#and it sucks that youre constantly thinking about it because you have to do pelvic floor exercises or dialation daily

[pineapplesagainstpizza]

1 thing they don't tell you about being treated for vaginismus is how angry you feel all the time

[sedateandslice]

The rapid advance of Katie's rectal cancer was marked by a series of life altering indignities. She went to the doctor because she noticed she was bleeding out of her butt and, after the diagnosis of Stage IV rectal cancer with limited metastases was confirmed, spent the next 7 months with a team of oncologists waging, as she darkly called it, "the war on ass cancer."

She started concurrent radiation and chemo while still working her job as a receptionist, which in reality meant showing up to her job wearing a Depends and struggling with the alternating side effects of agonizing constipation and never ending diarrhea on the company toilet.

By the time she checked herself into the hospital for intrarectal brachytherapy she could feel the tumor burning almost constantly and was having to use heavy duty opioids to control her pain enough to get out of bed. That lovely treatment involved a really painful prep enema -- because definitely what you want in your irradiated anus is enema solution! -- followed by the insertion of a catheter directly into the tumor to deliver a low dose of radiation over several days. She had to lie there, immobile and too drug resistant at this point for the PCA to do much more than take the edge off, and feel the tumor in her butt being burned with radiation.

[Because America sucks she had to go back to work two days later. Her boss found her unconscious on the bathroom floor, face down with her bloody, swollen, shit covered ass mooning him, after she'd fainted from the pain of trying to take a bowel movement. That was the day the prick finally approved her long term medical leave.]

Through it all -- and all of it was terrible -- the thing that drove Katie absolutely up the wall was what she later learned was called tenesmus, a common rectal cancer symptom.

From about 3 weeks before her diagnosis through her entire treatment regimen, every single minute, she felt like she needed to shit. It caused a few accidents, of course, because she never knew when she truly truly needed to empty her bowels, but shitting herself had become an almost daily occurrence and she employed her dark humor to cope by buying all new brown towels, bathroom rugs, and underwear. But the psychological effect of needing to poop every single second of every day for seven months felt like one of those "would you rather games." Would you rather have your toenails ripped out every day or feel like you need to shit every second of every day? Katie thought, with that she knew now, she'd definitely choose the toenails.

Two months after the intrarectal brachytherapy her oncologist sat her down and told her the less aggressive treatments hadn't worked as they had hoped. Her only hope for beating the cancer was a posterior pelvic exenteration. She sat, shell shocked, as he explained how her rectum would be removed and a colostomy created to remove waste into a bag. He wants to excise her vagina too, just to be safe, but thinks he'll be able to spare her bladder. The surgery will take about 12 hours and she'll be in the hospital for up to a month after to begin the arduous recovery.

She walks out of the office with a date on a card to have her ass and vagina removed. She and her wife, Violet, sit in the car in silence for a long time, pondering the future. They clutch hands, both crying silently. Finally Katie clears her throat and smiles, a hint of dark humor in her eyes.

"Well, at least without an ass I won't feel like I need to shit all the time!"

Katie spends the next several weeks going to imaging appointments, meeting with counselors, and preparing for the major surgery. On the big day she is nervous, of course, but so worn down from the months of pain and fatigue from the cancer and the treatments that she's ready for it to just happen. Go to sleep and let the doctors take care of her for a while. Her main fear is waking up in uncontrollable pain but they reassure her she will have an epidural and the anesthesia team will aggressively control her post-surgical pain.

After 13 hours the lead surgeon comes to find Violet in the waiting room to brief her about her wife's condition.

"Katie made it through the surgery. She's stable and being monitored in the ICU. It was grueling but we accomplished what we needed to in order to give her the best shot possible to beat the cancer. She's still on the ventilator, which is not uncommon after such a long procedure. She’s conscious and aware, but we’re managing some significant pain, which is also expected after a surgery of this magnitude. Right now, her pain is not as well-controlled as we’d like, but we’re actively working to get her some relief. It’s going to take some time to fine-tune her medications and ensure she’s as comfortable as possible.”

It's clear when Violet is finally allowed to see her wife that "comfortable" is a very long way off at this point. Katie's wrists are restrained -- a nurse tells her she was trying to pull out the endotracheal tube -- and she's naked and exposed from the waist down, showing off the horror show of her drains and incisions. Violet lets out a cry as she looks to where her wife's vagina and ass used to be and sees the lines of staples that have made her null. There's a bag of fecal matter resting on her bloated belly, attached to a swollen stoma.

But the most heartbreaking thing to see if Katie's red, puffed face crunched up in agony, tears streaming down her cheeks, a thick endotracheal tube down her throat secured by medical tape on her lips. Violet approaches and Katie's dull, glassy eyes follow her. She can see clearly she's pleading for her wife to do something about the excruciating pain in her abdomen and pelvis.

Violet looks up, alarmed, at the ICU nurse. "She's supposed to have an epidural. Why is she in this much pain? You have to do something!"

The nurse nods somberly. "I assure you we're working on it. Your wife was already on very heavy pain killers to deal with the effects of cancer treatment so she's become pretty resistant. We're doing everything we can to get her pain under control."

Violet is loathe to accept that but the anesthesia team is in and out, clearly trying to address her wife's pain. All she can do is stroke Katie's hair, wipe her tears, and reassure her she's not alone as she endures the most painful and terrifying hours of her life.

Finally a cocktail of fentanyl and ketamine are able to provide Katie enough relief that she is able to be extubated. Even will the strong drugs coursing through her system she's incoherent for hours, still in enough pain that she groans under her breath almost constantly, occasionally crying out "my belly" or "oh God I hurt!"

Violet stops Katie's doctor at one point and asks him what her wife is feeling as she writhes in the bed. He explains she's likely experiencing sharp burning sensations from the incisions and a deep, aching pressure radiating through her pelvis and abdomen from the trauma of the cavity clearance. From the way she keeps grabbing her belly, he thinks she's likely experiencing cramps in her stoma and, from the way she keeps trying to move her hips and then screaming from the pain it causes, extreme soreness from the way she was positioned for so long.

Sixteen hours after surgery Katie opens her eyes and Violet can tell she's really there, groggy and trembling in excruciating pain but, at last, coherent. She opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again before letting out a pained sob. Suddenly she's crying again and Violet braces herself for whatever her wife is about to say.

Violet's been preparing for this moment, has a big speech planned that will reassure her beloved wife she loves her no matter what her lower body looks like and they will get through this together. She just needs Katie to give her an opening.

Katie's still sputtering, trying to get words out of her pain and anesthesia addled brain. She looks so miserable and affronted, tears running down her red, bloated face.

"They cut my ass off and I still feel like I need to shit!"

[ficandkaboodle]

Okay so this could and frankly very likely is me being dumb. But I think the language regarding important procedures like Pap smears should be adjusted just a bit to be a bit more clear.

For one, for YEARS I was led to believe that a pap and a pelvic exam were the same thing. They are not: From what I could tell, a pelvic exam is focused more on the vagina and pelvis as a whole while the pap focuses specifically on cellular abnormalities consistent with cervical cancer. The way it was worded to me suggested a pap covered both because it was both. You couldn’t do one observation without the other.

Additionally, it was always posed to me that it was encouraged to get a pap after a certain age. Especially if you were sexually active. I am not nor have I ever been sexually active, but I was past a certain age so I went to get one done, as I was constantly suggested to.

Turns out I have vaginismus. Who knew! And I’ve spent years scared of going to the gyno specifically because I thought going meant having to do a Pap smear. I put off going because I needed to contact my insurance and see if they covered sedatives.

Imagine my surprise when yesterday, I had my yearly physical/blood work and the doctor I’m with (not my normal one) flat out tells me insurance won’t cover that for a pap — and then explains I don’t even necessarily need a pap because I’m not sexually active.

She cleared up years of confusion for me that nobody else bothered to or thought I needed, but I did.

Like, if you want a pap just to be sure, that’s up to you. But generally, if you’re not actively going out and doing things that increase the risk of cervical cancer, or you’re not genetically predisposed, it’s not really necessary.

And like. I feel so silly for not knowing this. But also?? As blame game as it sounds, nobody sure did explain that to me in full! There’s just a lot of language surrounding my own body and health that honestly left me so confused and frankly terrified but I felt I had to trust it.

Of course, it doesn’t take away the fact I have a condition. But it does make me reevaluate things, like how people who knew I wasn’t active or doing anything that heightened my risk still didn’t tell me I didn’t have to go through with it. I can’t precisely say it could’ve spared me anything, but knowing gives me such a relief that I’m not under as much a time crunch to figure things out about my body’s reactions to something it reflexively dreads.

Anywho, do your research. People suck at doing it for you. I guess.

[sensei-venus]

Can I ask for nsfw headcanons for single mom reader x Eli? 🙈

- gemini sensei

(Unedited) ( @gemini-sensei )

•He treats her like a queen, all the time. He will basically try and do anything she asks him to do. That includes anything a long the lines of sex. Definitely ready to please when ever she call for him.

•As much as we would think he would go straight forward into sex, he doesn't. He waits for her to tell him if she's ready to bring sex into their relationship. He loved the touching and kissing but he wants to know that she is fully  comfortable and ready to have sex with him. After having a baby, with someone else as teenagers, he knows it might be hard to come to terms if they even feel safe having sex again. He’s ready when ever she is.

•He never really thought about quickes a lot, but they become a regular thing once they start having sex. He’s not afraid to pull her into a empty class room or a broom closet at school. His favorite is the backseat of his car before school, during lunch, or after school before he takes her to go pick up the baby from daycare. He liked the backseat the best because he feels more comfortable and safe having sex with her there. Both of them don’t feel as much worry about getting caught.

•Man likes to have her ride him in the back of his car. Something about the way she looks, the way her tits bounce in her shirt over his face, or the way her weight sits on his pelvic and hips. She’s so soft and warm on top of him. Loves to play with her clit as she rides the shit out of him. Really likes to watch the way her pussy grips his cock and how it’s the perfect angle to watch as he slides in and out of her. Won’t ever deny the fact that he’s busted a nut the fastest in that car then any where else.

•Can’t get over her tits. He knows they are all big and sore from being filled with milk but he can’t help but touch them. Their always so big and full. Can’t keep his hands or mouth off of them, she has more marks on them from him then her actual baby. Won’t ever tell anyone but he loves her breast milk, when she lets him nurse from her he can’t help but moan and drink as much as she will let him. Definitely uses them as a form of stress relief.

•He loves it when she gives him tit jobs, she doesn’t even half to suck him to get him to blow his load. He really likes making a mess of her chest too, he won't ask but he will hint that he wants her go spit his cum out so it can fall and drip onto her heavy breasts. He likes how it just flows down her skin and pebbles down her hard nipples. He's the only one who gets to see it and it's the hottest thing ever.

•Eats pussy like a champion too, and what comes with hours between her legs. Started to love the fact that she's has tiny and big stretch marks on her thighs and belly. He likes to suck big marks down there. Anywhere he can get his mouth on her soft flesh. It’s a huge turn on when she pulls off her pants and it’s just her in a pair of underwear, his marks all over her lower body, all from him.

•He had to learn how to be more quite when having sex. He grunts and groans a lot and he never noticed until he started staying the night with Reader. They woke the baby up multiple times by accident. May get a little turned on when Reader jokes about buying a gag for him.

•It’s all fun and games, but he definitely still had a breeding kink and will pull it out if Reader is ok with it. The fact that she has already had a baby tells him that it’s a possibility she can get pregnant, and it only gets him more horny. Will constantly pull out the “I’m going to put another baby in you.” And “Bet this one will take just like your last one.” He will definitely creampie her if she lets him. Will finger his dripping load back into her for good measure.

•One of his biggest turn ons in the most weird way, is if they ever have sex at night and he cums in her and it was a rough session. He completely destroys her pussy with multiple loads. Their both panting and tired, he gets up for a moment just to look at his work. A thick load of milky cum is drooling out of her hole and her folds are frothy. Suddenly the baby monitor goes off and the baby starts crying. He has to pull himself together so he won’t fuck another load into her so they can go check on the baby. Something about seeing her completely destroyed and then hearing her baby just solidifies the fact that he can successfully breed her whenever they choose too. Her first child is proof of that.

[belovedbangtan]

Cartier | kth

>Based on the song Cartier by Bazzi!<

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Description: (lyrics for Cartier)

That's my girl, I can't share

Maybe I'm selfish, I get a little jealous

I lose my mind when you say that

Balmain silk slip off your back

You get so impatient

I know you got your cravings

Nothing on you when you naked, except a Cartier bracelet.

✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️  

Warnings: SMUT, Dom!Tae, Sub!Reader, Daddy!Tae, Oral (f receiving), Unprotected sex (please be responsible!), Handcuff usage, dirty talk, phone sex??

✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️  

The man’s hand in the small of your back was uninvited to say the least. His perverted smile making you cringe while he took in the view of your cleavage. Asking to buy you a drink, you quietly agree. Waiting patiently for the one you actually want to touch you. Being in a secret relationship was complex, to say the least. Today it left you waiting in the hotel bar for him to return from an award show. The grey haired perv, asking questions and receiving a vague answer and a submissive smile. He excuses himself to the restroom, allowing you to finally breathe while he disappears. You down the drink, as your vision is pulled like a magnet to the far end of the bar. Your breathe catches in your throat when his gaze meet yours.

He’s leaning into the bar with his body facing you. His talented tongue jets out to wet his lower lip, slow and tantalizing. His brows are raised, as a playful smirk tells you that you’ve been caught. He tinkers with the drink in his hand before taking it to his lips. You try to suppress the smile because you know he’s not a fan of Whiskey, but it happens to make him extremely lustful. He sends you a wink before leaning into the bar to talk to the attractive bartender. You bite your lip knowing this was his revenge. That boxy smile was yours, the way it makes her light up causes you to roll your eyes instantly. As you turn away from him instantly receiving a text.

