hate being called cis because it has a negative connotation. If someone called me cis, I would correct them.”
2. “The term cis is unnecessary. Why not just differentiate people as ‘trans’ or ‘not trans’?”

These arguments made me so angry because the people who made them were totally unwilling to listen to reason. Having never experienced trans-ness or apparently been around trans people, they couldn’t understand the hurtfulness, political incorrectness, and ignorance of what they were saying. So I’d like to respond to these two points here, maybe so I can clear up these issues for cis people who may be wondering about the same things, but want to be more conscientious about their stance.

In response to the first argument: First off, if your body has always matched your gender identity, you are cis. It is a factual descriptor of your identity, every bit as much as “Canadian” describes my identity because I was born in Canada and remain a Canadian citizen. While you, yourself, don’t necessarily have to use the term “cis” in reference to yourself if you don’t want to, people are going to refer to you by it when it becomes relevant, just as someone with solely opposite-sex attractions might be referred to as straight if they were hanging out in queer spaces. It’s just a way to differentiate.

Next, the idea that “cis” has a negative connotation… Well, yes, in some spaces, it might. For trans or genderqueer people who feel that they’ve been wronged by cissexism and use extremist phrases like “die, cis scum,” the word cis may exist in a negative light. But for the vast majority of us, it doesn’t – as I said before, it’s simply an objective descriptor.

Frankly, you can’t choose to reject a descriptor just because you don’t like the connotation it occasionally comes with. I can’t tell people I’m not white, just because I feel like my whiteness makes me come off as “privileged.” My whiteness does privilege me – this is a fact I cannot ignore or pretend away – but it’s what I do with myself that decides whether or not I’m a privileged asshat. No sane and intelligent person is ever going to call me rude things just for being white, but they might if I do shit that only an ignorant privileged person would do.

Bottom line: If you don’t like the term cis, don’t use it to describe yourself, fine, but other people are going to use it when it becomes important to make that distinction. And if you don’t like the so-called “negative connotation” that comes with being cis, you better get out there and do shit that proves that cis people can be helpful trans allies, rather than just perpetuating that negative image of cis people by being ignorant and needlessly irate.

In response to the second argument: People who argue that the term “cis” is unnecessary are overwhelmingly almost always ignorant cis people, so of course they don’t understand why the term is necessary – they’ve gone through life assuming everyone is cis unless told otherwise, and so they don’t see a reason why it would ever be important to have a word to describe “normal,” non-trans folks.

When trying to explain why the term is needed, I always refer back to a story I was told by a wonderful trans woman who came to teach my volunteer group about trans issues. She was at a psychiatric consultation in a queer-friendly health centre. The psychiatrist was asking her various questions about her mental health situation and her life. The woman said she was attracted primarily to other women, and the psychiatrist said, “So are you mostly attracted to trans women, or real women?”

Obviously, as a trans woman, the term “real women” used to describe cis women can be not only deeply offensive, but also horrifically triggering in some cases. Trans people have spent their entire lives being told they “aren’t really” their gender, even though they’ve usually known their true gender since they were old enough to understand such things. There is no reason whatsoever for anyone to dredge up those horrible memories and feelings by using offensive terms like “real man” or “real woman,” which is why the word “cis” is proposed as a respectful alternative to those kinds of phrases.

Bottom line: “Real” is a point of debate – the world may never agree on whether it’s a penis or a mental perception that makes a man a “real man” – but “cis” and “trans” are not. They are inoffensive, objective terms, designed to differentiate between two groups of people without hurting anyone in either group, and for the most part, they do this very well, so we should use them.

Readers: Do you hear the word “cis” being used in your circles? What are your thoughts on its validity, connotations, and usage? Do you identify as cis? Why or why not?

My New Lover: NobEssence Fling

Just LOOK at this motherfucker! Drink in its insane beauty!

I bought my NobEssence Fling on buyout from Eden Fantasys to offset its high cost, so my full review of it is located on their website. But I still felt that you needed to hear me extol its virtues. Because this thing is a G-spotting boss.

When I was contemplating NobEssence toys, I asked Epiphora what she thought of the Fling, since it was the one that was calling out to my G-spot. She said, “Haven’t tried it but my gut says your money’s better spent on the Seduction or Tryst.” I trust her opinion on most things, but the more that I looked at those toys and their measurements, the more I became convinced that they probably wouldn’t work for me. I’ve learned that my G-spot likes big bulbs, but that my vagina can only rarely take toys wider than 1 ½". So I defied Epiphora (!) and went with the Fling.

I ordered my Fling in what EF calls “burgundy,” which turned out to be a dark red wood called Padauk that lights up bright red when held up to light. It’s hand-carved, and sealed in a coating called Lubrosity that keeps it safe from me juicing all over it (and also, you know, makes it washable and bleachable and stuff).

