Blunt in the Bedroom

Destigmatize. Legalize. Sexualize.

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Toys and Teas for Days Like These

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I bought a new sex toy. Lightning did not strike me.

Beard Man is holed up in the Midwest for two weeks for work. We’ve never been apart for so long. I miss him, and his furnace body with its silky appendage. He texted me yesterday, suggesting I should feel free to find the toy he knows I’ve sheepishly been crushing on. Sweet guy, he knew what I needed.

Lucky for me, my kids were off to the forest for nature school today. Since I completed the rest of my errands before the sex shop opened, I lounged at a tea house up the street. I stared into my tea leaves for nearly an hour after the sex shop had opened, lest I appear too eager, then walked past my car and three blocks up, lest my car be spied in front of the shop. Who or what am I worried about? No idea. Ah, the paranoia of a punitive childhood. But I digress.

Once inside, I maintained a casual attitude, because I’m an empowered, grown-ass woman. I am, I am, I am. Turning on display models, I slowly ran my fingers over them, pausing to consider the motions of each one. Chatting with the sales clerk about various shapes and styles, I willed my cheeks not to blush. I held an egg-shaped toy that vibrates faster the harder it’s squeezed, a sexy spy vibrator made to look exactly like a tube of red lipstick, and toys made to be used with a partner. Contemplating the partner toys and their many shapes, I walked away still flummoxed as to how they get wedged into a pile of genitals. Maybe we can try that one day, but what I really showed up to see was a Pulsator. It thrust in my hand and my eyes widened as an imagination orgasm shuddered through me from crotch to toe. Check out Fun Factory’s line of Pulsators here.

Unboxing my new toy, I was disappointed to realize I had to charge it for 8 hours before first use. Dammit, it was my one day without the kiddos around. Oh well. I set it on the charger. I packed the bowl of my one-hitter with some freshly-ground kush while warming up leftovers for lunch. A wisp of fire-belly smoke escaped my lips as I stony daydreamed about the Pulsator. My excitement turned sour when a current of shame carrying the message, “dirty” looped around my consciousness. It was probably the weed, but for the first time I could separate the thought from myself. Logic or objective study hadn’t convinced me that my body was yucky – I had been conditioned, just as a bell made Pavlov’s dogs drool.

For me, Peggy O’Mara’s words have held true: how you talk to your children becomes their inner voice. No child should hear “yucky” associated with their genitals before they can say “penis” or “vulva”. My inner voice whispered disparaging words about my body and how I wanted to make it feel good.  Disgust at my own sexuality is an imprint I’ve accepted for too long.  With my back pressed against the kitchen counter and my palms to my cheeks, I hiccupped my sadness. Rejecting thoughts that no longer serve me isn’t easy.

The kids are asleep, and the battery is charged, so I’m going to go play. With myself.

Sabbath Nipples: training bras and when to wear them

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As a kid in a fundamentalist family, church and popular culture simultaneously tantalized and shamed me with sexual knowledge I would learn when I “grew up”. Fashion magazines in the checkout line espoused ways I could please my man and highlighted cleavage I should aspire to, while pastors pounded the podium, railing against harlots and impurity. In my mind, growing up meant learning everything about sex, a delicious, yet dirty deed. I couldn’t grow up fast enough.

In the 5th grade, feeling proud of my newly-pipped breast buds, I pinned all my pubescent hopes on a training bra. It was 1990, and I expected a bra paired with my fluorescent music note earrings, paisley leggings, and layered scrunch socks would secure my spot as one of the cool kids. My mother surveyed my soft jelly-bean nipples rippling the front of my shirt, and agreed it was time. The bra was made of two flimsy triangles, adjustable straps, and a front clasp. I assumed bras with hooks in the back were for boobs that dangled, like my mom’s. I’d watched her lean forward and drop her breasts into the cups more than a few times. She was a pro.

The bra did not succeed at making me cool, but it did raise my grownup-o-meter by a good 15 points.

We were Sabbath-keepers. That meant from Friday night sundown until Saturday night sundown, we followed strict behavioral guidelines. No TV. No work. Pray, and read the Bible. We wore our ‘Sunday best’ to church every Saturday: dresses with no make up, three-piece-suits with ties. Even in July. Church services predictably opened with three hymns and a prayer. Hundreds of us sat on metal folding chairs, and my dad concentrated, stern-faced, balancing a notebook on his thigh, pen in hand. He captured bits of wisdom the pastor, deacons, and other men of esteem shared with the congregation, while I sat sketching fashion designs that pushed the limits of Christian modesty.