My Love: Upstairs. Now.

You don’t look at him, you swivel in your chair and get up to head to the hotel room. Hotel bars were always full of pervs needing company for the night. You hated that the bartender actually thought that was an option. He was yours, and you hated that you couldn’t show him that, show everyone that.

My Love: There’s a gift waiting for you. You look gorgeous tonight baby doll.

Y/n: But the bartender looks prettier though, right?

You know he wont like that, but he knows what he’s doing.

My Love: hmm, You tell me, was your conversation with the old fuck next to you pleasant? Or the drink he bought you? How did his hand feel on your back?

Your breathing quickens. He’s drinking whiskey and he’s not in his usual state of mind, you know he shouldn’t be agitated.

y/n: I wished it was you.

It’s all you say. The bottom line was that you missed him and you needed him.

My Love: Oh baby, it will be.

You lean back in the elevator as it takes you to the penthouse suite at the top of the hotel. He looked like a damn God tonight. His hair had gotten longer since the last time you got to spend time with him. Every time you’d face time, you tease him; letting him know that its more for you to pull on. Its actual torture every time you first see him in public. You’re not allowed to hug him or kiss him. You have to pretend like he’s not the love of your life. Pretend that he doesn’t exist.

You get to the room walking to the bed where there’s a box and a note. The box is tiny and says ‘Cartier’ in fine lettering. The note is short and sweet, his artistic hand writing says :

‘put this on, and only this. I’ve missed you more than you know.’

You fold it nicely and put it in your wallet. You keep every cute thing he makes you. Opening the sleek packaging you pull the rose gold bracelet from the tiny drawstring bag. You shake your head in disbelief as you slide it onto your wrist. Your boyfriend was a brand whore and was constantly buying you your own bougie merchandise even though brands didn’t mean much to you.

You slide your dress from your body, hanging it back up so it doesn’t get ruined. You go to the mirror in the bathroom to freshen up. Teasing your hair before putting some lip balm on your lips. You collapse onto the lush bed, propping yourself up as you wait patiently for him to make his way to you.

My Love: How do you like your gift baby?

Y/n: It’s so beautiful. You really didn’t have to.

My Love: Mm but I love spoiling you. Now tell me, are you doing what I asked?

Y/N: I am. Nothing but the bracelet, waiting very impatiently.

My Love: go to the edge of the bed so you can see yourself in the mirror.

You sigh moving your naked body across the silk bedding to the edge of the bed. The tall gold rimmed mirror sat exactly across from you.

My Love: now, lean back and spread your legs.

Y/N: okay…

My phone starts to ring, his signature ringtone always makes your body react the same way.

‘Hi Baby’, you purr, hoping that the needier you sound the quicker he’ll make his way to you.

“Hi princess, are you being a good girl?” He asks his voice laced in whiskey and lust. You hum, not sure if speaking would work in your favor. “Good. I want you to look at yourself in the mirror.” His voice is lower and it sounds like he’s on the move. “Do you see how fucking gorgeous you are? Hmm baby?”

You giggle feeling your cheeks turn a new shade of red. “Are you almost here Taehyung? I need you so badly.” You whine, everything about you from your body to your voice is weak and only his touch with make you feel some type of strength. His breath filled laugh fills up the other end of the phone.

“You have to be patient baby doll, remember?” He loves teasing you, and you love it more than you show, “Now, reach down to your pretty little pussy and tell me how wet she is for me.”

You whine into the speaker as your hand snakes down your curves. You’re dripping wet, you have been ever since you saw him at the bar, “I’m so wet, Tae. I need you.”

“Now look at how wet you are just for me in the mirror,” He pauses while your eyes meet your glistening pussy in the mirror, “Remember,” His tone changed into a more dominant one, “that pussy is mine, and no one else can make you feel the way I can. Isn’t that right baby?”

“Yes Daddy, you’re the only one that can make me feel this good.” Your voice is low as you somehow become wetter than before. All you can hear is his breath through the phone.

“Good girl.” *Click* he hangs up leaving you to watch your reflection grow needier by the second.

When you hear the door open, you crawl to the edge of the bed. When your eye meet his you can’t wait anymore. You’re running into his arms, latching to him like he was your life support. He lift you into his arms, wrapping them under your butt while your legs grip is hips. Yourr fingers ghost through his hair and both of your faces are stained with unexpected tears. You craved his touch, his smell, everything about him. Of course you were able to face time and text but it would never compare to being in his arms.

“God baby, you get more beautiful each time I see you.” He scans your face and you do the same. You take his face into your hands, running your thumb over his plump lips before leaning in and placing yours onto his. He walks you over to the bed while your kiss intensifies, his tongue begging for entrance. He gently sets you onto the end of the bed leaning forward until he’s hovering over you. He kisses you for a few more seconds before standing tall in between your knees. He lets out a deep sigh, while his tongue prods against the side of his cheek. His lust filled orbs drinking your body in like glass of water late in the night. You lean up on your elbows, grinning at the man above you.

“Don’t tell me we’ve waited two months to see each other and you’ve forgot how to touch me,“ you giggle knowing he was too overwhelmed by the moment, just as you were.

He raises his brows meeting your eyes, “Hmm, let’s see,” His long fingers find your hardened nipples twirling around them before pinching them, “ I seem to recall you enjoying that.”

You bite your lip trying to suppress the moan, letting your eyes roll back into your head. He leans forward attaching his lips to your collar bone kissing his way up to the spot just below your ear. He places an open mouth kiss there as he tugs at your nipple again, “And you really like when I kiss you here.”

You shutter as he grins against your skin, kissing your lips and your nose before working his way down your body. His fingers never leaving your sensitive buds. His lips press into your pelvic bones, as he kneels between your legs. He wraps his arms under your legs pulling you closer to him. Then as if you aren’t wet enough, he begins teasing you mercilessly. Kissing your thighs before letting his teeth mark you up.

“You’re so fucking wet Princess,” His middle finger slides through your soaking folds, making you writhe underneath him. “You’ve been thinking about Daddy’s cock, yeah?” He asks while he spreads your lips wide blowing cold area on your sensitive clit. You force yourself to lean up onto your forearms, you need to see him.

“Mhm, been thinking about it for months.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, and you wonder how a man could look so angelic and evil at the same time.

“Well I think you deserve to cum then, don’t you pretty girl?” He asks before sucking your clit into his mouth. You throw yourself to the mattress trying to last longer than a few seconds, but his mouth felt like heaven on earth.

He readjusts himself pulling you impossibly closer to his face, if he lets go, you’re falling off of the bed. You reach down to push your fingers through his long wavy hair, melting when you watch the way his tongue dances across your clit. He swirls it around before pressing his tongue flat, dragging it through your slit. His moan matches mine at the same time, you feel yourself tightening around nothing, around the thought alone of his perfect cock finally getting to fill you up.

“You look so pretty when you’re close.” He sang, as his tongue and mouth latched back on, a loud moan finding its way out of your mouth. He pulls back to leave another hickey on your thigh, while his middle finger teases where you want him the most. Bucking your hips, he smirks into your skin while he pushes you onto the bed. He finally slides his long middle and ring finger into your needy pussy. He watches you lose yourself underneath him. His lopsided smile and his tongue in his cheek tell you that this is torturing him just as much as it is you. He leans forward again sucking your sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth. His long fingers and mouth began skillfully working together in the perfect duet, bringing me to the edge. I tighten around his fingers as he curls them up to torture my g-spot. The pressure builds in my abdomen and my fingers tighten around his locks.

“Im g-gonna cum, please Tae.” you beg as his tongue continue its assault on your already overstimulated clit. A mischievous laugh falls from his glistening mouth, “Give it to me then, baby.”

As soon as you gain permission, you tighten yourself around his fingers before letting go. Your body convulsing as he uses your sensitivity to his advantage. Letting out a long overdue exhale you finally start to see clearly. He stands in front of you, his arousal evident through his expensive dress pants. He leans forward to cage you in underneath him. Gently tucking his arm under your waist to move you both up towards the top of the bed. You lay beneath him as one hand comes up to push your sweaty hair from your face. His lips lightly pressing against yours, praising your in between each one. The both of you captivated by the others raw beauty. It isn’t until this moment that you realize he’s still completely dressed. Taking it upon yourself to unbutton his dress shirt and push it from his body, then to his pants. Pushing them down his legs, instantly reaching out for his hard cock that stands between you. He moves backwards making you while vocally.

“Awe princess,” He coo’s taking a seat in the lush red chair in the corner of the room, “Come over here.” He purrs tapping his thigh.

You walk to him slotting yourself between his legs. He leans forward, letting his hands roam your body. Kissing you in places that are unknown, fingers kneading into your ass and thighs. You let your head fall back, never getting tired of the way this man worships your body. He grips your thighs and turns your body around, so that you’re not facing him anymore. He speads yours legs out a bit before sliding his body forward on the chair and slotting his legs between yours. Reaching up, he runs his fingers through your fold, groaning when he finds you wetter than before.

“Can you ride Daddy, baby doll?”

You straddle his lap, letting your legs fall beside his on the chair. Reaching down you wrap your hand around his cock. Both of you letting out a surprising moan. Pressing his tip against your hole, you gather the sticky juices before gliding him through your slit. You smile as you see his fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. If you weren’t so needy for him, you might tease him a little longer. Finally, you line him up with your entrance, sliding down his length at an agonizingly slow speed.

“Fuckkkk baby,” He moans throwing his head back while his hands spread your ass wide, “just like that, I want to watch your tight little pussy swallow me whole.”

He was so fucking big, every time it seemed to shock you. The familiar burn as he makes you the perfect fit for him alone was enough to send you over the edge. His grip tightens as he starts to control your movements. You get the hint and you start to rock your hips harder. Grinding so that he’s buried inside of you. You lean forward, supporting yourself on his thighs to give him the perfect view of your ass. He shows his appreciation by letting his hand come down on your plump ass cheeks… once, twice, three, four times.

His fingers smooth along the reddening skin before they skate up to your neck, lighting wrapping around and pulling you back on to him. His cock still staying buried deep inside you, he then nuzzles his face in your neck. The smell of sex and arousal making him a mad man. You were like his own personal drug, he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands come around to your front to give attention to your hardened nipples, pinching and pulling in the most delicious way.

“You know how much I love you right?” His voice is soft as his hands cascade down to your hip bones.

“I do.” You whimper, “As much as I love you.”

He giggles, shaking his head into your neck, “No baby, I love you more than that, I’m sure of it.”

You turn your head, letting your lips meet his, “As a matter of face, I got you another gift.” Your eyes widen, “Its in a box in my bag. Go open it.”

You grin and walk over to his bag. Reaching inside and pulling out another expensive looking box. His eyes are mischievous as you pull the gift out, a pair of handcuffs. A pair of designer handcuffs.

He gets up from the chair to walk over to you, your eyes still wide with disbelief.

“I figured I would get you a bracelet, and I would get,” His voice laced in sin, he takes the cuffs from you to undo them and slide them over your wrist, “ us… a bracelet.

He pulls you to the bed using the length between the two cuffs. Before he pushes you to the mattress he pulls you close, grabbing your jaw before kissing you passionately. Letting his teeth tug onto your lower lip. You adjust yourself on the mattress with your face down and your ass up. Your handcuffed arms flat out in front of you. You feel him pause behind you, you look back to watch him come to your hands again. He undoes one cuff, and wraps it around a pole on the headboard.

Your mouth drops, you’re full immobile from the waste up. Leaning onto your elbows, he takes your face in his hand again, “Is it okay, love?”

As uncomfortable as it was, you were still becoming extremely turned on by the situation, so you nod in his hand. He finds himself in his favorite spot, pausing again to take a picture to remember this moment. You bought him a burner phone just for all of your naughty rendezvous. What can you say, the man likes to take pictures. He glides his hands down your spine then over your hips, while he thrust back and forth letting his cock tease your folds. He wraps your hair around his hand before slamming himself into you. You scream out as he pulls back to repeat his actions. Your hands yank at the cuffs instinctively, but that’s not the pain your focused on. He speeds up, hammering into you. Your screams and moans get louder with each thrust.

He yanks your hair back, and you contort to look at him. You need to see him like this no matter how uncomfortable it is for you, “Feels so fucking good Daddy!” You scream out with tears pooling at the corner of your eyes.

“Fuck Princess, that’s right,” He grips your sides allowing him to bury himself deeper, “Tell everyone in this hotel who’s pussy this is!”

You’re wrist are raw at this point your so close and he knows it. He leans forwards to wrap his arm around your body, his long fingers find your swollen clit and he starts to rub soft circles while his cock still slams inside of you.

“Im so fucking close, please, Daddy, PLEASE!” you’re begging him for your release.

“Go ahead baby girl, cum all over daddy’s cock.” He gives you permission and your orgasm hits you like a Semi truck. As soon as you start tightening around him, he finds his release too. His warm seed coats your walls as your body still reels from your high. You lean forward and rest your head on the mattress. Tears still falling from your eyes, from how overwhelmed you were. He moves quick to undo the cuffs, taking your wrist in his hands when he is done. Rubbing them gently.

“Come on baby,” He coos pulling you into his arms. He starts the shower and sets you down on the seat inside of it. While its warming he pulls you onto his lap.

“Im sorry if that hurt you, I didn’t think it would hurt.” He says softly as he pecks every inch of your tear stained face. You could tell that he genuinely felt horrible for hurting you, little did he know you just had the best orgasm of your life.

“Baby, I liked it…” You bring your hand up to his face to make him look at you, “I loved it, actually. It hurt a little but that’s what I liked about it.” You giggle pressing your lips to the little mole on his nose.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Good, because that was so fucking hot.”

