Disturbing Arousal

'We're the 4chan generation – can't get off unless it's at least borderline disturbing.' – Anon (via Twitter)

Recently I participated in a research project examining female desire and pornography. As part of the project I was asked to watch a short female-directed adult film and answer a series of questions about my expectations versus my actual responses (this is what happens when I answer adverts on the back of toilet doors).

Once I got past the awkwardness of watching an adult movie in an empty university tutorial room, I actually found the film surprisingly sexy. It wasn’t like other porn that I have seen. There were no plumped up lips, plastic boobs or monster cocks. The actors were attractive and natural-looking. The costumes and sets were likewise visually appealing. Attention was paid to both the male and female characters’ needs. None of the activities the actors engaged in appeared painful or gravity-defying. There was no spitting, no hair pulling, no anal savaging, and no one looked as if they were in pain. The actors displayed passion and desire for one another, not just each other’s orifices. They kissed and caressed like lovers, rather than, well, porn stars. This might be what two good-looking people who are actually into each other get up to in an ideal session of loving hot sex.

But when it came to answering the questionnaire about my expectations and what I valued as important in such a film, I hesitated. I wanted to say, 'Yes, this film is exactly what I want as a woman. It’s not crude, it doesn't objectify the characters, it contains emotion and eroticism: THIS is what porn should be!’ The problem was, if I am honest, it didn’t turn me on as much as other porn that I have seen (and I don’t think I can entirely blame the situation I was in while watching).

I could easily answer, 'Yes, I found this movie enjoyable.' But by that, I mean I could see myself happily sitting down to watch it for an evening. In lingerie. With popcorn. Possibly even with my lover beside me. But it's not likely to do the trick if I'm looking for a quick get-me-off-before-the-housemate-comes-home fix.

The hesitation came because in saying this, I feel like I am somehow letting women down – not that I am any kind of ‘spokesperson for all women’, but you know what I mean. I feel as though this is an opportunity to have input into the kind of porn produced by women, for women, and that I should be fighting for quality material that doesn’t objectify or degrade, which addresses a lot of the things I hear women complain about in more male-oriented porn.

In Even Better Than I responded to an article that dealt with men’s complaints that porn is ruining them for sex in real life by setting up unrealistic ideas of how they (and their partners) should behave in the bedroom. Women, I argued, are equally ruined by the sorts of images and ideas they are conditioned to like, which can set up equally unrealistic expectations of sex and relationships and leave us reliant on our imaginations to fill in the sexually-satisfying gaps. Because I have been exposed to both romance-fuelled Fabio-ideals during adolescence, feminist ideals during my late-teens and early twenties, and hard-core pornography during my Dirty Thirties, when asked to put pen to paper, I struggled to distinguish between what I thought I should want, and what I actually responded to. The 'conditioned woman' in me felt I should want 'nice' porn, the 'feminist' wanted porn that was all about the woman's needs, while the 'hard-core watching woman' had to admit to not responding as strongly in the absence of power-play and objectification.

The truth is, when it comes to how the brain is wired, objectifying images may be less comfortable and more confronting to watch, but they evoke a more direct physical response. At least, they do in me.

One of the questions I was asked was whether or not I felt disgusted at any point during the film. I was also asked about feelings of guilt or shame, to which I answered that I experienced none. Had I been asked these questions about some of the male-oriented hard-core porn that I have watched, I may not have been able to answer the same, and yet watching that porn was more physically arousing. I found myself asking, is that because I have already been exposed to more hard-core porn and this has somehow desensitised me, or is this an innate physical response hard-wired to get me off on more graphic images?

I have seen porn that I haven't enjoyed, that I have found so uncomfortable watching, I switched it off. This was porn that to empathise with made me squirm in imagined pain, humiliation, or disgust. But on some level, there was still a physical response going on – an involuntary one, and one that left me feeling disturbed.

Mental stimulation is very important for me during sex. I respond keenly to role-play and dirty-talk. This is the stuff that hits deep inside my psyche and will get me off even when the scenarios being evoked are of things I would dread happening in real life. On one level my brain is firing, 'Yes!' but on another, 'No, really – no.' And I don’t think I can blame these responses on exposure to hard-core pornography. For me, at least, something more innate is going on.

