boundaries – Girly Juice

Some spiritual traditions posit that souls are reincarnated, and that some souls spend entire lifetimes trying to make amends for, or improve upon, things they did in previous lifetimes. If this is true, it seems clear to me that I must have been sent to this earth to work on my boundary-setting. It is a theme that has haunted my life.

For one thing, I’m a woman, and that’s a gender group our society explicitly encourages to be bad at boundary-setting. Women are supposed to juggle a career, housework, caretaking of their partner and/or children, and their own self-care, all while somehow being “chill” about the amount of physical, emotional, and logistical work thrust upon them. Women are also routinely encouraged to ignore or suspend our own boundaries in the realm of the romantic and sexual, chiefly because it often benefits shitty men when we do so. (Yuck.)

I’m also a freelancer and a person who works from home, two oft-overlapping identities that make a person even more vulnerable to having their boundaries bent or overstepped. Freelancers may experience bosses and editors expecting quick responses to any and all communiqué, work overflowing past the hours allotted for it (often without additional pay), and friends and family assuming we’re available at all times simply because we set our own schedules. It’s a nightmarish career for anyone who struggles with boundary-setting!

…Except that it doesn’t have to be. Whether you see it as a spiritual lesson or a purely practical one, there is much to be learned from having your boundaries repeatedly steamrolled in settings both personal and professional. The better I get at protecting my own energy and time through ruthless boundary-setting, the stronger and happier I feel overall. It’s a fantastic skillset to develop, for so many reasons. I’m not always as good at it as I’d like to be, but it feels great when I am.

One of the reasons I’ve been obsessed with boundary-setting in recent years is that my chronic illness has gotten worse and worse. My flare-ups are triggered by stress, among other things, so stress reduction is a top-level priority for me at this point. One of my new year’s resolutions for 2021 was to eliminate as many unnecessary stressors as humanly possible from my life this year, and setting better boundaries in my work life is a key way I’ve been doing that.

Here are some of my current professional boundaries:

I only work between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., and only on weekdays. This includes work-related writing, answering business emails/DMs/etc., doing research for articles, and so on. Past 5 p.m., and on weekends, I am unavailable for business interactions. There are 2 exceptions to this rule: 1) If I’m genuinely excited to work on something – such as if inspiration for a fun blog post suddenly strikes on a Saturday – then it’s okay to work on it at any time, so long as I’m not pushing myself too hard. 2) I sometimes have to do podcast recordings outside of work hours due to guests’ scheduling needs, which is fine. I’ll just try to rest for an equivalent amount of time during the next work day to make up for it.
I do not accept writing assignments that pay less than $0.20 per word. (If the assignment in question offers a flat rate or an hourly rate instead of a per-word rate, I’ll try to convert it to per-word to figure out whether it meets this standard.) In the early days of my career, it made some sense to take on low-paying (and even unpaid) assignments much more often, to build my portfolio, skillset, brand, and professional network – but with two book deals and countless bylines under my belt, I deserve and expect better payment these days. I sometimes consider lower-paying gigs if they offer some combination of creative freedom, a topic I find fascinating, a prestigious byline, fun perks (e.g. free travel), and/or cool collaborators, but for the most part, I’d rather have fewer projects (even if that means making less money overall) than feel resentful of the low-paying work I’ve allowed into my life.
I don’t generally accept feedback on my writing from people who have not actually read the piece(s) they are criticizing. I used to think theirs was a valid form of critique in some ways, but there have just been too many baffling instances of people becoming angry or upset because of what they assume I’ve written, having not even read what I’ve actually written. Almost all of the time, the points they’re making are already addressed in the piece, and sometimes we even agree with each other. You cannot reason with someone who is arguing from a place of presumption and bad faith. Reading someone’s work is the lowest possible bar you have to clear before you’re able to critique it in a coherent, accurate, and good-faith manner.
I don’t write things I don’t really believe, ever. That means, among other things, that I don’t accept sponsored post assignments from clients who demand fraudulently positive reviews of their products/services. Everything on this blog (except for a handful of guest posts written by people I personally invited to contribute) is written by me and reflects an opinion I actually hold (or, at least, an opinion I held at the time that I wrote it).

Despite how clearly necessary these boundaries are, it can be surprisingly hard sometimes to hold firm when they are pushed. This is why I have certain stock phrases/messages I can send to firmly but kindly express my boundaries, such as:

“That rate is too low for me, but best of luck!”
“For your future reference, I work Monday through Friday from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. ET and am otherwise out of office.”
“From your suggested rate, it sounds like you’re looking for an entry-level writer. As you know from my portfolio, that isn’t me, so it sounds like we’re not a fit at this time.”

Some such sentences sound embarrassingly self-aggrandizing (particularly when you have impostor syndrome!), such that I sometimes have to give myself a little pep talk before I can hit “send.” I often have to remind myself to avoid language that softens my boundary (e.g. “Just a reminder that I mostly only work on weekdays…” or “Usually my rate is at least double that, but…”) and to remain firm in my tone. Sometimes I’ll have an assertive, communication-savvy friend or partner read over my message before I send it, to make sure I’m expressing myself clearly and kindly. Or sometimes I just trust myself and click “send” easily, knowing I’m doing the right thing for myself and that any client worth having will respect my boundaries wholeheartedly.

Standing up for myself is simultaneously one of the scariest things I ever do and one of the most empowering. It doesn’t always feel comfortable – or even possible – but whenever I manage to do it, my life gets easier, calmer, and happier. My achy body appreciates the reduction in stress immensely – and my nervous brain appreciates the reminder that my needs and wants are just as important as everybody else’s.

