Even at the tender age of eleven, I could not climb the stairs from the basement to tell my parents what had happened. What is more upsetting is that I am uncertain to why. I may have been afraid of not being believed although, it is more likely that I feared being blamed. Instead of saying anything, I slipped soundlessly into a chair at the kitchen table to sit next to the middle brother, Wes. The only one in that house whom I trusted.
“Johnny tried to kiss you, didn’t he?”
Johnny was Wes’ older brother and this omission was in the form of a question. This startled me, but I could only nod. Wes was doing his homework and I sat stunned, scared and unmoving. Until, of course, his dad came in. This wiry man was my mother’s best friend’s husband and he shooed me away to the basement again.
“Wes doesn’t need any distraction during his studies.” His father had said.
The meager smile the boy gave me was meant as an apology. Wes knew what the basement would hold for me and didn’t tell.
Victim Blaming
Slowly, I descended the stairs in my fuzzy pink pajamas with purple feet and mitten-shaped pockets. There, Johnny was with his littlest brother, setting up a board game. On the floor at the opposite end of the coffee table seemed the safest place for me. So, I masked my reluctance and joined. How could I have known that from beneath the table his leg crossed the distance? Every time he tried cramming his foot into my crotch, I smacked it away. On the third try, he sent his little brother upstairs.
The words “don’t go” were stuck in my throat as I scrambled to my feet.
Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned down on the couch and I can still remember is crushing weight. In my panicked frenzy, I somehow managed to get away. Straight up two flights of stairs, I ran clutching the waist of my pajama bottoms. I hid under the covers of where I would be sleeping that night; except, I didn’t sleep. I sobbed quietly, gripped by the fear that Johnny would try again. Luckily, he did not.
Memory is a funny thing. Somehow, for awhile I was able to get passed
Victim Blaming
that night at my parent’s friend’s house. There were a few years of blissful forgetfulness and denial. Until one day that memory came crashing back fully loaded with the fear of an eleven-year-old child.
In grade ten drama class, we were to perform self-written monologues. One of these performances was of an intimate account of a sexual assault from the point of view of the victim as if he were talking to his counselor. Everything he said bore into a wound I hadn’t known was there. The memory of my attack resurfaced and it distorted all that I knew and tainted every relationship I had. Resentment chewed away at me and left a predominate chip.
Mercifully, I never saw Johnny again. But, even now, thirty years later, on those rare occasions, his name is mentioned in casual conversation I stiffen and my stomach twists. That night will play over in my head and the agonizing self-deprecation begins.
I should have recognized the danger in the way he looked at me.
I should have declined the can of pop he offered me.
I should have kept my distance and not stood next to him when we were picking out a movie.
I should not have changed into my pajamas.
I should have…
I should have…
I should have…
I should have told someone.
No one blames the victim more than the victim blames themselves.
This needs to change! Why did I feel the need the justify how old I was or what I was wearing? Would I have been lesser of a victim if I had been eighteen, full figured and scantily dressed? The answer is NO! The end of victim blaming starts with victims and potential victims. Why didn’t I tell?
A victim is …a victim is… A VICTIM.
Johnny was fourteen when he attacked me. I worry that I may have encouraged his warped approach to woman and sex by not telling. I may have been able to stop him. The truth is, I really don’t know. I bolted and did everything in my power to ignore and avoid him. There is no way of knowing how many girls and woman he has victimized over the years. This thought haunts me.
Now I have a daughter of my own and I struggle with how to protect her without having to tell her of the many threats that may surround her. I want her to be aware without being jaded. I want her to be safe without losing her innocence or free spirit. More importantly, I want her to always talk to me.
Victim blaming must end
I resent having to raise my daughter to be cautious of predators. Programming women to scrutinize their own actions as a way of preventing someone from wronging them is fundamentally backward and socially corrupt. The blame falls solely on the offender.
How to sound dirty or talk dirty without feeling dirty.
Talking or sounding dirty does not have to be crude or graphic. It is quite simply the combination of words and their timing. Just saying things that are swirling in your mind could bring your pleasure to a whole new level. Your body will react.
sound dirty
The thrill of saying things never before dared on your tongue, hearing the delicious sounds pass your lips and the response you will surely get from your partner, is too exhilarating not to try.
For the hesitant, blushing first timers, I suggest you begin when your lips are close to your partner’s ear. That way they can be whispered. If this is completely out of character for you, what you say does not have to be something you expect someone with Tourette’s to say. You could just moan. I kid you not. Making pleasurable sounds, just loud enough for you and your partner to hear, while cuddling and caressing will heighten arousal.
Many women will admit that…
…the act of faking an orgasm has itself triggered climax.