It is a very near-perfect toy. My EF review of it is titled “Nature’s Answer to the Pure Wand,” and if you know sex toys, you know what a huge compliment that is. The Fling causes that immediate, intense, “whoa boy” kind of G-spot sensation that only the Pure Wand and Amethyst have really been able to create in me before – and it does it without straining my wrist or requiring weird angling to happen. I just lube it up, slide it in, and my G-spot practically shrieks in ecstasy.

One of the very strange things about the Fling is that its diameter is apparently the same as the dildo that conquered my vagina, and yet the Fling actually fits inside me. It’s a little bit painful upon initial insertion, especially if I haven’t warmed up with a smaller toy first, but once I get it past the opening, it slips straight in and there’s no pain involved. I’m convinced that this toy is magic.

I’m very glad that my first NobEssence toy is the Fling, and I’m not even sure that I’ll want another one, to be honest with you. This dildo is so perfect that I can’t even imagine wanting it to have a sibling in my toybox.

Review: Happy Valley Joe Rock

I’m kind of unhealthily in love with Happy Valley. Essentially the Canadian answer to Tantus, they make 100% silicone toys for butts and twats. My very first anal toy was by Happy Valley, and it has served me very well.

Despite all this, sadly, their Joe Rock plug just didn’t work out for me. In fact, I may have thrown the word “hate” around when I was tweeting about my experience with this toy. And “hate” isn’t a word I use lightly, especially in reference to sex toys.

I chose the Joe for a number of reasons: it’s Happy Valley, it comes in a bright shade of blue (my favorite), it’s a manageable 1 ¼" in girth (bigger than my beginner plug, but not as big as the bulbous Ryder), and it has a slightly tapered shape that makes it look easy to insert.

I was all too excited to receive my Joe Rock. I thought it would be “the next big thing” in my anal adventures, small enough to slip in without warm-up and wear around town, but large enough to feel filling. Let me tell you, the size of the Joe is utterly perfect for me; it’s the shape and material that my butt takes issue with.

First off, the body of the plug feels long and pointy inside me. It’s not as long as the Ryder, but because Happy Valley silicone is firmer than Tantus silicone, it feels like more of an assault on my ass. I don’t like having to be careful when I sit down so as not to bruise my innards.

Secondly, the Joe’s neck is a big issue. It looks slim and comfy in photos, but since the silicone is so firm, it doesn’t feel that way in use. My sphincter can grip it, and the plug stays in well enough, but the neck is so uncomfortable on my anal opening. Rather than noticing the delicious fullness of the plug itself, I’m constantly distracted by the feeling of the neck dangling awkwardly out of my ass.

The base is also weird. It’s a thick rectangle that certainly keeps Joe from being sucked up into my ass, but torments my buttcheeks the whole time I’m wearing it. I’m afraid to wear Joe out on the town because I know my ass will start chafing and I’ll be miserable. This is not a good plug for long-term wear.

Even for short-term use, though, this plug is insufferable. So I’m still on the hunt for my perfect plug – easy to insert without pre-stretching, maybe 1 ¼" in girth, thin neck, solid but comfy base. The medium Pure Plug looks like a good contender; I guess I’ll have to wait and find out.

I bought the Joe Rock plug with my own affiliate earnings, and was not required to review it – but hey, I did anyway!

Useful Resources for Sexy, Sex-Positive Sexpots

I’m tempted to begin this post with an affectionate greeting I use with my friends: “Hey, queerz!” However, I recognize that many of you don’t identify as queer, so I won’t do that. (Can we come up with a noun that encompasses “sex-positive people” without offending or excluding anyone who falls into that group? Let me know, in the comments, if you think of anything.)

This blog is still new, so I’m still bouncing around ideas. A lot of blogs do a weekly “link round-up” that points to articles, websites, communities and projects that may be of interest. I’m not sure yet if I’m going to commit to doing something like that, but for now, here’s a list of some of my favorite sex-poz places on the internet. Hope you enjoy! (I know you will.)

Sexxit is a subdivision of the overwhelmingly male-dominated, often misogynist social discussion website Reddit. I’ve rage-quit Reddit a couple of times because of stupid shit like people who deny that there’s a rape culture and people who tell women to go make sandwiches, but I find that if I limit myself to only posting in and reading the Sex community, I don’t get as frustrated. The people there know what they’re talking about (for the most part) and can have actual, in-depth discussions about things like setting kink boundaries and making up for mismatched libidos.

To Be a Slut is a blog about reclaiming female sexuality, being okay with your body, and deconstructing shitty sexual cultural narratives. Its owner, Caitlin, runs Body Pride workshops and is a member of a collective called I’d Tap That which throws mixers for sex-poz people. Don’t you wish you lived where I live?!