After another round in the shower, you finally find your way to bed. You’re laying on his chest as he twirls your new Cartier bracelet around your wrist.

“You know, next, I’m going to get you a ring.” He says softly, pulling your hand to his. He holds your ring finger, “this is a good place for it, I think.”

The corners of his mouth start to raise, and suddenly it feels like a million butterflies are dancing in your stomach. The familiar burn in your throat leaving you completely speechless.

“That’s a very specific finger Tae.” You giggle, lacing your fingers with his.

His lips press into your forehead, “Im serious, baby.” His voice is fragile, as he lifts his head to yours, “I know things are hard right now, but there’s no one I love and appreciate more than you. You’re my everything.”

You’re crying again, his thumb comes up to brush them away this time. Pulling you in close for a slow and intimate kiss.

“I love you more than life itself, Kim Taehyung. You’re my everything.”

He pulls you close to him letting his fingers fist through your hair, you only have one day to be with him. You can sleep later. He pulls you on top of him, smirking as your hips instinctively start to grind into him.

“So,” you lean down to kiss him, “Will my ring be designer?” you tease.

He pauses to look at you completely seriously, “Is that even a question?”

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Please let me know what you think!!! Also, feel free to send in request!!! Thank you for reading!

- Allie 💗

[haroldslovekitten]

I have a Niall smut request. He's working out at the same gym as y/n. He's super cocky, which annoys y/n, but he also knows she's attracted to him, because she keeps looking over. So eventually he manages to seduce her and takes her back to the locker room. Then he gets her to dry hump in their underwear and then he gets a BJ. And he dirty talks a lot throughout. You can decide if it's some kind of au Niall or real Niall or what. :)

This was so much fun and quite obviously inspired by our mutual thirst for Niall after those gym pics…Sorry this took a while, I hope it was worth it!

College AU

Warnings: Pure smut

Work Count: ~2.5k

You catch him looking at you with that smug grin on his face and your whole body feels like it’s on fire. He caught you looking. Every single freaking time you’re here, it seems, Niall is here too, all sweaty and sexy and cocky and it’s driving you insane. You’ve never really like Niall much, having gone to the same college as him for a couple of years now, both of you being business management majors and taking a few classes together. He’s always had this confident swagger that drives you insane in both the best and worst of ways. You’ve caught yourself rolling your eyes when he walks into class late, iced drink in hand, sunglasses hiding his probably hungover eyes. And every time, he sees you do it and sends you a smirk and you have to fight the urge to scoff, despite the burning that alights in your abdomen. Now that you’ve been going to the same gym for two months, these interactions have only become more frequent.

With work and school and a decent social life, your physical fitness has taken a bit of a backseat. You’d put on a good 20 lbs in the last year and decided you absolutely needed to get a handle on it and go to the gym. It’s quite obvious that Niall has not had the same struggle. He does his cardio without so much as a single heavy breath, the sweat accumulating on his brow only serving to make him look more sexy, while you turn into a bright red blob with embarrassment and exertion. So, when you catch him looking at you as he’s working on weights, you know for a fact that you look a mess, and are probably practically drooling over him. You turn away quickly and pedal faster on the bike, concentrating a little too hard on the numbers that flicker before you on the machine. It’s when you hear him grunt as he does another rep that your eyes immediately fly back to him and you curse yourself for forgetting your headphones today. In another context, that sound would be absolutely filthy, and when he glances back up at you in the mirror on the wall, catching your agape mouth and obvious yearning gaze, he shoots you a wink and you want to die.

With a groan you turn your attention back to pedalling and decide that you’re done with biking for the day. You wipe down the machine quickly and head to a completely different area of the gym, far away from Niall and his all too knowing glances. You’re just getting into a good groove doing some deadlifts with the barbell and feeling like you’re actually accomplishing something for once when you hear a familiar voice.

“Need a spotter, love?” he asks, knowing damn well you don’t.

You nearly drop the barbell on your feet at the shock of him standing behind you. You stutter out some sort of reply that indicates you don’t want him to spot you, as incoherent as it is, and he giggles lightly and walks away. He sets himself up two stations away from you, using the free weights. His biceps bulge as he works out and once again, it’s like your eyes can’t stay off of him. This time though, he’s watching you constantly. His eyes never leave you except to pick out different weights and your skin, once again, feels like it’s on fire.

There’s only one other person in this room and you’re thankful for his presence. At least with him around, Niall has to be civil, right? You do your best to focus on your workout, slowly moving to areas further and further from Niall, but he, consistently, keeps moving closer. When he gets to the bench press, he stops looking at you, but in true asshole fashion, starts grunting again, as if only to spite you. Even the other guy in the room seems put off by Niall’s grunting and leaves with a funny look towards him. You would laugh, if you weren’t so ridiculously turned on by him.

“Would you please stop? It’s distracting,” you whisper yell to him once the man leaves.

“A good kind of distracting?” he replies once he puts the bar back on the stand.

“No. Just distracting. Please stop. And stop looking at me too,” you say, rolling your eyes and looking away.

“I know you like it. If you want me to stop lookin, you should stop checking me out when you think I can’t see you,” the smirk on his face is unbearable and he wiggles his eyebrows to prove his point.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I? Cause from where I’m standing, you’ve been staring at me everytime we’re both here for the last two months. And I can see you rubbing your legs together right now. I could help you with that, you know?” he says and the anger and yearning inside you war with each other.

How dare he say that? You’re not even doing that…are you? And even if you are, it’s none of his fucking business.

“Fuck off,” you spit and walk away from him.

In the many mirrors up in the gym, you watch him watch you walk away, biting his bottom lip and unabashedly looking at your ass. You don’t know why you’re simultaneously repulsed by and attracted to him. Sure, he’s cocky and kind of an asshole, but there’s no denying you’d love to do some questionably filthy things to him. Without your permission, his grunts replay in your brain and you can’t help but think about how lovely it would be if you were the one making him make those noises. You find yourself wondering how he tastes, the weight of his heavy, probably thick cock on your tongue. You almost whimper at the mere thought of it. And he’s right, you are unconsciously rubbing your legs together, the wetness pooling between your folds undeniable. With a huff of anger and defeat, you spin on your heel, marching back towards him where he stands, unmoved.

He quirks an eyebrow and grins knowingly as you walk back towards him and you kind of want to slap that grin off his face and then kiss him hard. Maybe you’ll do just that. Your resolve and nervousness bring you to face him sooner than you expected and before you know it, your lips are inches from his, the tension between the two of you making it hard to breathe.

“I don’t even like you so don’t get any ideas. Just…fuck. You’re so annoying,” you grumble, breaking eye-contact with him and losing your nerve. He understands you well enough though.

“Follow me,” he says simply and you do as you’re told.

He walks quickly to the locker room and you struggle to keep up, thanking god that the gym is pretty empty right now. You look around nervously, but no one is paying any attention as you two slip into the men’s locker room. He heads immediately to one of the changing stalls and you follow him in. He locks the door behind you and before you can even get a word out, he’s got you pressed against the wall, and his lips are on yours. You don’t allow yourself to think as your body reacts naturally, gripping his dark, perfectly styled hair and holding him close as the kiss becomes more heated, more passionate, full of anger, frustration, and need.

“You’re a right needy girl, aren’t ya?” he asks as he pulls away and goes to mark up your neck.

You can only mewl in response, boldly reaching down and cupping him over his gym shorts. You squeeze him, not very gently, and he bucks willingly into your hand. His hands immediately move to the bottom of your shirt, yanking it off of your body and you do the same to him. Your hands are shaking with need, but you keep them moving so he doesn’t notice. Your fingers burn every place you touch him, and his hands are strong and rough, squeezing you, pulling you closer, scraping his nails against you. It’s almost as if he wanted this as badly as you did.

“You fucking hate me don’t you?” he asks as he sucks a hickey into the swell of your left breast and presses the palm of his hand against your pelvic bone.

“Yes,” you moan.

“But you want my cock, too, don’t you baby?”

“Yes,” is the only proper response and you give it willingly.

He reaches up and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your leggings, sliding them down your body. He pulls away from you briefly only to walk backwards toward the bench in the stall. Quickly, he slides his shorts down and you can see him straining against the fabric of his white calvins. He brushes his palm against himself, hissing when he does, and sits down. His hands grab your hips roughly and pull you to him. Understanding, you place your knees on either side of him on the bench until you’re straddling him, rubbing your clothed center against his hard cock.

You tuck your face into his neck and he brushes your hair out from between the two of you with surprising gentleness, giving him room to suck and lick on your earlobe as you grind against him. His fingers press into the skin of your hips and will probably leave bruises later, but he uses his hands to guide your movements, helping you grind down on him. You feel how hard he is beneath you and the mixture of your arousal, sweat, and his leaking cock has the space between you filthily wet.

“Such a needy little slut,” he groans into your ear and bucks up into you.

His stubble is rubbing against your cheek and you’re sure your skin is red, but the roughness of it, the animalistic feeling of not caring how rough it is or how you’ll look after spurs you on and you moan when your clit presses particularly hard against the tip of his cock.

“Gonna come from just rubbing on me, love?” he asks, his voice deeper than usual.

You bite into his neck in response.

“Proper minx you are, never would have known how greedy you were,” he comments and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You press down on him harder and he lets go of one of your hips only to smack your ass hard.

“Come for me,” he demands, and your hips stutter, their rhythm breaking as your legs go weak and you feel the hot white fire coursing through your body. You moan and whimper into his ear and he keeps his hands on your hips, rocking your through it. Your toes are curling, your breath feels impossible to catch, and the orgasm pulls every ounce of energy from your body.

For a moment, he is gentle, running his hands up and down your back, leaving small kisses on your neck and shoulder, but once you’re breathing seems to have calmed slightly, his hands work to move you off of him.

“On your knees for me, baby girl,” he says and though the words are filthy, the way he says them is even filthier.

Sleepily, as if in a trance, you do as he says and settle between his legs on the cool tile floor. He brushes his hands through your hair and grips a good chunk of it at the crown of your head so he can control the way you move. His other hand reaches down and pushes the waistband of his boxers to just below his balls. He is a ruddy red color, and you can practically see him throbbing. His uncut tip is leaking and almost instinctively you lean forward and run your tongue across it, tasting him. He hisses at the contact. The hand not in your hair grips the base of his cock and he swipes his tip across your lips, leaving a trail of his precum.

“Open up for me,” he asks and you do as you’re told, sticking your tongue out as well. “Such a good slut,” he praises you as he slaps his cock against your tongue and groans. You close your eyes happily, the taste and sensation like a lovely treat after everything. “Open your eyes.”

He tilts your head back and slowly slides his cock into your mouth while his ocean blue eyes stare into yours. You take him willingly gagging slightly, but pushing through it. You lick at the underside of his cock and he grunts that beautiful grunt you’d been dying to cause him to make. You nearly smile around him and he notices.

“You love this don’t you, when I shove my cock down your throat?”

You nod as much as you can.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he moans and starts to thrust into you.

You watch him as well as you can, tilting his head back, his thick neck straining as he grunts and moans, using your mouth to pleasure himself. When you need to breathe, you tap against his thigh and he pulls back. If you weren’t so mesmerized with the fact that you’re deepthroating him, you’d probably marvel at how well the two of you communicate despite your loathing for one another. But you’ll think on that, later, now, you take a deep breath before he’s plunging back into you greedily.

Look who’s fucking needy now, you think to yourself smugly as you swallow around his cock and he whimpers, actually whimpers.

“Such a pretty mouth,” he comments and almost as if to prove just how pretty your mouth could be, you push forward until your nose brushes against the small tufts of his hair just above his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans and holds his cock there. “Gonna make me explode, love.”

You moan around him enthusiastically, dying to feel his cum spill down your throat.

He tangles his other hand in your hair, both hands holding you steady as he fucks your throat. You gag around him, your eyes watering, but you don’t mind. You need it. His thrusts stop and you feel his thighs shake as he moans loudly, not caring who might hear. You taste string after string of his hot load and swallow it greedily.

“That’s right, swallow it all, love,” he moans.

When he’s finally finished, you pull off of him with a pop and a smile.

“Knew you wanted it, didn’t I?” he laughs, carefully tucking his sensitive cock back into his boxers.

“Shut up,” you reply with a smirk, going back to your mildly angry self.

You grab your shirt and leggings and quickly pull them onto your body as he remains seated, catching his breath.

When you’re done, he reaches out to smack your ass one last time.

“Think we should make this our regular workout instead of that stupid bike you do every week,” he suggests.

“In your fucking dreams,” you tell him, rolling your eyes, but a smile plays at the corner of your mouth. That might not be an entirely bad idea…

[premakalidasi]

Listen, I’m up to here with “spiritual” men and frigid women turning their noses up at physical sex (including its supreme form, masturbation) as spiritual practice, simply because they’ve only ever associated sexuality with being an abuser or being abused, and because they’ve never experienced the Divine through the fully embodied, non-sublimated erotic, and most of all, have never experienced full, blissful, union-with-the-Divine or even samadhi during orgasm. 

The female orgasm is vastly different from the male one, for a start. She is not exhausted by it; far from it. She is rejuvenated by it; her body springs into life instead of experiencing a “little death.” If anything, the female orgasm is a little Big Bang (the double entendre is, here, believe it or not, unintentional. Were I to say “spontaneous explosive expansion of space-time,” few would get what I’m getting at). But it is that: where, for the male, it’s unfortunately an end, it is to the woman, a beginning. And yet we’ve had to hear from heterosexual male “adepts” over and over that sexual energy should be retained, that it shouldn’t be wasted, that it shouldn’t be spilled, yadda yadda.

Have you any idea how ridiculous that sounds to someone whose body is built to be the container and developer of sexual energy? Or, for that matter, to any receptive partner, as at least some receptive men and post-op transwomen understand something of how absolutely different it is to experience an internal orgasm where the energy doesn’t leave the body, but where, instead, the expansion and explosion of energy is inwards?