By contrast, the porn I was shown during the study was both arousing and enjoyable to watch. I suffered no inner conflict, was left with no residual guilt or disgust. I thought to myself, this might be a good introduction to pornography for individuals with waning libidos, who don’t want to watch anything too confronting, or perhaps a good antidote for those who have lost their lust for sex in the real world, in that it might help them re-connect emotion and eroticism.

But just at the moment, I don’t fit into either category. I'm somewhere in the middle. My ideal pornography would be something with enough power-play and objectification to be stimulating, but enough emotional connection and respect between the characters that it doesn't leave me feeling conflicted and dirty.

Because what if there is an emotional cost of continually engaging in a kind of ‘disturbing arousal’? Whether the impact is on the level of intimacy in my relationships or an inability to ‘get-off’ with my partner, or manifests as scars upon my psyche from residual feelings of shame and disgust. I’d rather not take the risk if I can help it, and instead make use of material that is arousing minus the emotional disturbance. I just wish there had been space on the questionnaire to write that.

--RP

"Are you going to be a good girl?"

Rhonda Perky dons her collar and surrenders her will to her lover

When I talk about being a Submissive, I am referring to my desire to be dominated by another, sexually. This means being objectified and giving up my will to my lover. To me this feels 'right', familiar, a partner who will pick me up, show their desire by using and abusing me; devaluing and admiring me; cherishing my body while defiling it.

The relationship with my Dom is so intimate, so intense, so frightening and so thrilling that in that moment I can lose myself completely; give my will over to them utterly. I live those moments through them, exist through their eyes, for their purpose. I am visible and invisible at the same time. I exist yet do not exist. I am what they need, what they use, what they desire, what they discard.

I have tried to understand where this need comes from. Why, having found this dynamic in a lover, though I enjoy interactions with others, I do not lose myself completely; do not give up my will in the same way. Somehow being dominated sends signals to my brain that I am present, valued, and ironically – safe.

And yet, is my ‘owner’, my Dom, the person who objectifies and humiliates me, someone I would ever want to come home to? How would that dynamic, that control, translate into the real world? Do I want the person who objectifies and abuses me in the bedroom to share the intimacies of the rest of my life? What are the chances, even, of finding a partner who meets that need while also being a companion, a friend and confidante?

I have had two relationships with men I would consider ‘Doms’. In both cases, the bedroom dynamic was thrilling, meeting that special need in me, but we were not good matches for each other in our day-to-day lives.

In the case of the first relationship, I was recently separated from my husband, and in no hurry to let anyone gain an inch within my newly discovered space, and so I kept my partner at arms’ length, but this meant I never really tested the Dom/Sub boundaries outside the bedroom.

By the time I became entangled with my second Dom, I was ready to let someone in to the rest of my life – which I did, opening myself up completely. Our relationship was thrilling – inside the bedroom and out. I loved that he mirrored me, owned me, manipulated me, but that dynamic soon bled into our every day. I was happy to be at his beck and call sexually, but somehow I ended up at his beck and call in everything. This Dom pressed my buttons in a way that destabilised me and made me completely dependent on him for my self-worth. It got so that outside of the bedroom we weren't able to function.

The kind of power I had given him had morphed into abuse.

This experience has left me understandably wary of entering into another relationship, but most especially a relationship with a Dom. Yet the Submissive in me continues to seek out a Dominant partner – I just make sure it is only for sex. Not trusting myself, I keep my Dom as a lover, a f-buddy --nothing more. Even then, it doesn’t always work.

The thrill of being 'owned’ and giving up my will when there is no underlying foundation of a relationship, can result in allowing my Dom to cross the normal boundaries of dignity and respect, especially when I relish things from my partners that non-Submissives might find degrading.

Fear and humiliation, the pushing of boundaries, can be part of the thrill, the dynamic, and so I can find myself accepting more in the moment than I feel entirely comfortable with, not always knowing how I will feel afterwards. For instance, my Dom might be doing something that is potentially painful, but being able to speak up, to say, ‘No I'm not okay with this,’ in a way that doesn't break the dynamic in that moment, isn’t easy. And so sometimes I am left with shame, guilt and even physical consequences that I have to own, because I allowed them to happen.