Before we left for church one morning, I was dressed and nearly done with breakfast, finishing my toast by the sink.  I wasn’t wearing my bra. Without a hundred 10-year-olds around to impress, I didn’t see the point. My dad, ostensibly a jokester, yanked the front of my dress, intending to tease me about the bra. The gathered elastic top gave way easily, exposing my plump nipples. Gah, DAD! He was apologetic for having embarrassed me, but slunk away mumbling, wondering aloud how much I really needed the bra. Dad wasn’t a creeper, but he was socially awkward and often handled uncomfortable feelings with juvenile impulsivity. At the time I didn’t have the right vocabulary to give voice to my feelings, but when I remember that day now, I feel violated. No matter his intent, the subtle message was clear: I was just a child, and I didn’t have a right to my own body, even within my clothing. In my view, my dad missed an opportunity. He could have bolstered my relationship with my body, impressing upon me that I had charge of who was allowed to touch me, and where. Instead, I was made to feel silly for excitement over my body changes. I was teased for having a bra, and humiliated for not wearing it all in the same moment.

Twenty-eight years have passed since the 5th grade, and my relationship with my breasts is still changing. I have padded them, hidden them, defiantly bared them, and nourished children with them. What’s new is finding my own pleasure in them. Turning on with cannabis is opening me up to erotic sensations in body parts I thought were sexually broken. Any small tingle of pleasure in my breasts used to bring with it a wave of shame. Now, when I smoke weed in the bedroom, I set an intention to find pleasure with my partner, and shame huddles in the shadows, weakened. With a continued regimen of cannabis self-care, the effect has been cumulative, and now, most of the time, I feel like my body belongs to me.

And I don’t own any bras with hooks in the back.

Weed and Sex: a first experience

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Before I accepted cannabis into my bedroom, my sex life was dependably orgasmic, but nothing that would inspire an entire blog post. I remember those nights a little bit like this: Sitting cross-legged on my squashy kid-snack sofa, my eyelids drooped a bit as I glanced at the time. Harry Potter whizzed over the Quidditch field across the room, and political news droned in my left earbud. It was Saturday night, so when the kids were finally asleep, we turned the TV off. With any luck, we’d get a quick romp before we were both too tired.

Sitting on the bed, I let out a sigh before clicking off my phone. Lube and tissues stood ready, courtesy of Beard Man. Despite the sultry glow of a mood lighting app, I fended off attacks from projectiles in my mind. Did I remember to buy broccoli? Ugh, my thighs are so flabby! Fuck, I forgot to call the clinic. God I hope the neighbors can’t hear my vibrator.

Bedroom Bludgers are the worst.

Weed had already become a regular part of my creative expression and meditation, but I’d held back from adding it to my sex life. Then late last summer, I decided to trust the plant.

Breathlessly, “I didn’t…expect…what was…that?” tumbled from my lips. Glory be! The rumors were true.

I had just had sex while high, and it was fucking great.

Here’s how weed changed my sexual experience: My sense of touch heightened, as though my whole central nervous system was engorged. Warm caresses became blue fire, and my toes actually curled as electricity skittered down my shins. Gentle spasms radiated up my vagina. Climax without direct clit stimulation suddenly seemed possible.

Amid fresh sensations all over, I forgot the clutter in my head. My worries stopped chasing me and I gave myself entirely to my own pleasure. Totally lost in my body, I did not pay much attention to Beard Man during that first time. Oops. It turned out he didn’t mind. Often the king of using understatement to highlight his point, he told me he was watching my face, and he was “not disappointed.”

Hee hee hee.

For me, weed cuts through the bullshit of religious and social expectations surrounding sex that have given me hang ups for years. Embracing my own pleasure, I’m refusing to feel guilty or ashamed. With intention, I disconnect from my task lists and connect with my partner, feeling powerful and vulnerable. Tomorrow I’ll handle phone calls and go to the grocery store. Tonight, a couple of bong rips in, Beard man will remind me that my thighs are luscious, and I won’t even blush.

I am admittedly still paranoid at the volume of buzzing sex toys.