Look. It’s like this. Imagine a pitcher full of water and an empty glass. And when the pitcher is picked up and water is poured from it into the glass, the pitcher feels a relief at his load being lessened there at first, but then he realises he’s getting emptier and weaker and bemoans “Oh, woe is me! I felt a relief of pressure and an unloading of weight at first, but now I feel exhausted, emptied!” And then, in a tremendous feat of ego, being utterly unable to understand that not everyone is a pitcher, presuming that everyone is like himself, he thinks the glass is feeling the same thing. “Glass, I’m so sorry I’ve dragged you into this! You must be feeling so miserable right now!” while the glass is filled, overjoyous, bubbling, swirling, going “I feel so full and rejuvenated! I’m filled with life! Mmm, can I have some more?”

And the pitcher doesn’t understand this at all, is suspicious, calls her an evil witch and topples off the table. And his broken, bitter pieces preach the horrors of this thing to everyone, write it into holy scriptures, into spiritual practices, imposing it onto everyone regardless of how different their build is.

The bliss the female is capable of experiencing is entirely different. It’s due to what her muscles, her complex hormonal, neurological and all kinds of biological workings do at the stimulation, when they prepare her body to--potentially--nurture an entire new life. The plant casts off its seed and it’s done, and it withers away; the earth’s job has only just begun. It rolls up its sleeves; it’s rippling all over with a burst of energy, tingling and busy and alive; never fuller. And that’s not due to her sucking out his energy either, any more than a massive field full of rich earth can nourish itself from just one little seed--the fecundity, the earth in all its complex organisms, is already existent within her, the energies becoming released and activated at stimulation of the vulva and the uterus. 

In fact, it’s even better experienced alone with a suitable toy, without a man having to enter into it all, not due to a technical fault on the part of the man but because that’s the way the female orgasm works. The contractions of the uterus and the pelvic floor muscles build up slowly and, ideally, lead to orgasm--but in practice, they are far too often interrupted by the thrusts of the penetrator because these thrusts are out of synch with the woman’s ripples. When the vaginal walls want to contract (i.e. squeeze), the squeeze is interrupted by something moving inside the vagina (not letting it squeeze down fully), and the cascade towards orgasm is interrupted. And that’s why so many women have trouble having orgasm during vaginal sex: because to time them right, the guy (or whoever delivers the thrusts, regardless of sex or gender) would have to be telepathic. (And incidentally, this is also why it’s easier for a number of women to come from anal sex, because the thrusts aren’t interrupting what the vagina and uterus are doing. They can contract as much as they like, while intense nervous stimulation is still applied; the best of both worlds.) Only when she’s in control of the thrusts, can she pace them to her own ripples so that her vaginal walls aren’t pushed apart just when they want to contract or left without anything to thrust into them when they yearn for a thrust. (And the dildo won’t call you a stupid whore or an evil witch, or tell you to not moan in such an embarrassing way, or otherwise hurt you when he’s inside your body and you’re enduring discomfort and potential pain for his sake, either.) 

But when the vaginal orgasm does arrive, it’s a full-body one, a blissful one, something that ripples through every muscle. If combined with yogic awareness, the chakras burst open; the experience is very much that of flower after flower, a series of petals bursting into bloom, opening, heaving inside, all glittering with sunlight. Or cascades of bright water, rainbow-coloured light--it’s exactly that which is hinted at in some scriptures, but buried under all kinds of misconceptions. There has absolutely been a woman involved there at one point when those concepts were formulated, describing that surge of energy upwards and exploding out at the top of the head. And the rain of nectar, being saturated with nectar? Yep. That’s what it is. 

Therefore, if your only experience of orgasm is post-ejaculatory fatigue, of just bringing the seeds to the field and not knowing what it feels like for the earth--if you never feel the expansion, the ecstasy, the ripples of creation itself radiating through your body in waves, why, pray, do you presume your shallow, pitiful experience is the same for everyone else? And why should you think that sexuality was harmful--it couldn’t be because you were born into the privilege to abuse it? How do you presume to hurt someone when you’re equipped a womb, cause someone an unwanted pregnancy with it, rape someone with a clitoris? Even the woman who’s used her charms to manipulate men still subjects herself to physical pain every time she opens her legs; it’s a shallow victory if it subjects you to the risk of having your body ripped open by a baby and dying as a result. If one woman out of a billion has ever abused sex to the point of molesting someone, it’s been noticed exactly because it’s been an anomaly: she makes headlines in newspapers, but sexual abuse by men is so commonplace it doesn’t even make the news--it’s just accepted as standard. Can you please consider again what it takes for a woman to even dare speak of sex, when she’s faced with that? 

Have you thought of what it would be like to have sex so that you were the one being penetrated, and that the default would be that you never had an orgasm? Because that’s the reality of most women on this planet. Stop and think about that for a while. How would that change your entire view of things? Of how, perhaps, it’s more than just the atrocious tyranny the world exerts over women’s bodies in the name of chastity that makes them reluctant to even discuss sex? Have you really thought of how orgasm is a privilege, something that happens to a male body so automatically it occurs even in sleep, because it’s a biological necessity (but not so for the woman) to ensure the continuation of the species? And how much work it requires for a woman to even conquer the shame over her body to touch it, to study it, let alone enough to learn how it can, potentially, orgasm? And how, if she’s only allowed to have sex with her husband and in ways where she cannot control the thrusts, and she’s shamed out of masturbating, (as most women on this planet genuinely are), it’s likely she never will? Have you really thought of that? Sex, always, with someone grunting on top of you, inside of you, maybe with a little pleasure but without orgasm, unless you’re extremely lucky?

Have you thought of what it’d be like to be born into the half of humanity that’s penalised for expressing sexuality in any way whatsoever? What’s a frivolous little act of amusement for you that you regret as a bit of wasted energy (and to a woman, equal to full samadhi at best), is, for a woman, an extremely radical act of self-expression and wholeness and even daring to fucking exist, performed under the threat of extreme violence and death. It’s not a fucking joke.

Even those “neo-Tantra” books you scoff at, hell, any books about sexuality written by women and involving the use of female genitals for the female’s own pleasure and enlightenment, are radical as fuck. They’re taboo-breaking, consciousness-transcending, seriously fucking out there, in and of themselves. They are the most antinomian, most mind-fucking, most explosive things of all, but egotistical men can’t see that because the stuff these books talk about--getting in touch with your own genitalia--are something men take for granted. It’s accepted that hey, guys think with their dicks. Most of the English-speaking world, on the other hand, doesn’t even know what the word “vagina” means, symbolic of how out of touch women and everyone else is about female bodies. Ask a woman to touch herself and she’ll blanch; ask her to taste herself and she’ll throw up. 

And you know what? I’d read even the loopiest, fluffiest, New Agest crystal-crusted version of those over one written by an egotistical male “sage” constantly going on about his own superiority without having ever paused to think of the full human experience, not just his half. He doesn’t even fucking acknowledge I exist, nor does he understand shit about my body’s experience, using it as a tool at best, whereas the hippie New Ager, no matter how cringeworthily misguided, at least respects the female body and allows me to fucking have my birthright of the pleasure it’s built to experience. And these  “updates”, these new practices and variations by people uninitiated by gurus that so many of you sneer at--has it ever occurred to you that they’ve never found the one female guru who understood women, supported women, let alone female sexuality at all? So that they have had to come up with new practices, new religions from scratch? In this, they are not less valuable: rather, more valuable because they finally depart from withered, inhuman old books and fucking allow half of the human race to even exist, and mind-bogglingly, even offer women the (gasp!) chance to expand into all we can be. It’s about time we resurrect and reinvent and rebuild spiritual practices that regard women as more than slaves, penis receptacles, son-producers, housekeepers. 

No, I’d rather listen to the full glass. She’s been shattered over and over, and has had to glue herself together ten times over before she got there, in a world where most women are not ever given glue, and where women themselves restrict the access to glue because it’s dirty and bad and slutty and impure.

It’s a whole different fucking game, a whole different  experience, a whole different world.

Don’t belittle it. Don’t remain in the pitiful accepted ideas of it, whether it’s simple classic patriarchal masculinity or self-sacrificing female chastity where even looking at your body in a mirror is a sin. Accept that you know fuck-all. Accept that you have a lot to learn still. And that you can learn from women, you can learn from gay and bisexual men, you can learn from taking something up your ass. You can learn from gay men’s fear of AIDS a little something of the pain and the risks (not just STDs but unwanted pregnacies, potentially lethal) women have to fear every time they accept a man’s advances. You can learn from what a post-op transwoman has to say. You can learn from what lesbian and bisexual women have to say about how they’ve felt about making love to a woman, or being made love to by both men and women. You can learn by empathising, visualising yourself as the other, via exercises where you try to see something in a way your opposite would. This includes those--especially those--who you think are doing it wrong, and trying to understand what they get out of it; just as in everything in life, even your “enemies” help you achieve a more integral and holistic view that includes as many experiences, ways of being as possible. 

As for this “clinging” business, this “human relationships are transient” thing. Whoever the fuck said you have to have sex with another person at all? Due to the aforementioned biological reasons, for women in particular, masturbation is the key. Making love to The Divine is the key, and hey presto, all your daddy (or mommy, or androgyne trickster deity) issues are solved. Someone, somewhere on the way, forgot to include wanking as sexuality (usually the stuck-up gits who allowed only for procreation and wanted to burn all gays at the stake, even if us and a few other species of ape are the only species who fuck more for social reasons than procreation to the point where we stopped having a heat/mating season once a year and became horny all year round), and that’s when all went downhill. And now people whose only sexuality is with themselves even call themselves asexual, even if, especially for women, it gives you the best, sometimes the only orgasms you can have. Which is, frankly, like a highly skilled brain surgeon calling herself severely motor-impaired and saying she’s retired anyway even if she’s in the operating room, saving someone’s life that very moment. But it’s by and far the best option, especially if you tend to get hysterically clingy and have bad abandonment experiences or just suck at having relationships. Think of it! None of this clinging business that’s always invariably associated with sexuality; none of this people-bonking-people that’s always also invariably associated with sexuality. No unwanted pregnacies, no STDs, going at your own pace, minimal risk of pain, no hurt feelings, no trying to please your partner to the point where it ruins your experience, et cetera, et cetera. 

And nothing, absolutely nothing compares to the state of samadhi, the state of hieros gamos, the full union reached during a Self-powered love-bout dedicated to the Divine. In my four decades of various spiritual practices, I’ve had the good fortune to experience a few types of extreme enlightenment experiences, and let me tell you, that much-vaunted, hard-to-reach state of complete emptiness that one gains with ardurous fasting and yoga? 

It’s boring as fuck. 

It’s dull, boring, lifeless. It’s nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the fully conscious, divine, uterine, kundalini-bursting-orgasm achieved through masturbative meditation: the explosion of LIFE, the radiant sparkling iridescent colourful bliss that is the root of creation itself, of spirit and matter, solve et coagula, Shiva/Shakti, as above, so below, yin/yang, absofuckinglutely transcendental and immanent and all, all, all.

It’s all in how you approach it. For some people, emptiness is their biggest kink, their biggest fetish. But if your body’s built for love, in the absolutely-embodied-and-also-transcendental sense, and you’re not harming a soul by doing it, fucking go for it. 

Note how I’m not telling the entire world that they should take up spiritual wanking (although I’d love that)? Because I know that there are as many paths as there are people, but for some reason, there’s a conspicuous amount of stomping over certain paths, and in the world’s usual misogynistic manner, practices by and for women that celebrate the female body are laughed at and attacked because vulvas are, apparently, that fucking terrifying. I could devote an entire rant to how we need to disassociate sex from abuse (because that’s the usual reason these practices are dismissed, and frankly, tantra, in and of itself full of deeply morally suspect scriptures, does attract the worst types of guys--the amount of so-called gurus and babas in that who treat women like shit and are only after siddhis and other ego-boosting things is too high), but that’s for a later date. Women and queers in particular know what it’s like to be on the receiving end, so thanks to us knowing what hurts in bed, we’re equipped with some tools there already to change things for the better. It’s a shitty way of learning empathy to have to have been bullied, but there you have it.

This is not to shame anyone into thinking they’re inadequate. (That’s the same tool that’s been used against women for millennia.) It’s the voice of all those who’ve been told to shut up by people who think they know better, and who have dictated the rules so far. But no matter how hard you try, the full experience of Divine bliss, the full existence of the Universe is not all male and/or asexual, and you need to shut up and listen for once. I, or Nature, doesn’t actually give a fuck about whether you have a womb or not, whether you have a sex drive or not, whether you have a dick or not. The point is to stop any one group, no matter how numerous and powerful, from trying to dictate the rules (because that causes suffering) and to understand that yours isn’t the whole story (because this knowledge, translated into awareness, helps banish suffering). 

It’s a million times easier to just ignore sexuality than to use it responsibly, especially if you haven’t been given decent tools for it, but that isn’t an excuse to keep on running away. Running away is exactly the thing that causes hallowed, celibacy-preaching yoga gurus to fall for pretty young students, and then be exposed as hypocrites. Solution: don’t be a hypocrite in the first place, but integrate the fuck-power, no matter how difficult it is, no matter if you have to pave the way there yourself. Particularly as this full awareness means you’re not paving the way there with other people’s bodies; once you have even a vague idea of what it feels like to your partner, compassion comes naturally. (And I mean real awareness. Not egotistically thinking you know everything. Real awareness means that even when you’ve been married to someone for thirty years, you still don’t know everything about them and still learn that someone anew every day.) Or, if you decide to pursue the conjugal-bliss-only-with-the-Divine route, I reassure you that if you’re still alive after having handled that, you’re already on the last leg of your journey.