If you are interested in consensual nonmonogamy, there are two blogs I can’t recommend highly enough: Taken But Available (run by a Canadian woman in a long-term open relationship) and We Sleep Together (sparsely updated these days, but written by a very clever fellow in an open marriage). When I was cobbling together ideas about what my own ideal relationship structure would look like, I checked in with these folks to learn about issues like jealousy, “new relationship energy,” and the power of dating websites.

Hey Epiphora is simply the best sex toy reviews blog I’ve come across. I also read Dangerous Lilly, Navigator, True Pleasures, and DIY Orgasms. And if you want a great place to find reviews on toys easily, written by people who know how to write, Sex Toy Society is pretty rad. They do a weekly round-up that will keep you on top of what’s going on in the reviewing world.

I love to listen to podcasts, especially when I’m walking to and from my volunteering gig or I’m working on a creative project of some sort. My favorite sex-related ones are Sex is Fun and the Savage Lovecast. Both are consistently entertaining and informative, even for someone like me who’s been obsessively researching sexuality online for years and years.

So, that’s what I’m consuming and participating in lately, as far as sex-poz materials go. Readers: What are your favorite sex-related online resources?

Story Time: My First Girlfriend

There’s nothing quite like being freshly out of the closet.

Once the smoke has cleared and you’re no longer dealing with a daily onslaught of reactions to your announcement, you can see the enormous horizons in front of you. You can see all the people who you now have permission to date and to fuck. And it’s a freeing, though incredibly terrifying, feeling.

I came out as bi when I was fifteen, after I realized that a raver chick who’d been flirting with me was actually pretty attractive. Not just in an “Oh hey, I like her outfit” kind of way, but in an “I wouldn’t mind if she pinned me against a wall and kissed me til my lips bruise” kind of way.

The raver girl got a boyfriend just before school let out for the summer. I remember being crushed when, on the last day of ninth grade, I stood by the front doors and watched her walk out, hand in hand with her new man (or should I say, boy). I had this sense that she was the only girl in possession of the key to my bisexuality, and I’d have to give up on girls forever now. It was silly, but it was how I felt.

But when we got back to school after the summer of my first Pride, I noticed a new girl. A charming, awkward, witty, intelligent girl who loved Edward Albee and potato latkes. Her gender presentation veered toward androgyny, and she proudly self-identified with the word “dyke,” but she was nowhere near butch. To this day, I still have a thing for girls who are boyish as hell but still very much girls (which I realize is hard to conceptualize and visualize – it’s more of a “vibe” thing, I suppose).

She wrote to me online to tell me she liked something I’d written, some story I’d read aloud in the English class we’d shared in the previous school year. We sent messages back and forth after that, rarely encountering each other at school but encountering each other multiple times a day in our online haunts. We talked about books and films and strange societal phenomena.

I remember standing at the sinks in the girls’ bathroom with my best friend at the time, and telling her, “I think I have a crush on that girl I’ve been talking to.” My friend said, “You should ask her out!” Like it was so simple. Like I was that brave. Like I was ready to take on my first relationship, period, let alone my first queer relationship.

It took me an entire month to build up a sense that The Girl actually liked me, in some way beyond just admiring my writing and my taste in horror flicks. But she did. I was almost certain of it. The way she looked up at me demurely when I walked by her group of friends at lunch, the way she snuck out of detention just to talk to me for a few short minutes, the way she kept mentioning her gayness and my biness as if to confirm the compatibility of the two. It seemed almost like an invitation.

Once, on the subway, I leaned forward to hug her just as the train was pulling into my stop, and it suddenly jerked, causing me to fall right into her. Body contact. Words caught somewhere in my esophagus. I gasped and giggled and rushed off the train, euphoric.

So it was finally time to do something about it.

I wrote her a letter, though “assembled” would probably be a better word, since it was actually just an annotated collection of excerpts from my journal. The excerpts explained that I really, really liked her, that I wanted to be with her and thought she was wonderful and thought about kissing her. Mushy crap that I figured she would like.

After shoving the letter nervously into her hands at the very end of a party, I said goodbye and rushed home. I didn’t want to be anywhere near her when she read that thing. I wanted to be far enough away that she could completely ignore me if she wanted to.

But she didn’t want to. My phone rang shortly after I arrived home.

“Hello?”
“Hi.” It was her.
“Hi.” I felt like I’d been dunked in ice.
“Hi. So… we should date.”

And so began the most gutwrenching and romantically titillating few weeks of my life thus far.

To be continued…?

Readers: Have any romantic stories from your youth to share? Did your first boyfriend/girlfriend live up to your expectations of relationships? How have you grown since then?