I am not your doll: weighing the pros and cons of casual sex

I’ve had a lot of sex, with a lot of different people. I thought it was a quick way to get attention or validation, or some kind of cheat code for making people love me. I felt validated through sex, a confirmation that even with the body I felt was so twisted and disgusting, I could be something to someone. If even for a brief moment, someone was with me and the deep loneliness I felt was alleviated. Gone. Some moments are briefer than others, and some moments take so long you literally would rather be sacrificed to some volcano god somewhere to wipe out a small island (which is what SSRI dick feels like, by the way: careful, or your hole will erupt–) .

But at one point, the feeling of validation stopped. The sex just furthered my emptiness. Each time someone made known their intentions towards me or vice versa, I felt like something was taken from me. The prettier I got, the more frequent it became. I was not an attractive person until the adult portion of my life, and couldn’t handle the validation. I thought all desire was a desire to get to know know me, rather than, y’know, use me as an experimental flesh light.

I began to feel dehumanized. A fetish object, only used at people’s convenience and something someone could push away when they were tired of it. Sex wasn’t fun anymore, and it isn’t to this day: I began to steadily blame myself and my looks, thinking: “It’s my fault these things happen to me.” As someone starved for love and attention, I always act with the hope that somewhere in people’s contorted vision of me as a transgender Frankenstein sex monster, they’ll see, maybe, an ounce of humanity or something crazy like that!

But that’s not realistic. I feel helpless to the temporary affections of others, overwhelmed at times and questioning peoples intentions. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to be around men who blame ME for their actions, like I tricked or deceived them by appearing how I do. I am tired of the relentless blame I endure because people won’t take responsibility for their actions. I am tired of being victim to my own body and what people choose to do with it.

As of my last hookup (and my last article), I made the decision to stop allowing people to use me in this way. Said article gave indication as to who that person was and caused an issue. (Unfortunately, as a blogger who writes from my own personal experiences as a trans woman, I cannot be as vague as I’d sometimes like to be.) The person reacted with self-pitying excuses, blaming their behavior (and their desires) on alcohol and painting themselves as a victim of my irresistibility.

I am not responsible for what others do. I am not responsible for anyone wanting to experiment with me, or for regretting this decision if word gets out that it happened. It’s not my fault I’m attractive (and popular), and that you bought me drinks when I was already unable to walk in my heels, saying “go easy, I’ve never done this kind of thing.” I am not a hypnotist. And your shame-filled excuses contain the same rhetoric that get trans women killed daily. Your identity crisis, your inner confusion, is not my problem; nor is it the problem of anyone else you decide to cum inside of.

There are things I take responsibility for as well. I take responsibility for thinking that someone publicly interacting with me and drunkenly oversharing about their trauma was grounds for immediate trust. Being drunk enough to get into a car with someone I’d met twice, and who had been drinking too, was also a fuck up. Not immediately ending the encounter when someone ignored the “no, stop” which I repeated a million times as they SHREDDED my nipples, thinking that maybeeee they’d like me more if I take it, was a fuck up. These were my own bad decisions and I owe myself (and my therapist) more than that.

People are not toys. People are not meant to be used and discarded or broken at the impulse of another. I am not a doll, no matter how many times I am compared to one (please stop – it is not a compliment). I am not a fantasy: I am a person.

In my column I *try* to avoid discussing anything depressing or hard. I don’t want to present my life as some sad story about a girl desperately trying to feel something through others. I like to seem empowered. I like to seem like I know what I’m doing, and it’s all funny, and it’s all a joke, and that my life is a reasonably cheap buffet of men on leashes. Sometimes it is– and sometimes it’s not. I do feel that I have a responsibility to show both sides.

Winter is an especially lonely time for a lot of people, and despite my own periodic bouts of recklessness, I encourage everyone to reevaluate and ask yourself: is casual sex for me? Is this *my* sex positivity? Because it might not be–it might actually be self harm. It might open up doors that you wish you’d left closed. It might scar you in ways that you can’t see now.

Not every flatterer has good intentions. You can’t read minds, or assume peoples’ actions will align with their words. So please always ask yourself: Is this healthy? Am I healthy? Are they healthy? Because not every hookup turns into a funny story. Be safe. Be responsible.  

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