And even if you chose celibacy still because sexuality just wasn’t your thing, the important bit is to stop telling those of us that use it that we’re doing it wrong when we’re hurting absolutely no one by it and, moreover, are 10000% goddamn motherfucking one with the Divine when we do it. (Or, rather, are explosively reminded of our oneness with it, just as much as someone else is, through using another, more “acceptable” method.) And it’s not for you to tell us that we aren’t really experiencing the Divine Union and we’re just deluding ourselves, any more than you can describe a country we live in but you’ve never been to.

This has been a kick into casting off your ignorance and going beyond that into the full experience of the fully intertwined, fully immanent Divine that is the World that is the Divine. Accept that you know fuck-all, accept that you must work seriously and sincerely to know the Other to know your Self and the Whole. I’m giving you my part of it, after being suffocated by your part of it over and over and over, to make even a small difference in the mix, to work towards a balanced understanding of the whole. Even if that balance seems a faraway utopia as long as women continue to oppress themselves and as long as men remain oblivious and as long as the ones who think they’re superior by stepping outside of the two remain smugly passive. 

Even if I just said I’ve experienced bliss beyond bliss, even that is an infinitesmally small part of the whole Bliss. And if I’ve had to go beyond so much shit to get even that, what about those people who’ve never even thought about these things? That’s why these things need to be thought about and talked about, rather than just slammed down as “wasteful” and “dirty” and “depraved” by That Big Guy Who Knows Better. 

Just because something’s covered in human, social, gendered, delusional, traditional, limited, unconscious crap, it doesn’t mean that it’s crap all the way down to the core. Why do we imagine that? We imagine that because it’s so much easier to be a rake or a prude; that handily takes away our responsibility. Yet science evolves, and so must humanity. In our thinking about sexuality, we’re still on the level of thinking the Earth is flat; hell, we haven’t even admitted we’re apes yet. Let alone that we’re intelligent, empathic creatures who are well-equipped for beautiful, blissful ecstasies, for love beyond what we can even imagine.

[techieninja18]

So I’ve had a rough past couple of days and l’m trying to deal with some things that make me really uncomfortable. I don’t really know what made me decide to talk about it here, but I guess I felt like venting to someone other than my parents right now, even if it just ends up in the void. This involves some very personal stuff, including things of a feminine nature (like physically), so don’t read if you don’t want to hear anything of that sort.

It’s no secret that I have depression and anxiety issues. Earlier this spring I had to do a routine med check and, since I was having trouble with some previously prescribed meds, I ended up switching. This summer was tough, though I noted some improvement. Unlike my final spring semester of college, I didn’t have as many of the worst physical symptoms of anxiety such as pounding heart, chest pains, and difficulty breathing, so while there was improvement with my anxiety the symptoms of my depression became more prevalent and remain so now. I have no desire or will to do anything, I’ve lost interest in the things I’m supposed to enjoy, and I just feel wiped out all the time. I knew these symptoms would get worse starting in August when I moved back in with my parents after my summer job/internship ended. I have yet to find a new job and my poor mental health is definitely not helping.

Part of it has to do with living back at home. All of the independence I’ve gained the past few years while living out of town for school is pretty much gone. My parents treat me as if I were still in high school: not letting me do things my own way, telling me what I’m going to do with my time without even asking me if I had other plans, giving me my old list of chores (which I can understand while I’m still unemployed, though I know it won’t change once I do get another job) while my teenage brother doesn’t have to do any most of the time and he’ll just sit on his X-box (seriously, they are so lax with him; they give him so much more freedom and let him get away with so much more with fewer restrictions than I ever had, and he’s less responsible than I was as a teenager, but I digress...), just not taking me seriously or treating me like an adult the majority of the time. My dad even got pissed off last week because I wasn’t up at his shop working by 10:30 on Sunday like he’d mentioned he wanted me to do two days prior, yet he wasn’t even up there (I can’t get in without him because I don’t have a key), and I was supposed to take my brother up there with me, but he wasn’t ready by 10:30 either. My dad came into my room and chewed my ass for not doing what he said (he wanted me to mow the lawn, and with no one else up there there was no point in me going, plus there was literally no reason it had to be done so early since there was still plenty of dew on the grass anyway). He said it was stuff like that that was the reason he still “treated me like shit sometimes.” Yes, those were his exact words. It hurt me for the rest of the day and off and on for the next few days (I even had to hide tears from my mom two days later, though she did end up prying it out of me later anyway). Dad seemed to by in a better mood by lunch that day and was trying to joke around at lunch, but it made no difference to me.

He doesn’t always realize how his words affect me. Like, shortly after moving home, he would always say “you know, for being smart, sometimes you make stupid look easy” after I said something kinda dumb or I accidentally messed something up. I know it’s a quote from a movie and that it’s supposed to be a joke, but he said it a lot. It make me think of a particularly bad incident that happened in the last week of my summer job. It was never officially my fault, but I still feel responsible, and I still feel incredibly stupid for it. There was an incident a couple summers ago at a different summer job that was pretty bad (not that I ever got in any sort of trouble for it, it wasn’t good but it was fine, and it was labelled as an accident though I know it was entirely my fault). I had flashbacks to every stupid thing I’ve ever done or said, especially those two incidences, and I really started to feel stupid, like I can’t do anything without fucking it up. I’ve felt so worthless, pathetic, and stupid. After my mom saw how much those words hurt me she called my dad out on it and he ended up poking and prodding at my mind trying to piss me off after that just to get me to confront and stand up to him. He said he realized how much that saying could hurt, and he did apologize, but then continued to push to get an emotional response out off me, which he has a tendency to do when I’m under pressure or stressed or in an apparent mood. The problem is that he purposely takes control away from me as much as possible in these situations (like seriously, he’s admitted that he does it intentionally because it does piss me off). He’ll interrupt me constantly but won’t let me interrupt him, he’ll tell me how he’s right and I’m wrong, won’t always let me talk or defend myself, and often finds ways to belittle and/or underestimate me, not giving me enough credit for what I do know or why I do certain things certain ways. It’s incredibly infuriating and frustrating. Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t really listen to me or make an effort to truly understand/accept parts of me.

Mom doesn’t always either, though it’s different with her. I think she tries to understand, but isn’t always capable of doing so. That’s seemed more prevalent lately. For example, when I came out as ace to her I could tell she didn’t understand. She tries to, or appears to try sometimes, though she clearly can’t understand that I don’t feel any sort of sexual attraction to anyone since she “never had that problem.” She keeps telling me to “just try it! You may like it. How can you know if you’ve never tried! Never say never. You just haven’t found the right person yet. You’re going to have to eventually, how do you expect to have kids? It’s just a part of life.” I don’t currently have any desire to have kids or in a relationship of any sort, which sucks right now because both my mom and dad are pressuring me to “get some” with a guy friend who I’ve been friends on and off with, and they’ve really wanted me to get into a relationship with him because they “don’t think I can do any better than him.” Ouch. Like, I know they really want grandkids (sooner rather than later), but no. They always say “no pressure,” but that never does anything to alleviate any pressure, especially since this guy has wanted to be in a relationship with me and I’ve realized I’m on the aro spectrum as well as the ace spectrum, so I really don’t see that happening. Neither of my parents want to accept me as aro/ace, and it can be really hard sometimes.

There are other things my parents haven’t been accepting of, at least not at first, but I hope that can change. Back in high school when I took my first psych class and started learning about depression and anxiety, I tried telling my mom I thought I had depression/anxiety. She told my dad and the first thing he said to me after that was, “No. If we thought you were depressed we’d be the first ones dragging your butt to a doctor.” That was the end of that conversation. Fast forward 4 years, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s office for my annual physical, and when I was asked about concerns it was like a switch had been flipped and I started sobbing in front of the doctor. I’d had a really stressful semester prior to that and I was in bad shape. She determined that yes, I did have clinical depression and anxiety, and that the anxiety had probably gone undiagnosed for years (I’m betting since childhood). She also mentioned that it could be partially genetic, and that’s how I learned that my mom also has depression/anxiety but had neglected to say anything to me prior to that and even helped my dad deny that anything was wrong with me because I was apparently high-functioning. Imagine how hurt that made me feel, like I’d been ignored when clearly a problem did exist. That same feeling of hurt has been plaguing me this week.

I’ve known since my med check in the spring that I was overdue for a physical because I hadn’t had one since I was 20 (I’m now 23), and that they had to do a pap smear/pelvic exam at this physical. I’ve been absolutely dreading that since the moment I heard about it. For a little background, I’ve always had issues “down there.” I’ve never been able to use tampons or anything because of discomfort and pain. I’d fight for at least a half hour with multiple tampons of the smallest size during my heavy flow and still not be able to get one in. I couldn’t find my way inside, and no matter which direction I angled the thing it either felt like I was hitting a wall and creating pressure or it would be uncomfortable and start to hurt. I only ever managed to get one in once, and it was uncomfortable the whole time, even when I took it out (after it was fully saturated). I told my mom about this at the time and she brushed it off, told me discomfort was normal at first and that I would get used to it, I just had to keep trying. She picked on me sometimes for being a wuss for not trying tampons again, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, especially since I was fine with pads. So yeah, I’ve had increasing anxiety about this exam as it approached. A couple days ago I decided not to try a tampon (because I’m not on my period yet so there’s no point) but my finger just to see if I could do it this time, figuring several years might have made a difference (because hey, it happened with contacts, where I couldn’t get them in the first time but when I tried a couple years later they went in just fine, so I thought maybe this would be like that). It didn’t. I couldn’t even find my way in, and touching that area just felt so uncomfortable like my body was telling me not to touch (not painful exactly, but bordering on it), up until I touched a spot trying to push in that immediately caused a sharper pain like what I remember feeling before. Instead of helping my anxiety, that little experiment only made it worse. For the next few days, the mere thought of this exam made me cry. I told my mom that I still couldn’t do it and that I was terrified, and she tried to make me feel better, but it was clear she was getting frustrated with me. She told me I had to get this exam done, it was just part of life, that I’d have to suck it up and “put my big girl panties on and just do it.” I felt like I had no support, she still didn’t understand.

I had to drag myself to this doctor’s appointment yesterday because I really really didn’t want to go. I was extremely tight-wound and nervous as hell, and I told the nurse why. She tried to make me feel better but it didn’t really work. She changed the speculum the doctor was going to use to the smallest they had (the “child-sized” one), but when she showed me the small one I just felt so nauseated; the smallest they had was still bigger than the smallest tampons I couldn’t insert, and I started hyperventilating after the nurse left the room. I fought tears while waiting for the doctor to come in, but once she did I just started sobbing. I already felt I wasn’t being taken seriously, and I was worried it would just get worse. The doctor said she’d have to at least take a look in there to see if anything was going on, and she said she didn’t see any problems, though I don’t know how much she could see because she couldn’t get the lamp over there to see the way she wanted. She told me she was going to put a couple fingers in to check, and immediately I felt that uncomfortable, almost painful sensation, which I told her about. She went deeper and suddenly there was the sharper pain. She stopped then because I was so uncomfortable, saying that “at least I made it that far... might’ve even made it all the way.” That didn’t make me feel better. She still didn’t find anything wrong and chalked the discomfort and pain up to anxiety (I mean, I wasn’t exactly relaxed, but that was as relaxed as I was going to get without being sedated or something). That didn’t make me feel any better either, in fact, it kinda made me feel worse, and I kept fighting tears because I was already embarrassed and freaked out. Then she asked me if I’d ever been abused, which I haven’t to my knowledge (I would’ve had to have been too young to remember if I was because I have a pretty good memory and can remember a lot from when I was little). It kind of bothered me that she asked that question, especially after I told her about me being on the aro/ace spectrum. She believes I really need a counselor for my general anxiety/depression, but she also thinks I may have some unresolved issues that may be causing the problems with my lack of comfort with various types of intimacy, so to speak. I know she means well, but it still felt really invalidating.

She did refer me to a women’s health specialist, so I have an appointment with them in a couple weeks. I told my mom about how things went after the appointment and that I was pretty much an emotional wreck and would probably be a vegetable for the rest of the day after getting home and taking my meds (they can apparently sedate me somewhat, though the crash that comes after an attack that strong also does that, and that is pretty much how I spent the rest of the day). She didn’t say much about me not being able to go through the exam. but she took the day off on the day I have my next appointment so I don’t have to go alone. She can access my medical stuff because I gave her legal permission deal with it too, so she checked my appointment info and apparently I have not one, but two appointments that morning. The first one is apparently to get an ultrasound, and the other is to actually have the gynecologist check me out. The addition of an appointment for an ultrasound makes me even more nervous, though I suppose it might be standard for something like this, I don’t really know. But yeah, I’m still incredibly nervous about this whole thing and really really really don’t want to do it. I’m sure I’m only going to get more nervous as those appointments get closer, and I expect I’ll probably be a teary-eyed mess then too. I hope they won’t have to actually sedate me to get in there, but I’m worried that’s what it’ll take, and if they find something it could mean surgery to fix. It’s just terrifying for someone like me who doesn’t want anyone or anything doing anything down there (myself included).

My mom now thinks that my being ace is just because I’m afraid of pain down there, so I still feel invalidated. I’ll admit that is one reason I have no interest in sex, but that is not why I’ve never felt sexual attraction nor why I consider myself ace. She’s trying to make me feel more normal about things, but tonight I finally called her out on not taking me seriously. I reminded her that I told her about these problems years ago, like how I told her about the depression/anxiety thing back in high school too (and ended up being right), and that she just brushed these things off. I could tell she felt kind of bad after that, and she did say “well, hindsight is 20/20,” which is true, but I don’t think that makes up for her (and dad) not listening/taking me seriously on these things, I wish they could just do that from the start. But then, I’m just the kid, what do I know, right? It’s not like I could really know myself or my own body...