And it’s not just in the bedroom. Part of the dynamic involves being at my Dom’s beck and call and needing to be objectified: 'I am his/hers therefore they can pick me up and use me as they see fit.' But by fetishising being picked up, used, and discarded, the transaction can soon lead to the crossing of emotional boundaries, putting up with (and justifying) being treated poorly. The end result is a lack of respect, not necessarily from my Dom, but from me, because there are no 'safe words' when it comes to emotions.

And I am not saying that all Dom/Sub relationships end up like this, just as all relationships, not just those of a Dom and Sub, can have unequal power dynamics in and out of the bedroom. I have since discovered that in my previous relationship, my lover wasn’t abusive because he was a Dom, he was a Dom because he was abusive – it was an extension of that side of himself, his need to manipulate, control and instil fear, but also an extension of my need to be mistreated, because I facilitated that dynamic.

I have also learned that having that need met sexually helps me to not look for it in other aspects of my relationships. It fills a need in my psyche and frees me to create equal partnerships where I am not objectified, not abused. What I haven’t worked out is how to keep that dynamic confined to the bedroom, to a fantasy realm, how to set my own boundaries so that the Dom/Sub dynamic doesn’t bleed into our everyday transactions, leaving me feeling objectified and emotionally used.

I am beginning to understand why a person might pay for sex out of a desire to keep those particular needs separate from their loved one. Not just because the chances of finding someone who can fill that need and also be a good, compatible partner are slim, but because it requires being able to switch that need on and off, allowing a person to control and defile you, and then asking them to value you as an equal – and that’s before considering the possible feelings of guilt and shame over what can happen in the bedroom.

A friend said to me recently that he finds the idea of being a Dom counter to his nature, because it feels like it would require him to abandon his respect for women. In some ways he is right, but I have hope that it is possible for that dynamic to exist alongside, or embedded within, an underlying dynamic of personal and mutual respect between Dom and Sub.

This means finding a way to keep the Dominant/Submissive needs contained, boundaries secure, because as in any relationship, Dom and Sub need to be able to function as free individuals, and leave the collar behind when they leave the bedroom.

--RP

Having my cake

Adventure Girl ponders the perils of wanting it all

‘So, you’re poly?’
‘Um. I am?’

I consider myself a free agent. I like to see more than one person, ongoing but casually, and not always just for sex. Having one F-Buddy, or FB (someone I see primarily for sex) I am okay with and I enjoy, but what about my other needs? I like to go out and do things with people, go on dates. I want lovers I can also hang out with, without being exclusive necessarily, but each having a secure place with one another.

It is more than F-buddies, but not quite an Open Relationship. It is non-exclusive friendship, companionship, romance, affection, sex, honesty and respect, in as large or as small a measure as is required.

In some ways this feels like having my cake and eating it, or at least, looking for something that doesn’t exist. I’m yet to meet someone who I want all those things from in a bundle. Moreover, expecting one person to meet all of those needs seems like a very big ask.

To counter this, I have been trying to get my needs met from multiple partners, where the rules of each engagement are the rules we define ourselves.

The problem is, sometimes the rules I want to define do my partners' heads in.

Take ‘Steve’, a guy who I had met first for sex, but who I began to hang out with, to date. He wasn’t like anyone I have ever seen, and I enjoyed that. But one night, early on, I went over to his house for dinner, and for one reason or another, we didn’t end up having sex. I was actually okay with this; he wasn’t. 

‘This is supposed to be about sex,’ he said.

Through my drunken muddled filter, what I heard was, ‘You’re for sex, and nothing more. Hanging out is a means to get you into bed. Those are the rules of our engagement.’  Back onto the Porn Pile for me.

Never mind that we enjoyed each other’s company. Never mind that we provided each other with companionship and affection, even a little bit of romance. In Steve’s mind if we were hanging out, but not having sex, we must be in a Relationship, and he wasn’t up for that.

Through my tears all I could think was, that’s not what I’m asking for, not even what I want. Why can’t we hang out and if there’s sex, that’s great, and if there’s not, so be it? That’s not a Relationship, is it? Nothing has to change.

But it did. We never recovered from that night. A couple of confused text messages, and we were virtual strangers once again. 

It hurt more, I think, because it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. 

