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PERSONAL ESSAYS
posted 6/25/2008
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I've had four boyfriends — or sort-of boyfriends — since I made my anal proclamation. The first, despite a robust interest in all things filthy, charitably thought of my rule as cute and a little weird. He didn't sweat it much, since we lived together and talked about our future married life on the regular. (He eventually dumped me for unrelated offenses.) The second was so interested in dimly-lit, "meaningful" lovemaking I'm not sure he was aware of the existence of other, less gentle methods. The third, who recoiled at the thought of anal because "poo comes out of there," was pleased and relieved. The fourth, a genuine jock with rugby practices and pink popped-collar Polo shirts, was truly disappointed. To him, it was like discovering his new BMW 760Li had arrived without a stereo, and he seemed seriously let down that his cool girlfriend with the tattoos and fun stories carried with her any kind of sexual restrictions. False advertising!
But such a rule has inherent rewards. Playing with limitations — much like, say, toying with the notion of coming inside someone when condoms are your birth-control system — can be really hot.
Wanting to be a doe-eyed, exploitable novice about something is as much who I am as anything else.
Boyfriend number four understood the nuances of my anal rule, and while I trusted him to never actually do it, he would often run his cock directly on and around the no-fly zone, sleazily ruminating about what he could do if he wanted.
Sexual submission is ultimately about control, about exchanging one kind of vulnerability for another. My anal rule is no different — just a way of ensuring there's something left for me to do, some value to my notions about the ideal characteristics of a marriage. Wanting to be a doe-eyed, exploitable novice about something is as much who I am as anything else. And while I want genuine equality and an overarching go-team attitude in every relationship, including my marriage, I still need room to play the role of virgin bride.
I do wonder, though, if marriage will inspire some kind of latent Stepfordism that I'm not anticipating. That would be terrible. Or what if Future Husband, assuming there is one, is the kind of dude who doesn't care about what kind of sex I've gotten up to in my youth. (And even if he does care, simply refraining from anal doesn't exactly un-whore me.) Or the worst-possible-case scenario! Said husband is sickened by the very idea of anal sex, and after all of my efforts, I never get to experience it. This final risk, more than anything, may finally turn me over on the issue. n°
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kate Carraway contributes to LA Weekly, OC Weekly and other Village Voice Media publications. She usually lives in Toronto.