So yeah, I don’t know if anybody’s even going to read this, but this is just some of what’s been going on with me, and I just felt like I had to get some of it out of my system. Sorry for the super-long whine/rant.

[fatalis-writes]

That Detailed Post About How I Met Michael Rooker And Sean Gunn And We Talked About Sexbots

You guys seem interested in how my weekend went (I’ll only focus on the Actually Exciting parts, aka Rooker and Gunn so I don’t bore you with my life lol) and I’m still reeling from how this might have been the most fun I’ve had at a small (ish, sort of, maybe I just think of it as small because it’s local for me) con, so I’m going to ahead and writing a big old post about it. So strap in, because this might not actually make any sense since this is the first chance I’ve had to breathe in like two days. (Also notice that my wifi is on!)

So rewind to like a week and a half ago. I’ve been planning on going to this con for a while since it’s close to me and I’ve been going for the past few years, so it’s sort of a situation where if I have the weekend free, I just show up (I cosplay a LOT so I go to tons of cons mostly to just hang out with people). I can’t remember the guest list at all and I don’t really care, because the people I CAN remember are from things I don’t really watch/read/whatever, so I’m planning on just going and hanging out and maybe shopping. I’m planning on just going for Saturday, and wearing a Star Wars thing. 

WELL. 

After seeing vol 2 a *few* times, I’m like okay, yeah, I think I especially love Michael Rooker now. So I follow him on facebook and twitter and instagram, and “related events” things start coming up as things that he’s going to, you know, to advertise, and I see THAT CON. So now I’m like....???????? Excuse me???? So I checked and yep, he’s right there on the guest list, and I’m an idiot who doesn’t actually pay attention to anything. So now I’m like well, shit...what do I even wear to see him? Because I HAVE to at least meet him, and I just CAN’T do that in a Star Wars cosplay. And then I realize that I’ve been putting some stuff together for Gamora ever since I saw vol 2 the first time, and I’ve got a wig and paint on the way (and this isn’t a big deal, because paint is kind of my thing, so I’m like yeah okay I can just throw this together the day of and probably things will not go wrong). But a week is not enough time for me to put together any of her canon outfits, especially because I really want time to make them nice. So I pull out a pair of black pants, a white tank, and a leather jacket from my closet and it’s like...okay, whatever, here we are, this is fine. So then I bought myself a little baby Groot with a Ravager jacket because I needed some kind of SOMETHING to carry around, and didn’t have time to make a sword or gun or anything (he was a hit by the way).

Then late last week I get the vol 2 art book and I’m super excited because of all the Iron Lotus girls in it and I’ve been super needing exactly that because I’m going to be making one over the summer so I’ve been STRUGGLING to find refs. So now I have refs...and a centerfold of a sexbot. So now I have exactly what I need Michael Rooker and Sean Gunn to sign. (Spoiler, they did. I will post it).

Now fast forward to yesterday, which was Saturday of the con. I’m in a Star Wars cosplay because folks were expecting that and it felt wrong to back out of it so soon before the con, and it was SUCH a struggle forcing myself not to go up for autographs because i HAVE TO WAIT until I’m wearing Gamora. BUT, they did a panel, which I waited an hour and a half in line for and sat just behind the VIP rows which was pretty good. And let me tell you, that might have been the best panel I have ever been to in my life, and I’ve been doing this for like 6 years now. 

Sean Gunn (who plays Kraglin and also did the onset Rocket where he wore a green morph suit and crept around on all fours, I saw a print of it at his booth, it’s absolutely incredible) was there right on time, and Michael Rooker was late, so we got like 20 minutes of what he just called “coherency” where he did the q & a by himself. Memorable points include:

The first song on Kraglin’s awesome mix would be Jukebox Hero by Foreigner. He said this immediately, with no hesitation at all, so he’s definitely been thinking about it. 

Sean’s favorite non-gotg MCU character is the Silver Surfer

He doesn’t know how much of his own whistling at the end of the movie was actually used and how much was just edited in, but he is an amateur whistler and he’s just started, so give him a break, okay??

They played around with a LOT of ideas about what kind of a character Kraglin should be. Originally he was supposed to cackle a LOT

On Gilmore Girls he was constantly afraid that he would be out of a job, because his character was never supposed to be recurring 

Michael Rooker is the world’s biggest Gilmore Girls fan

Then Rooker finally snuck in, and stood behind Sean to get everyone to cheer for Sean, and then the HOLLERING

THIS MAN IS LOUD AND I LOVE HIM 

His greeting was I’M MARY POPPINS, Y’ALL

He is, in fact, the world’s biggest Gilmore Girls fan

If he could play any other GOTG character it would be Kraglin, and again, this was said without any hesitation (Sean said he would play Yondu, because the guy who plays him SUCKS, which Rooker agreed with)

They went to the same film school

Michael Rooker says he can walk down any street anywhere and talk to ANYONE and make friends

His favorite line from GOTG 2 is “my underwears” because it isn’t underWEAR, it’s underWEARS 

He just says whatever pops into his head at the time and goes with it

He likes to believe that Yondu turned into stardust and went to another galaxy to kick some more ass 

Then there were still a lot more questions to get through, so they had to lightning round it, in which Rooker jumped up and walked down the middle aisle, put his mic in the face of whoever was next in line to ask a question, and answered YES to every single one

“How was it to work with Stallone again after--” YES

“What’s it like to--” YES

And then they went back to their tables and I didn’t see them again until Sunday (today). I spent like 45 minutes speed-painting myself, used my bf’s shirt as an umbrella in a torrential downpour, and managed to remember both my art book and Groot, and I got my ass in line to see Rooker and this was the most rewarding day of my life. I think I had to wait like 20 minutes, but I paid for a photo and an autograph, and when I pulled the book out everybody working at the table was super interested because like nobody (except Michael Rooker????) knew that it exists, so while I was up there everybody was just flipping through it and that was cool and all but my heart was going like 70 mph 

And then,,,,,,,it’s my turn, and I get a big ol HI, SWEETHEART (and for those of you who don’t know from anything else he’s done, he does sound exactly like Yondu, like that’s just default Rooker) and I’m just kind of hi :D and he said i looked good,,, and then he saw that I wanted him to sign the centerfold and he was pretty Happy with that and was like “Where should I sign?? OH, RIGHT HERE” at her entire pelvic/upper thigh region

Which is indeed where he signed it 

And he wrote YONDU WAS HERE

And then he was like “Oh yeah, i love this book, this is a good book” so we flipped through it some and it was A+ High Quality Content

ANd then he had to stand up for the photo because it was one of those deals of the security or staff guy on hand just takes one with your phone, which is a LOT cheaper than doing the official photo ops and tbh sometimes the phone ones come out a lot better, and you can actually talk to him which is neat. So he stands up, and he’s like ‘alright, c’mere baby’ and i’m like :D again 

and he put his arm around me which was A++++ 

And he rubbed my back which was like,, the BEST

And he was SO NICE

And he said sweetheart like 17 times 

And he’s just SUPER FRIENDLY and so easy to talk to so overall 10/10 will repeat this experience 

Then I was like okie doke, time for Sean Gunn, so I went over to his booth and stood in line and because EVERYBODY wants to see Yondu but less people want to see Kraglin it was a lot shorter and I could talk to him longer, so he signed the same centerfold and we went through the ‘where tf to put it’ struggle because Rooker took up the Good Spot, so now I’ve got KRAGLIN next to it, but he also hadn’t seen the book so we got to flip through it and talk. And I told him that I got it because I needed refs of the girls, and he was like wait why? and i was like well,, cosplay,, and he was SUPER interested in that so we talked about how I’m planning on making a sexbot cosplay (to go with a Yondu, that’s a long and different story but I’m Very Excited because he’s a Very Good Yondu) and then Sean asked what the girls are credited as, because on set they called them Sexbots, so uh, CONFIRMED. I told him that I’ve also been calling them sexbots, but they’re in the book as ‘lovebots’ which is just you know, the same fucking thing but family friendly

So he’s interested in my cosplay, and everything was fantastic, and also a lot of little kids really liked my Gamora, and also I got a free print out of it

And everybody loved Baby Groot

So it was a really good day

(if you want to see the centerfold and also the Me then I’ll post them)

[brainsinmyheadfeetinmyshoes]

Celia’s Birth Story.

Welcome, Celia Fe! Born 08.05.17, surprising everyone 23 days before her due date. 

*****

At my 36wk mark on Monday, I had a funny inkling that the baby would be here soon. I called to make a hair appointment and thought, "Wouldn't it be ironic if she's born before then?" The inkling kept tickling my mind and emotions and I wrote it off as a sense of preparedness. I was prepared for labor and delivery, and it was just me, ready to get to the other side.

By Wednesday, the inkling grew frenetic. I just KNEW she would be here soon. I was filled with strange new energy to get ready, quick. Pack the hospital bag. Take maternity photos with the boys NOW because the weekend might be too late. Get out the carseat and wash the cover. Just totally overwhelmed by this sense that she was coming SOON. And after I ate a hearty yogurt-apple salad at 3pm, I wasn't hungry again. Strange, I'm always hungry...

At 7pm, I tweaked an abdominal muscle somehow. It felt like the baby kicked or elbowed me and it triggered a sharp round ligament pain... except the pain spread to the other side, and lasted for hours. I couldn't roll over in bed or walk to the bathroom without assistance. After five hours, I phoned Labor and Delivery and they suggested I come in for monitoring. The jostling car ride over was terrrrrrible, but it was kind of nice to have a practice run since we hadn't delivered at this hospital before.

They kept us in triage for about six hours, then sent us home. Contractions started while there, and were regular, but I only dilated 1cm. The doctor credits the abdominal pain to carrying very low with very weak muscles. She said she could tell that the musculature was stretched thin because she could see baby's movements clearly without even palpating. She recommended a support belt, even if I only used it a few days, and sent me to labor at home.

We got home soon after 8am Thursday, and I proceeded to sleep most of the day while Erik took on the boys. I had the genius idea to try using our jersey-knit-fabric baby carrier to help support my belly once I dared to stand up and it made a huge difference. I had found a pelvic tuck-and-lift exercise that I intended to try anyway with my low belly, so this made it very easy to do. It entails manually lifting the belly during a contraction while tucking the pelvis in and bending the knees, for ten consecutive contractions. This presumably gets baby over the pubic bone and into the pelvic cavity, also coercing her to rotate into an optimal position if necessary. Contractions had continued most of the day at regular intervals and were around 5min apart at this point, so it was a straightforward activity. I think ultimately, it worked magic, because my pain went from a 7-8 at the hospital, to a 5 late Thursday, and ultimately, was nonexistent when active labor began. My belly felt and appeared higher than it had been as well, reducing that abdominal strain, with much less overhang over my pubic bone and a much more heartburny, cut-off-air-supply feeling at my breastbone.

Thursday night, contractions all but disappeared, so everyone got pretty solid sleep. Friday, I craved oatmeal for breakfast, despite it being an unfriendly gestational diabetic breakfast, but I needn't have worried about that--my appetite remained nearly nonexistent. It was extremely hard to choke down food these two days, made worse by the guilt that I should keep my energy up for active labor. I learned that I was likely experiencing "prodromal labor," which is essentially when early labor comes in fits and starts. It features very real contractions, at regular intervals, with real pain, that are productive at effacing and dilating the cervix, but never seem to amount to much. It can last up to a month before active labor begins. After a quiet morning, mine started up again in the afternoon at 15min apart, then progressed to 10min apart, and disappeared at bedtime. I resigned myself to this pattern for days on end. On the one hand, prodromal labor often shortens active labor which is nice, and gives you a chance to practice relaxation and breathing techniques, but on the other, it's total crap for morale and is physically taxing. Plus, who wants to be in limbo?! Either baby is coming or she's not...!

Around 1am Saturday, an extra hard, long contraction woke me up, and it was followed by three more before I finally got out the timer. They were between 60-90 seconds long, every 5-6 minutes. (Everything prior had been a minute or less long, with less intensity.) I got up to shower and move around, figuring they would stop if it was more prodromal labor. But they didn't. So then I thought, maybe they'll stop when I lay back down. But they didn't. After a few that required serious concentration, I was ready to hit the hospital. I could only take so much solo. Our sweet neighbor came over at 3:30am to stay with the boys, and off we went, with contractions every 3-4min.

I was admitted at 4:15am, at about 4cm dilated. I had been waffling about an epidural--I had one with Lucian, with a bad experience, and had no choice but to skip it with Lionel. So having a choice now was tough. The thought of getting hooked up to an IV, waiting for labs to come back, talk with the anesthesiologist, sit very still while they hooked it up to my back, the chance that I would be a passive agent at delivery... the hassle hardly seemed worth the (sheer bliss of) numbness. On the other hand, being a hero for hours upon hours as I slooooowly dilated was not something I had the morale to do. So a rock and a hard place. I got the IV drip just in case (extra fluids never hurt), but the conversation pretty much ended after that, because things moved quickly, thank heavens.

Within an hour I was at 6cm, which is rapid progress. It was the same every contraction: Erik would put his hands on my shoulders and apply pressure, and I begged him to give me a pep talk (even though I hate pep talks and he hates giving pep talks and also, he sucks at giving pep talks), while I inhaled, then moaned deeply, 5-8 times. Breathing was the thing I did poorly with Lionel and I didn't want to make the same mistake this time. The very sweet nurse, who stayed with us the whole time, constantly said, "Good job, you're doing great" about my breathing. At some point, I told her, "Tell me I'm one of the best you've ever seen," (Again, seeking that pep talky validation, haha) and she said, "You're really doing everything so well! Your Blah-Blah Breathing Technique is perfect. Do you do yoga?" And I almost laughed, because me, do yoga? Maybe four times in my life. I suck at breathing, that's why I DON'T do yoga. Ha! But maybe this will initiate me to a yoga practice since I apparently am capable of being a pro breather.

