Tag Archives: consent
“But I thought he was a nice guy?!”
This post – which includes frank discussion of rape and sexual assault, fyi – has been swirling round in my head for a while. I almost wrote it a few weeks ago, when student George Lawlor feigned horror at being asked to go to consent classes and held up a sign saying ‘this is not what a rapist looks like.’ Then I almost wrote it again after watching the BBC3 programme ‘Is this rape?’ Now a number of porn performers have come forward about James Deen and – because I think it’s important to support people who speak out – I figured now’s as good a time as any. I believe them, obviously. Please read their stories:
I don’t want to put words into their mouths or make any assumptions about their experience, which is why I’ve put all these links at the beginning of the post so you can read, and offer your own support however you like.
From now on the rest of this post is not specifically about any individual – just our response to hearing someone’s personal story of rape or assault. Specifically, it’s about this phrase:
“But I thought he was a nice guy?!”
It comes back to the George Lawlor thing: ‘This is not what a rapist looks like.’ Let me tell you about some nice guys I have known.
Bondage kits, anticipation, and part two of a sex story…
A couple of weeks ago I put up the first instalment of a 2-part sex story involving a bondage kit, and the sexy anticipation of the build-up to getting something hot delivered to your door. In it, the main character falls for Zoe – a dominant with a penchant for spanking and bondage. Click the link above to read part one, which is filled with sexy shivers of anticipation, then read below for the climax, so to speak. It’s by the brilliant @waitingirl13, and I think it’s a gorgeous way to round off the tale…
How to say no (to things that aren’t sexy)
“Do you want another biscuit?”
“Ah, no I’m OK thanks. I’ve had five and I had a big lunch – I’m really full.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure thanks.”
“Go on – they’re delicious!”
“I know. I just…”
“G’wan.”
“OK, thanks.”
And then I sit and eat the biscuit and think ‘for fuck’s sake, I am a grown up. I should be able to decide whether I want a fucking biscuit.’ But then someone will pass the plate around again, and I’ll take another, because I don’t want to be rude. And by the end of the day I will be so sick of biscuits and so sad that these things I love very much (biscuits) have been ruined by the fact that I’ve had them politely shoveled into my face alongside the cup of tea that I don’t really like either.
This isn’t a metaphor for sex.
BDSM made me do it
Today an article went up on the Guardian that made me desperately sad. In the wake of a woman being murdered by her partner, with whom she was said to be in a BDSM relationship, Emer O’Toole explains that we should examine the impact of BDSM – as if the murderer’s label of ‘Sir’ is in any way more significant than the fact that he was an abusive, evil, murderous prick.
I’m going to warn you, this story gets more awful and troubling with the context so you might not want to read on.
No pain, no pleasure, all the joy – anaesthetic sex
This post talks about anaesthetic sex – detailing a super-hot fuck I had while I was a bit ‘out of it’ and asked a guy to take advantage of that. It was fully consensual and negotiated between both of us before I took the anaesthetic, but if the idea of intoxicated sex makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read on.