Recently, I asked my partner to write mini reviews of some lewd self-portraits I shot in Agent Provocateur lingerie (yep, I’m needy as fuck) and, in one of the shots, it became evident that I had teamed this very expensive, sexy ensemble with a pair of blue calf-high socks. Rather than do what most people would do and either wish they weren’t there or not even notice them, my partner noted that the socks “show me that you want to come, and they’re the only thing that will be left on you once I get my hands on you.” I giggled, blushed, and nodded. Exactly.

If you’d be mystified receiving a sext like that, let me explain. A study done in 2003 in the Netherlands, on the neural processes that contribute to orgasm, found (among numerous other things) that wearing socks increased female participants’ rate of orgasm from 50% to 80%. Innnteresting.

This makes sense to me, given what I’ve learned from sex researcher Emily Nagoski about how women can be more sensitive than men to the presence of “sexual brakes,” i.e. factors that inhibit sexual arousal both physically and psychologically. (For the record, I’m not really sure how this information relates to trans women or nonbinary people, or whether gender-non-conforming people were included in any of the relevant studies, although my past experiences reading sex research lead me to believe they probably weren’t sampled significantly or at all.) Having cold feet in the literal sense could give women cold feet in the metaphorical sense about having sex, because in some cases it’s a distraction significant enough that it prevents or slows down the arousal process – at least, for me, and seemingly for other women as well. This is likely compounded by the fact that women’s extremities, on average, run colder than men’s. (Again, I assume the research here refers only to cis people, but would be pleasantly surprised if that was not the case.)

In the many years since I first read about the socks study, I’ve cited it to multiple sexual partners when asked why I tend to keep my socks on during sex, or (in the cases of a few foot fetishists) when lustily asked to remove my socks. It’s interesting how just explaining “My feet get cold,” like I used to do before I knew about the science, was typically met with more resistance than the more recent and more airtight “Studies show wearing socks during sex helps with having orgasms.” It’s almost as if… people trust male scientists more than they trust women about women’s own bodies?! Gee, who’da thunk.

I should note here that many people have a legitimate aesthetic issue with the whole idea of socks during sex. Either they think it looks silly and weird (which is their prerogative – I know even ultra-busty pouty-lipped sex dolls would look kinda odd wearing woollen hiking socks and nothing else) or they’re turned on by feet and/or full nudity. When I fuck someone who feels this way, my partners’ orgasms may be inhibited almost as much by me wearing socks as mine would be by me not wearing socks – so I’m sometimes willing to bend my policy and work a little harder for my orgasms, knowing I can wriggle back into my nice warm socks when we’re done. I do, after all, want my partners to enjoy having sex with me!

But luckily for me, I’ve had about as many paramours who loved socks as ones who wanted to ban them from our bedroom. This, I think, can be attributed mostly to my interest in DD/lg – there are a lot of visual tropes within that fetish, and knee-high and thigh-high socks are high on the list for many kinksters. I still remember the time I settled into bed for a nice long phone-sex sesh with a daddy dom years ago: he asked me what I was wearing, I told him “a T-shirt, underwear, and some knee-high socks,” and he moaned/growled/grunted with such ferocity that I knew I had made the right choice even though he couldn’t even see my outfit.

Sometimes when I talk to other women about wearing socks during sex – and, yeah, my life is sufficiently weird that this topic does come up in conversation with friends sometimes – they seem slightly mystified by my decision to put my comfort first in a sexual scenario. I think this is sadly emblematic of our sexual culture. Mainstream porn, for example – while I adore much of it and think it is necessary and important – is full of messaging which suggests that hot sex and comfortable sex are basically mutually exclusive, especially for women (can you IMAGINE doing reverse cowgirl, while standing, for 20+ minutes straight?! I simply cannot). And indeed, there are some sex acts I enjoy greatly which could not be considered “comfortable” by any stretch of the imagination (getting paddled and getting throat-fucked come to mind), so it’s not like discomfort is incompatible with arousal for me. But for some reason, socks are one place where I draw a line. I’m rarely up for being uncomfortable in this particular way even though I’ll happily be uncomfortable in various other ways during sex from time to time.

I will say, too, that this has sometimes been a litmus test of sorts for how a new partner reacts to boundary-setting or mid-bang communication. Are they really so committed to their porn-borne sexual scripts that they’re going to insist on full nudity at the expense of my comfort? Are they really going to argue with me about this perfectly reasonable boundary I have set for my own body? Or are they going to say “Huh,” shrug it off, and move on like nothing is wrong (because nothing is)?

Despite being a foot fetishist, my current partner is so devoted to and interested in my pleasure and my orgasm that they’ll often encourage me to keep my socks on during sex. And this makes it all the more delicious for both of us when – after giving me a partly socks-enabled orgasm or two – they crawl down my body, rest their hand gently on my ankle, and ask so so sweetly, “May I take these off and look at your feet?”

Respecting sexual partners’ boundaries is so, so important, even if those boundaries don’t totally make sense to you. Every time a partner respects one of my boundaries without question, it becomes easier and more fun for me later on to bend my more flexible boundaries in the name of pleasure. Heeding my “no” now is likely to get you a “yes” later, for something else. I’m glad science exists to back me up when I set this particular boundary, but the truth is, I shouldn’t need a scientific citation to state what I want and have that be respected.

So when my partner compliments the socks I’m wearing in nudes ‘n’ lewds, I know it’s more than just a compliment. It’s an affirmation that my choices are valid, my boundaries are important, and I am beautiful regardless of which clothes I do, or don’t, remove.

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