I had the urge to pee around this point, but the act of squatting on the toilet squared up the pressure way too much, so my grand plans of walking and moving during labor went right out the window then, and I just stayed in the bed. But it was really great to feel like that was 100% my choice, which was not an autonomy I felt I had with Lucian and Lionel.

Things got pretty dire at 7.5-8cm. It was totally textbook. That's when women tend to want to give up. To think they can't do it. They really need to gather themselves between contractions so aren't chatty or cheerful. The sounds of labor follow a certain pitch and scale. But damn, it was really hard. During the car ride, I had explained to Erik that the pain during a contraction was like changing gears in a car, with identifiable levels requiring deep breathes, then faster deep breathes, then a low moan with each breathe, then a louder moan, etc. You can physically feel the uterus kind of inch upward, like drawing up a curtain, bunching at the top to dilate at the bottom. Each time it bunches, the pain amps up. And from 8-10cm, that curtain was totally being yanked into place within me. And I couldn't find the corresponding response, since I was already moaning and groaning up a storm and had nowhere else to go. Especially when the urge to push kicked in, when it felt like my uterus was squeezing so tightly, I had no choice but to join it.

The one thing that got me through that last 10 minutes before pushing was a cherry popsicle. I was drenched in sweat, and couldn't open my eyes, and the contractions came every 1min, and I was so tired and just wanted to rest, and the thought of that icy sweet relief got me through each contraction because I couldn't wait for another taste. It was a perfect gift. 

The team assembled quickly as I escalated. My waters hadn't ruptured throughout ALL of this, and I felt enormous pressure. I just wanted to push, if only to force that pressure away. Two residents managed the delivery and through my last 1-3 contractions as I begged them to let me push, they said they wanted to wait for the attending physician. F*** that, man. I know there are protocols that they need to follow, but I feel like they had enough notice to get themselves organized. I recall mention of baby's heart rate slowing down and I think that was the main motivator for them to let me push. Apparently the attending physician WAS present, but I never registered her entrance. They poked that amniotic sac, and oh, the relief as the clear fluid poured out. Only not. I recall pushing being a welcomed reprieve from contractions with Lionel, something I bore cheerfully, but I wanted this baby OUT. I didn't pay any attention to riding the waves or pausing between contractions, I just inhaled and pushed, inhaled and pushed. Erik thinks it lasted for three contractions. I think it was for maybe 6-8 counts of 10, which didn't necessarily correspond with contractions. Who cares. At some point I was positive her head was out, but when I asked, they said she was only just crowning. Which made me push harder, damn it. 

Within probably five minutes though, she slithered out, 1hr 45min after I set foot in the delivery room, and they put her right on me. She gurgled and cried right away so the neonatal team didn't have to sweep her off, though they did assess her right away and she passed with flying colors. Delivering the placenta, an unpleasant memory from my other two births entailing much unceremonious yanking of the umbilical cord, was no big deal this time, requiring only two small pushes. As they rinsed me off, someone (maybe it was the attending physician) said, "Does it make it better to know you had zero tearing?!" So no stitches for me. A nice reward I suppose, though things are so messed up from the waist down postpartum, it doesn't seem like such a huge perk. Maybe I'll be grateful in a few days, when the swelling has gone down and I'm not using sitz baths. I don't know. Tearing was never one of my big hangups.

They brought her right back for skin to skin contact. She was so peaceful, though alert, and had no trouble starting to nurse. In fact, she's a champ breastfeeder with a hearty appetite and thank goodness--they have to check her blood sugar at least six times, and get good readings before we're discharged because of the gestational diabetes. But go me for managing my sugar well enough for her not to tank. Also, because she's considered preterm (by only two days but still), all the usual concerns about weight gain and jaundice are especially heightened. Despite being only 5lb 15oz, all the medical staff assess her to be very healthy, appearing more advanced than her gestational age. So it was just time for baby girl to come out!

Erik says he was really impressed by me throughout. I seemed calm and in control, did a great job breathing, managed the pain well, and did everything like a champ. It feels good to hear, of course. But despite having that same sense myself--I knew what was going on and what to do this third time around--coming out of labor and delivery, all I've felt is relief, with a slight tinge of negativity. It was a hard battle won. Such a hard battle. The pregnancy wore on me. The gestational diabetes wore on me. The prodromal labor and abdominal pain wore on me. So my feelings of, "Whoa, that was really something, can I try it again and do better?" after Lucian, and "Whoa, I delivered a baby in an hour with no epidural, I'm a rockstar!" after Lionel, are in sharp contrast to a feeling of not wanting to do this again for a long, long time. If ever.

Another way I know labor impacted me differently this time, is that when they gave me Pitocin to control the bleeding immediately after delivery, each tiny little cramp I felt entered my psyche as, "Oh God no, not another contraction," and I braced myself. It took quite awhile to mentally accept that it was over. So it caused a little emotional trauma I think.

Finally, I was so excited to write out Lucian and Lionel's birth stories. It was cathartic. A processing mechanism. Something I had to do before I could get any sleep. This time, while I've still written all this out in less than 12 hours following her birth, it came from a place of, "I guess I gotta document this one too," despite the strong desire to just leave it in my memory. Perhaps that means I did a proper job of emotionally processing in the moment. Or perhaps I'm just so bone-weary from these hard years of childbirth and child-rearing, it feels like an excessive mental exercise. Regardless, I've written the thing now, and I know I won't regret it!

Erik is bringing the boys now with cupcakes to celebrate Celia's birthday. I can't wait for them to meet her. And I can't wait to eat a cupcake.

[p3ac3l0v3mus1c]

“How many times are you going to put yourself through this?” “I knew someone that went through years of treatments and when they stopped trying it finally happened.” “When is enough enough?” “Why spend so much money to have a kid when you can adopt one?” “We care more about you and your health than a baby.” “God has a plan.” “You just have to stay positive.” “It will happen when it happens.” “At least you have your health. There are worse things in life.” They say that infertility is common, that so many women go through this process just like me, so you’d think that the sensitivity in people’s comments would have adjusted accordingly. I cannot be the only woman tired of hearing these comments constantly. We see mantras and inspirational quotes all the time about never giving up on something you want, but women are told daily by friends and family to give up on their dreams of having a baby. We are told daily not to compare apples to oranges, and yet we are told to trust someone blindly because someone they knew once had a different experience. It’s crazy to me how many people think they know any better than a doctor which has studied this field for years. Adoption. How is that always everyone’s answer for everything? I’m not at all saying that it’s not a good option, but it isn’t for everyone. They’ve made adoption so expensive and tedious to accomplish, sometimes it is just as expensive, if not more so than these treatments to have our own child. But not only that, look at all these people offering up adoption as they post selfies with their babies, and they ooh and awe over how much their child looks like them and acts like them. Does it make women that experience infertility so horrible for wanting that? What, because we can’t have our own how dare we do not jump at raising a child that may grow up to long more for their biological parent than us? Isn’t that terrifying? What about the horror stories we hear about parents who are set to adopt and fall in love with this child, but another biological family member comes to claim the child? And can I say I am so sick of people telling me they worry more about my health than a baby? Seriously, do you think a doctor would allow me to keep going if they felt my health was in danger? If I stop now, my mental health would be so far into shambles; it may be better that I keep trying because at least then I know I haven’t given up. This journey sucks, and anyone going through the process will obviously have good days and bad days. We will have days when we want to scream and cry, and there will be days that we are positive and anxious. It’s silly to think anytime there is a bad day we should be told to quit or worse, “you can’t be negative.” That is unrealistic. Everyone has a bad day, and if you don’t allow us those emotions, we will explode. I know firsthand that if you don’t let yourself cry sometimes, you’ll find yourself screaming in the kitchen over two tablespoons of parsley.

So that’s my rant, let’s go back and start this story from the beginning. It’s June 2016, I am 25 years old, been married about eight months and I’m laying in a hospital bed being told I am having yet another miscarriage. At this point in my life, I am young, thinish and relatively healthy but yet here I am looking at my sixth miscarriage. The nurse in the emergency room tells me there is no reason someone my age should be having this much trouble getting pregnant and tells me to reach out to my OB/GYN. So I schedule an appointment to get everything checked out. My husband and I go to the doctor, later that month, and get all kinds of tests done. He has to fill a cup, and I have to give a bunch of blood and have a pelvic exam. Once it’s all said and done, I am basically told I am too fat to carry a child because of my family’s history with diabetes but no worries, my husband is “as fertile as they come.” So I think to myself, “no big deal! I can lose weight, that’s easy enough.” So I do, in just five months I drop nearly 60 pounds (mainly by cutting out the multiple liters of mountain dew I was drinking daily). I feel great, and I am totally confident that we will have a baby now because that was my only issue…or so we thought. So we go back to the doctor, and she’s impressed by how much weight I have dropped. She wants to start me on some hormones, and a timed intercourse schedule to ensure we get the results we are hoping for. Spoiler alert, the medications she put me on cause weight gain, and I put on a ton of weight pretty quickly. So now I am eating right, and working out constantly but these medications just continue to cause me to “balloon up” as someone so eloquently pointed out to me and naturally this is causing me a lot of stress. But we proceed forward with the medications, and we get pregnant! Yes, we went in for our first beta test to check our HCG levels and were told we were pregnant! But the fun part about HCG levels?

The doctor wants to see them double every 48 hours, so two days later we go back, and sure enough, they had plummeted. Now all of a sudden they’re telling us we are going to miscarry again. We go through the whole process multiple times over a year with the same result every time. It starts putting a serious strain on our marriage, and my mental health. Naturally, everyone at this point is telling us it isn’t worth trying anymore but giving up was not an option for us. So I started doing some serious research, and come to find the treatment we’ve tried over and over again is not recommended more than two to three times at most. Angered by this information, I needed a second opinion, and I began researching fertility clinics in the area.

It’s now August of 2017, and I’ve stumbled across Spring Creek Fertility. On their website, it had mentioned a doctor referral, but I was dead set on seeing them, so I sent them an email explaining the last couple of years and requesting an appointment. They agreed to see me, and we set up my first appointment. I was filled with hope once more. After my first appointment, we ran all kinds of tests to see what was going on. Here starts the laundry list of problems, none of which was my weight. We were told I had a deficiency in all kinds of important vitamins and methyl folate. Easy enough, take a few different vitamins and swap out some of the failed hormones for different prescriptions, we were filled with excitement and all but planned for a baby because surely with all of these adjustments we were going to have our baby finally. December of 2017 we started our first intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycle. With this cycle we were instructed to take a shot of ovidril in my stomach, it was the first time we had to do our own injection with the fertility treatments.

I was so nervous, but I remember thinking the shot would make it a sure thing so I took a picture of the shot beforehand and sent it to my closest friends with the caption, “finally the medication that will change my life.” Boy was I naïve. Just days before Christmas we went in for our first beta test. I took the whole day off of work so I wouldn’t miss the phone call with results. I took the day to pamper myself and relax. I was filled with joy! I had taken multiple pregnancy tests at home that showed a positive result, and I was just waiting for them to call and say “you’re pregnant!” I waited all day impatiently, checking my phone every few minutes and finally they called and said my numbers indicated there may have been a pregnancy, but there isn’t one now. They apologized like everyone does when they’ve just given you bad news. “I’m so sorry, do you have any questions? Okay, so sorry.” I was devastated. I couldn’t understand how it was so hard for me to get pregnant and stay pregnant. I thought the doctor said all I needed was some vitamins and a little push. What the hell?

We decided to take a break from all of the worrying and ovulation tracking; maybe time was all we needed. So from for the first seven months of 2018, we took a break. We went to parties, concerts, festivals, the ocean; you name it. We just needed to take a break from devastation, but by May I was itching to try again. I felt like we were running out of time because I wasn’t getting any younger and my health wasn’t getting any better.  I called Spring Creek and asked what our next steps would be. They suggested in vitro fertilization (IVF) as our next steps. After some research, this seemed to have the highest success rate and be the most expensive option. I called our insurance to get all the information, and we began saving and looking at loan options. Come July we had a few thousand dollars’ worth of meds and a page long schedule of appointments. But like before, our hope was restored, and we were confident that this would be it. I found an IVF support group on Facebook and read so many success stories of first time IVF patients. SURELY THIS ONE WAS IT. We followed every guideline to a T. Like clockwork every day we’d drop everything to take shots and monitor or levels closely to make sure we got everything right. I had to drive down to Dayton three times a week for nearly a month, but it would all be worth it when I finally held my baby. Every ultrasound and blood work came back great; we were filled with optimism.

We had our egg retrieval; they retrieved 20 eggs! Later that evening the doctor called and said 12 of the 20 eggs fertilized, and while we felt a little uneasy about losing eight eggs, we figured 12 was still great. Five days later, the doctor called and said that only three of the 12 eggs fertilized made it to blastocyst. Essentially this means of the 20 eggs they retrieved, only three of them became usable embryos. Naturally, I was terrified by this news. Out of 20 eggs, only three of them made viable embryos? Would the three that survived even be good? We did everything right, and only three made it. But, everyone in the world reminded me, “it only takes one.”