Why do you think that is? Because…
erotic sounds, especially your own erotic sounds, are stimulating.
Your body reacts to your own sounds and your partner’s response whether audible or physical. When your body responds, it seeks for pleasure. You will thrive and rock with a willingness to explore and be explored.
As the passion intensifies so can your sounds. Describe what you like. Not in novel form just a statement here and there. If the idea of speaking body parts makes you recoil, than don’t say them. Refer to them by using ‘you’re’ and ‘I’m.” Stick to adjectives. ‘You are so hard, and smooth.’ See, you could be describing his back or arms. “You’re touch drives me crazy.” Or, “I’m so hot for you.”
Sounds of Sex
These words should not be forced, just close your eyes and breathe them.
It is that simple. Nothing I have suggested is too risky.
It took me a long time to say things extremely dirty. The first time I did, my husband reacted so viscerally that I sent him over the edge before I had even warmed up. This only led to a very welcomed ‘twice in one night’.
Good luck. Have fun and happy Valentine’s day.
If what I have recommended is still outside of your comfort zone, consider reading erotica. To yourself is fine and it may inspire your imagination to grab hold of things you are comfortable saying. But reading it aloud, to or with your partner brings seduction to a whole new level. Here is one of my favorites.
It is a powerful sense that can trigger nostalgia or even deja vu. I once told that if I wore a certain perfume on a romantic getaway or my honeymoon than I could return to that memory easily later by just wearing that scent. I tried this. It worked, but I have since realized that specific smells are more difficult to place than generic ones. The cotton vanilla fragrance I put on while in Punta Cana five years ago doesn’t have nearly the effect that my suntan lotion has.
Last winter, I ran out of body moisturiser and applied the after sun lotion I use in the summer. Instantly, I was taken back to a time of sun and heat. On another occasion I changed my shampoo. I had not realized that it was the brand I used when my husband and I first dated until he buried his nose in my hair and gave me ‘that look.’
Do not under estimate the power of scent.
Use it to your benefit.
While getting ready for a romantic evening perhaps dab on that perfume at the back of the shelf collecting dust. Or ditch the perfume and rub on baby oil or suntan lotion. Close your eyes and breathe in its scent. Where does your mind take you? A place? A time? If you are reminded of fun, youth and freedom you have found your scent for the night. Don’t over do it by putting on too much or by applying it too often. It will loose its effect.
When ever I smell aerosol hairspray, I am reminded of my early twenties and going out dancing. I feel like an episode of Sex in the City and I am instantly in the mood for a little fun. My husband is more than happy to hitch a ride on that little buzz of nostalgia.
Self-seduce with scent
What I am saying is that smell is the unassuming sense that is easily forgotten until someone is cooking fish. Then see how quickly it is able to cripple a romantic mood. If used correctly, you can enhance your own arousal by tapping into past romantic moments to create new ones.
What did your first apartment smell like? Did you use potpourri, incense or candles? Did you use to wear baby oil, body spray or fruit scented shampoo? It is that simple.
There are smells that turn you on. Find them.
Consider the most erotic time of your life. When you feel sexy, sensual and aroused. What did it smell like?
Beware of this power. Unpleasant odours can just as easily have an adverse effect.
A soft tongue hides behind luscious lips and slick pearly whites. Our mouths are essential to the art of seduction and love making. Kisses after-all are at the heart of all human affection.
Beyond the physical.
There are two types of taste.
Self-seduce with taste
The first is the most recognized. It is why cooking can also be an art of seduction. Having exquisite flavours burst in your mouth is one of life’s most enjoyable sensations. Food, itself can be an aphrodisiac.
I want to focus on the second type; the subconsciousness of taste. Just as scent has the power to trigger nostalgia,
taste has the little-known power to alter mood.
Tastes fun
I associate peanut butter with my childhood. As an adult, I very rarely eat it, however, when I find myself surly or sullen, I will scoop a spoonful right out of the jar into my mouth. To me, I no longer savour the thick buttery flavour but, within a half-hour, my mood is lighter. I barely notice the transformation, unlike scent it is not instantaneous. It is more like taking an aspirin for a headache. After a few minutes, I notice that I feel better. It is as if my mind associates the taste of peanut butter with a calmer, less worrisome time and reverts back to then.
Taste Nostalgia
This phenomenon can help set the tone for romance too. Do pina coladas taste like paradise, barbecue taste like summer or hot cider taste like Christmas? It doesn’t have to be your favourite flavour, it just needs to be a taste you associate with a pleasurable mood. Chicken noodle soup may comfort you and mint chocolate chip ice cream may leave you jubilant.
