I Have Small Boob Privilege

Today I was sitting around in the basement of the place where I volunteer, and some of the folks there were having a conversation about the plight of having big breasts. While internally rehashing my own insecurities about having small-ish boobs (technically 32D when measured properly, though they are more like the conventional perception of B cups), I listened to these women lamenting their sore backs, their limited clothing options. One of them said, “I wish I was one of those women who can just get up and go to work without putting on a bra,” and I realized – I am one of those women.

I can get away with not wearing a bra, and I almost always do. I never experience back pain from the weight of my breasts. I can run up and down stairs braless without incident (though I prefer to hold them against my chest when I do this). I can have cleavage when I want to, and can make it disappear when I want to. I know how to make myself look like a busty vixen or a practically flat-chested teenager, just by changing my clothing and undergarments.

I have to acknowledge to myself that this is a huge privilege I’ve been blessed with. My curvaceous lower body has often made me ache for bigger boobs, to balance me out and make me into a classic hourglass. I’ve never really considered the possibility that being smaller on top is more versatile and spares me from various possible health problems.

I guess my point is, there ain’t no shame in boobs, no matter what size they are. Being small and being big both have their privileges and their drawbacks, and if we understand that, maybe we’ll stop being jealous of other women for they way their racks stack up.

You Get to Choose How You Identify

The more I learn about queer and trans issues, the more I notice the prevalence of one particular truth in those spaces: you get to decide what labels you want to refer to yourself by.

This applies to many aspects of one’s identity. Sexual orientation is the obvious, glaring one. A woman might have sex with exclusively women, but if she identifies as primarily straight, you have to accept that. A young kid may tell you he’s gay, and you’re not allowed to say “But you don’t know yet!” because most people do know when they’re kids, even if they can’t articulate it or understand it. A person’s sexual identity may be the polar opposite of what you’d expect from them, but ultimately they are the ones who know best about who and what they are.

By that same token, I believe you get to choose whether or not you identify as a virgin.

Hear me out. Virginity is such a loaded topic. Some folks think it depends on the size and state of a membrane of skin embedded in your genitalia. Some think your virginity can be “taken” from you in nonconsensual situations, that people who are sexually assaulted, no matter their age, are no longer virginal. And still others think you can lose your virginity to a sex toy or your own fingers.

Here’s my own rough timeline of potentially lost virginities, according to various opinions that exist on the topic:
Age 6: Started touching my own genitals for pleasure.
Age 9: Reached my first orgasm, with the help of a bath faucet.
Age 12: Experimented with penetrating myself with my fingers.
Age 15: Used my first sex toys, both penetrative and not.
Age 16: Participated in oral sex with another girl.
Age 16: Was penetrated by another girl’s strapped-on silicone dildo.
Age 18: Participated in manual and oral sex with a guy.
Age 19: Was penetrated by a real, live, flesh-and-blood penis.

Here’s the thing, though… I didn’t feel that I really lost my virginity until I was 18. And that has nothing to do with the fact that it was with a dude, and everything to do with the fact that I was emotionally connected to him, unlike the girl I’d slept with who was my friend but not my passion. I still felt like a virgin when I was 17, but not when I was 19. My personal definition of my virginity is my choice to make, and I can do that by any criteria I choose.

I’ve never believed in virginity as a physical trait. Part of this came from growing up in communities and religions where there wasn’t much emphasis placed on the hymen: my parents, teachers, and doctors were more likely to lecture me about the emotional stresses of having sex than the physical changes that might occur. I was aware that I had a hymen, but I didn’t care about it. I even attempted to break it myself with hairbrush handles and shampoo bottles, because I wanted it gone. I didn’t want it to stop me from enjoying my first time having sex.

The first time I remember really pondering the concept of virginity was when I had my first kiss. I was twelve years old and we were playing Spin the Bottle in a deserted playground after our sixth-grade graduation. I was forced to kiss a boy for whom I had no romantic feelings whatsoever; we both closed our eyes and our friends shoved us toward each other, culminating in a “kiss” that lasted less than a second. I remember thinking, even then, that that was not a satisfactory event to be forever branded My First Kiss. I wanted a different one.

And so, when, four years later, I shared my next kiss with my first girlfriend, who filled me with teenage lust and wonder, that felt like my first kiss. And I decided to refer to it as such, from then on. When people ask me about my first kiss, I tell them, “My first real kiss was on my first girlfriend’s porch.” Very rarely does anyone ask for details about the kisses that came before that, the “not real” ones.

So what’s my point in all this? I believe in our freedom of choice when it comes to defining our own identities, and our own landmark moments. I believe that part of true independence is having the liberty and bravery to tell your own story from a perspective that makes sense to you. I believe in wearing rose-colored glasses if that’s a way you can fill your life with meaning and lift yourself up.

Readers: How do you choose to self-identify? Was your first kiss or first sexual experience different from the one you think of as your “real” first?

Happy Pride!

For those of you who celebrate Pride, I hope it is/was/will be a fantastically fun time for you this year.

I wish that you get covered in rainbow glitter, that somehow rinses off easily when you want it to. (Easily rinsable glitter is a myth, but a girl can dream.)

I wish you lots of hot strangers of the gender(s) you find attractive, looking you up and down as you sashay past.

I wish you plenty of roadside booths stocked with T-shirts with silly slogans, sparkly cowboy hats, and hand-blown glass dildos in Pride colors.

I wish you epic dance parties in dark sweaty clubs, and exactly as much physical contact from strangers as you desire, whether that’s none at all or a whole lot.

I wish you a reverential experience that reminds you of why it’s so crucial to feel outrageously proud of who you are.

I wish you total self-acceptance and, in fact, self-adoration.

Happy Pride, darlings! I’ll see you tomorrow for more sex toy talk.
-G.J.

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?

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?