Earlier that year, I had been spending a lot of time with a particular FB, ‘John’. John and I were spending so much time together in fact, that it felt like we were having an affair rather than just meeting for sex. It wasn’t like a Relationship, because all of our time was spent in the realm of the bedroom, but despite spending three, sometimes four nights a week together, I felt invisible.

In the dark we talked. I counselled John through an unrequited passion, learned about his past, his work, his dreams. He listened to me – to a point. Always, there was a barrier, a place he pushed back: what to him was the Relationship Line.

Tired of butting up against the wall, seeing something on the other side I thought would benefit us both, I suggested we go out sometimes, do things socially. Because in becoming John’s sex partner I had lost his friendship. The sex was good, but I had originally been attracted to him for his mind, not his cock. John told me he was getting all his needs met – similar to me, he was mixing and matching among the people in his life – only someone else had the piece I wanted. I wasn’t asking for him to be a boyfriend or to even like me in that way. I just wanted a chance to get to know him as a person, outside of the bedroom, and see if that glimpse that had been there in the beginning had more substance behind the wall.

At this suggestion, John freaked out. We took a little break, to think about what each of us wanted. Only while I tried to breathe, to think, he began to call. He wanted to meet for coffee, he wanted to chat, to hear about my day; he wanted to make me dinner, lunch. This isn’t what I had signed up for. It felt like he was trying not to date me, but to act like a boyfriend. It was horrible, not because I didn’t enjoy our interactions but because I knew his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t want to see himself as the guy who puts the girl on the Porn Pile, but that’s exactly where he wanted me: the only place left in his life after the other spots were taken.

I felt more invisible than ever.

We quickly agreed it wasn’t working, and tried to get back to the way things had been. We never really did. The pieces that he had been giving me, the adoration, the affection, were withheld for fear that I would ‘get the wrong idea.’ I struggled to express my needs in a way that made sense to him until all I could feel was the unspoken between us: not his, but mine. The gap in the bed as his back faced me – I was expected to be the Big Spoon – was filled with my stifled silence.

Add to this John told me he thought he might be ready to start dating again – but that he didn’t want to date me. His last relationship had begun under similar circumstances, and he didn’t want to go there again. I was very much on the Porn Pile, and that’s where I would stay.

Eventually we ended things. It was very painful. Not because I had wanted more from him, but because he hadn’t wanted more from me. Because he had had to try to want more. 

I could see the double-standard inherent in this, but it didn’t make it any easier.

Meanwhile I met another FB, ‘Adam’. Better than the first in some respects, because it was very clear to me that the rules of our engagement started and finished with sex. We would meet for ‘sessions’ and were open about seeing other people. I was openly on the Porn Pile, but so was he.

I remember one night Adam told me he had a penchant for falling for the wrong people. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t fall for you,’ he quickly added.

‘Should I be insulted?’ I asked with a teasing smile.

‘Um…’

I laughed off his gaff, and never asked him what he meant. Instead I clung to those words, so that every time he showed signs of caring or affection for me, I could tell myself, ‘Just the cock, thanks!’ and continue to search elsewhere for my other needs.

But the more people I encounter, the more apparent it becomes that unless I am signing up for a Relationship, my partners want sex from me and nothing more. Like Steve, dates are a means to get my knickers off, not to spend time together.

Will I ever get off the Porn Pile?

I also realise this is total hypocrisy, because I am yet to meet someone I haven’t put on that pile myself, someone I want more from, someone I don’t portion off behind my own Relationship Line wall. 

Part of the difficulty is that I’m not even sure how to describe the rules of the type of engagement I am looking for without setting off alarm bells. Because if I tell my partner I want more than ‘just sex’, they assume I must also want a primary Relationship. 

In the rules of my engagement there is openness and honesty. Of course it hurts to know that you are shared, but on some level jealousy is a part of most relationships. It is much easier to cast your jealousies aside when you know in advance that you are shared, and they are shared, and you can keep your expectations in check. At least, it is for me.

Is this in-between grey space the realm of Polyamoury? 

Perhaps if I give it this label my partners will be able to understand, to not freak out, and maybe I will have a chance at the kind of engagements I am seeking without being discarded onto the Porn Pile, because someone who is prepared to date and sleep with multiple partners must be good for sex and nothing more. Or perhaps I will end up staring at one half eaten plate after another.

--AG