Not convinced? Consider tequila. If even the thought of this murky liquid causes your stomach to roil that is because you probably had a drunken tequila night that ended badly. The brain remembers and has since rejected the taste of (and possibly the sound of the word) tequila. On the other hand, if you are grinning with the thought of licking, shooting, and sucking…well, then cheers. But I would bet you know someone who would groan or gag at the same thought.
Still not convinced? One word.
Chocolate.
Self-Seduce with taste
This heavenly creamy flavour has so many benefits and for the purpose of this article, it is commonly associated with childhood, holidays and love. No wonder women (and men) crave it and indulge in it because it holds the power to alter your mood. Better than any drug.
Please practice moderation with the consumption of any mood altering substance.
Tastes like childhood
Before a night of romance, especially if the weather has taken its toll, put your subconscious taste buds to the test. Even if your plans include an evening of strawberries, wine, lobster and stuffed chicken; consider sneaking in an abstract appetizer or cocktail. It could boost your mood and widen the gates to the path of romance, seduction, and passion.
This is an example of simple mind over matter. Allow your sense of taste to alter your mood to one of arousal.
I stash a tub of gummy bears in the car and a six pack of Corona in the fridge just in case we happen upon a night with the unexpected promise of romance. I trust in the flavours to nudge my mood to ensure my ultimate pleasure.
A special thanks to Emily Wright for letting me post here on your website. Thanks Em.
Sex Drugs & Working Moms: This Victoria Has No Secrets
It was Valentine’s Day, four years ago, and I was expected to step out of my powder room donning Victoria Secret’s newest super sexy show stopper. The evening was meant to be oh so romantic.
Lit only by the glow of our fireplace, my love handed me the suspiciously large gift bag with excitement and anticipation dancing in his eyes. I tried to pull my libido from its hibernation to match his enthusiasm,
…but I am a Canadian girl and it was February.
This means I was still carrying my post holiday weight, nothing below my collar had seen the sun since September, and I was sporting homegrown insulation. In short, I was doughy, pastey, and hairy. Yes, I said it.
There I was under the harsh lighting of my bathroom unveiling the wonder that was my Valentine’s Day gift. You know the outfit; every man’s fantasy. A lacy full-bodice number with reinforcement enough the hold cleavage at an unnatural altitude, thigh high stockings and garters of course. By the time I presented myself, I was wild eyed, red faced and completely dishevelled. One might be flattered that their husband bought a size too small. I, on the other hand, know my hubby all too well. In his mad dash to the store to meet Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day expectations, he picked the sales clerk who looked most like me or who was closest to him in the store and asked her her size.
Don’t get me wrong, the black ensemble was beautiful with its iron boning, 72 hook and eyes lining the back and impossibly tiny claps for the garter belt to be fastened just below the butt cheeks. I am sure it looked amazing on the porcelain manikin. The headless, armless figure also had the advantage of not having flesh or flab to hinder the shape. More importantly, the manikin had assistance strapping the sucker on without the pesky inconvenience of having to breathe.
I am sorry, when Valentine’s day is on a Tuesday night, a school night,
…you are just happy to get the kids in bed early enough to share a bottle of wine, whisper some sweet nothings, take top, and go to bed.
Instead, there I was with my breasts up my nose, tugging and reefing on the least agreeable fabric known to man. Imagine 72 tiny curls of wire that need to slip into loops of thread that run down your spine. The only way to fasten every delicate hook was to put the corset on backwards. I did mention that it was too small, right? I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the elegantly laced breast cups sitting on my back as I wrestled and wiggled trying to twist it into place. At one point, my husband asked if I was okay because I had spun myself into the vanity so violently that it was a wonder I didn’t wake the kids. Once the death trap was facing the correct way, I was an enraged, unlikely contortionist, who still needed to fasten the garter straps. I was bound so tightly that my breaths were short and sharp. How the hell was I going to bend at the waist to locate the tiny gold clasps, let alone secure my nylons to them?
Somehow I managed to get it on, not without sacrificing skin and my air supply – I got it on. My gliding to the bed wasn’t exactly by choice as the stockings, again too small, limited my movement. I did reign in my frustration, discouragement, and overall self-loathing for the sake of the occasion. When my husband began to release me from my torture chamber, I was mixed with relief and outrage.
What was it all for? Better yet, who was it all for?
Afterwards, when he was still giddy with the memory of his gift, he started making birthday and anniversary requests. There must have been something in my expression that said divorce or homicide because he abruptly stopped talking. I haven’t gotten lingerie for Valentine’s Day since.
Happy Valentine’s Day!!
Look for more advice, anecdotes, and steamy stories to be posted in the weeks to come.