Here comes August of 2018. Transfer month. Now starts more meds, more injections, more appointments, definitely more stress. But wait! You can’t stress, how dare you stress? Don’t you know stress won’t help anything? Sure I do. But tell me how anyone in the history of the world does not feel any amount of stress while spending their life savings on a medical treatment which makes their hormones go haywire, makes them feel sick and tired, and only have a success rate of like 40%? So, “don’t stress,” is a nice sentiment but it helps no one. If anything it just pissed me off and added to my stress. Google is a bitch, by the way. For the love of God, stay off of Google by any means necessary, it will do nothing but intensify the stress and anxiety of this whole process. But ‪August 29th‬ finally came, and we headed to Spring Creek to transfer our embryo. Dr. Groll told us everything looked perfect and went perfectly and it was perfect. We were so thrilled. We were officially pregnant until proven otherwise (PUPO).  Every day after that point every little twinge, and tingle must’ve been a symptom, or so they devil google lead us to believe. I became obsessed with peeing on home pregnancy tests starting just five days out. They were positive, so bring on the joy and excitement. You would think, after the bout with the IUI home tests that I would’ve learned, but again let’s revisit the explanation of stress and hormones.

September 10th, 2018: beta day. I took the whole day off of work, I knew from last time that I would not be able to focus on anything but my phone. I drove to Dayton to get my blood draw, and then off to Columbus I went. I stopped to visit my mom’s grave (because doesn’t all of this journey sound like so much fun without a girl’s mom?) and went to lunch with a friend. The entire time I stared at my phone. Every time it rang, I jumped. I was hoping that they’d call while I was with my friend because somehow my excitement turned to worry and I had a feeling it wouldn’t be a good phone call. But hours went by, they didn’t call, and I needed to head home. I made it about a half hour away from the support of a friend, and my phone rang. My levels were not good. It was happening again. What in the actual eff? I cried the entire way home and cried even harder when I got home. Why wasn’t anything working?! At this point, people and “friends” were literally telling me that I “signed up for anguish.” I did not sign up for anguish. I was already anguished; I signed up for hope and faith and a miracle. Why was that so hard for my “people” to support?

A week later, I went in to see Dr. Groll, and he explained what he felt went wrong. He made some adjustments to our treatments and pretty optimistically said let’s move forward for October. I felt like it was really fast, but if the doctor who I had found through research to be one of the top-ranked doctors in the country thought we should move forward then who the hell was I to question him? So we prepared to start over in October. Now, to backpedal a little bit, I mentioned earlier that I had joined a support group on Facebook. Through this group of 70,000 plus members worldwide, I found a girl going through the same part of this process AT THE SAME CLINIC and she and I were scheduled for the same day in October. This was a massive weight off of our shoulders. It was a wonderful experience to feel like I had a partner in all of this, someone who knew exactly what kind of crazy was going on in my head, stomach, and ovaries. This cycle was so much easier, every time I felt unsure or negative, I messaged her and vice versa.

October 23rd, 2018 rolled around, and I woke up so excited to meet my fertility buddy. I wasn’t even nervous about the transfer anymore. I felt like it was a good thing. Maybe staying out of my head would help. When Sean and I got to the clinic, she was there all looped up on the Xanax the clinic had prescribed us each to take. Hugs were given, pictures were taken, and stories were exchanged. Almost forgot we were there to transfer another embryo. Sean and I were called back to a room, vitals were taken, and yet again, everything went perfect. The embryologist had us laughing as we saw a “spirited” embryo dance around prior to the transfer and we left the clinic feeling overwhelmed with love, both from finally meeting our fertility partners and seeing a good looking embryo. Let the two-week wait begin. This time I made it till 8 days past the transfer before I caved and peed on a damn home pregnancy test. What was wrong with me? Again, all of my tests were positive, and I was filled with impatience and joy for my upcoming beta test.  The morning of the beta test, I drove to Dayton and waited outside the clinic for them to open. I was the first one there. I was so excited because this one would somehow be different. My partner showed up, nearly in tears. She was positive she was going to start her period, and this would be it for her. Her doubts weighed heavy on me. For her, this was her last shot. She was ten years older than me, and this was her last embryo. I ended up more concerned for her beta result than mine, and I think that actually helped me. The clinic called and I could hear the nurse smiling through the phone. “You’re pregnant! You’re definitely pregnant!” I was floored. This one took, and I knew it would. I waited and waited for my partner to message me her results, I didn’t want to exclaim my good news until I knew she was okay. Finally, I asked her, and wouldn’t you know it; she was pregnant too! It was a miracle.

That night, Sean and I actually went out to celebrate our wedding anniversary, and we were on cloud nine. I remember making sure to order a virgin daiquiri because would you look at me, I am pregnant! A few days later we both went back for another beta, and my partner messaged me that her numbers were fantastic; she was still pregnant. Clearly, we were in this together, so I danced around with excitement while waiting for my good call, but it never came. The clinic called, and the nurse started the call with, “it’s not good news. I’m so sorry.” What the hell? Why? What do I have to do? Let the tears ensue. We are now down to one. One left. “It only takes one.”

A couple weeks later I go yet again to see Dr. Groll. He again suggests we roll right into the next transfer. I don’t know. At this point, my family and three of my closest friends have repetitively told me to stop trying. “Don’t waste your last embryo.” “How many times are you going to put yourself through this?” “ why don’t you focus on the family you have and getting your weight under control?” No one believed that I could have a baby. The people I sought as my greatest support system had lost all faith in this journey. I sat at home and cried most nights, went through a lot of beer. Several nights I drank till I blacked out, and one day I went to the hospital and told the nurse that I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of harming myself. I felt alone and defeated. But we had one stinking embryo left.

December 17th, 2018: transfer day. We went in for an operation and secretly transferred the last embryo while we were there. The most significant difference, I had lost all faith in this process. I literally felt no excitement at all because in my head I had convinced myself that everyone else was right and I just wasted my last embryo. But I followed all the rules, and I waited to test and on December 26th, 2018, the day before beta, I took the day off of work to lay at home and have a total meltdown. I at this point told some of my friends that I had transferred my last embryo and I sobbed as I told them that it was all for nothing because this one did not work. Damn hormones, I was literally hyperventilating with fluids flowing from all orifices on my face because I was so sure we spent our savings and time and hopes on a pointless journey. The next morning I drove to Dayton for my blood draw. I waited for my call, fully expecting the bad call. The clinic called and the nurse sounded very neutral. This was unusual. “Marya, your HCG was a 10.10. We consider anything over a 10 a pregnancy, so you are pregnant, but we are going to stay cautiously optimistic.” Cautiously optimistic. What in the hell does that even mean? How do you tell someone to stay optimistic but cautious when it comes to whether or not they’re going to be a parent? I told my husband that we were pregnant, but I wasn't holding my breath, but to my surprise, he was so sure this one was it. He is never sure; he is always on the defense! Maybe it felt different for him? Four days later I drive back to Dayton, and we do more blood work.  It was New Years Eve so I was busy as can be. I came home and started doing housework, successfully keeping my mind off of things. At this point some of my friends and my fertility partner is messaging me asking about my numbers, noticing how late it was I called the clinic. Did I miss the call? I got their “after hours” voicemail. I lost it. How could they close without calling me? So now I am pacing back and forth through my living room, calling the clinic over and over. Finally, they call, turns out they had closed, so they shut their phones off, but they were still calling patients with their numbers. “I’m so sorry sweetie; your number went down.” SHIT! I knew it. “Your number was 18.8.” Wait…I asked what the number was again; she said 18.8 and I explained to her that my number four days ago was 10.10. I heard papers shuffle in the background, “you’re right, but in four days it should’ve at least doubled. It doesn’t look good sweetie, but we will stay cautiously optimistic and continue meds.” Freaking cautiously optimistic. At this point I am irritated. I am bummed out by my numbers, and I decide to turn to that support group for stories of hope. I posted that I was worried about my numbers being so low and that my doctor told me to be cautiously optimistic and asked if anyone else had a similar story which ended successfully. The responses were horrifying. Multiple women commented that there was no way this would be a viable pregnancy. They told me it was a chemical and they were shocked my doctor had me continue meds. I was in tears. Sean yelled at me to get off of the group, told me what good is a support group that shoots down any desperation of hope. At this point, I am waking up every morning and peeing on a home pregnancy test. The goal is to see the test line darken every day.

So each morning I would pee in a cup, and dip my test strip and then wait for it to dry so I could tape it to my test page and compare. Every day it looked a little darker. Sean continued to proclaim his confidence in this cycle. January 2nd, 2019 I went in for more blood work. They called, my number was 31 even. It nearly doubled, and can you guess what they said? Cautiously optimistic. I was so annoyed; my number almost doubled in 48 hours! Why did we still need to be cautious? Why couldn’t they just tell me it would all be okay? But we continued on, peeing daily on the strips and praying it kept rising. January 7th, 2019, I went in for more blood work.  The clinic called and told me my number was 136. Surely a job that great means we are safe, but they said they really wanted to watch us closely and you guessed it, stay cautiously optimistic.  So we wait four more days and do more blood work, all thee meanwhile peeing on the strips and seeing that line just get darker and darker. At this point, even I am positive it will all be okay. The lines are dark as dark can be, and my number has been steadily rising. Sure enough the clinic calls and my number is 282.4 and we are ready for our first ultrasound. Now at this point, my number is low but the doctor is thinking it was just late to implant because my number lines up with about a week behind where I should be. Sean is already proclaiming that it is a boy because “he is a grower and not a show-er.” Hope is restored. We are so happy and excited to see the baby, we are literally just counting down the days at this point. I couldn’t wait to hear the heartbeat. We’ve come so far, at this point we are nearly 8 weeks pregnant. I had started seeing a bunch of ads on Facebook for a heartbeat monitor, you know because they tailor those ads to whatever you’ve been doing online and I’ve already told you that Google is the devil and I apparently have no self-control. So one of my pregnant friends and I get to talking about those apps and how they couldn’t possibly work but she tells me that her doctor recommended an app that actually does work but usually not ‪until 9-10‬ weeks. No will power remember, so I download the app and I am messing around not expecting to hear anything. I’m just sitting in my living room with my phone against my belly, listening to a whole bunch of static scream through the speakers and all of a sudden I hear a fast galloping sound. I stop moving my phone and look in surprise, the phone is registering a heartbeat. I am losing it. Now the 16th couldn’t come fast enough.

What seems like an eternity later, it’s finally the morning of our ultrasound. Sean took the day off because he did not want to miss this. We were 100% convinced we had already heard the heartbeat so we weren’t even nervous, just anxious to see our little bean. So Julie, the nurse practitioner, comes in and starts the scan. We sit silently as she looks all over the uterus with a look of concern growing on her face. I look at Sean, he is just staring at the screen intensely with a blank expression on his face. I can feel my heart beating out of my chest and I try to swallow what feels like a bowling ball. Julie stops the scan and says she needs to go grab Dr. Groll from an egg retrieval he was doing to have a look. As she walks out of the room, I look at Sean. He just sits silently and motionless. I am fighting back tears, because everything is going to be okay, maybe it’s just too early to see anything. Dr. Groll comes in and starts the ultrasound, he scans the uterus slowly. The silence in the room is deafening. After a forever long silence, Dr. Groll says, “it looks like we have the gestational sac here in the middle of the lining. I think that is the fetal pole there, but it’s kind of hard to see because we have some fluid around it. It’s measuring really small, but it might just be a little late to implant. Let’s just get another HCG and stay cautiously optimistic. We will do another ultrasound ‪next Monday‬ but we will really need to see some growth by then and we should ideally see a heartbeat by then.” Cautiously. Freaking. Optimistic. I am so sick of that phrase. Cautiously optimistic sounds like don’t get your hopes up but we know you’re going to. Later that day they call me and my HCG is 694. Still going up, what the heck baby? Why are you scaring me like this? I felt like I had no control over anything. I pretended I was not scared, because Sean didn’t look scared. Everything is fine, we are still cautiously optimistic so I am not frightened or worried. And yet, while making dinner I ripped Sean’s head off about not having two tablespoons of parsley. Parsley, a spice that mainly adds color, and I ended up sobbing for an hour over two stinking tablespoons.

Four days later, I decided to go do something for myself and get my nails done. The day before we had a blizzard, so first I must spend 40 minutes wiping my car off. Once my car is wiped off, my back is a little sore but I ignore it and get into my car to leave. My car won’t budge. So I get out and grab a shovel, I flip the shovel over and use it to kind of kick some snow off the back tires. I am not dumb enough to actually try and shovel. As I am kicking away this snow, a sharp pain starts in my left side and follows up my back. I try to stand up straight, maybe I moved funny. The pain gets worse. At this point I am now in tears and reaching for my phone to call Sean. There is no way I am making it inside. I am currently laying down in tears, hyperventilating because the pain is intense and I am confident this can’t be good for this pregnancy.  My husband tries to get me to the emergency room, but our cars are still stuck. He calls an ambulance, and now the panic is real. I have EMTs trying to give me pain meds, I’m yelling that I am an IVF patient and I don’t want meds. They keep asking how pregnant I am and I am explaining the situation, but they won’t really listen. After hours in the ER, they’ve taken urine and performed an ultrasound. The doctor comes in to tell me that I must be miscarrying because my HCG has gone down to 1039. I told her my HCG was previously only 694 so 1039 would be going up, but she says well we didn’t see anything at all on the ultrasound so you’ll need to follow up with your fertility doctor to check for an ectopic pregnancy. We were pissed. First of all, what about my back? I still couldn’t move on my own, and really if you’re concerned about an ectopic you don’t just send me home.

The next day we saw Dr. Kantitis, Dr. Groll’s partner, he wanted to do an ultrasound and check on the growth of the baby. Within seconds he found the gestational sac, and it looked bigger. He said it was still small but it definitely looked bigger. We felt relieved. We didn’t need more blood work because the hospital tested that the night before, but he said we’d check again ‪in 3 days‬. Somehow I felt like that tiny bit of growth reassured my faith that it would all be okay. We’ve now made it 8 weeks and our number is still going up, the sac got bigger, through every hurdle in 10 weeks, we prevailed. This would not be different. At this point all of our naysayers were calling the baby a little fighter, and telling us not to lose faith. January 24th, 2019, Sean was unable to get off of work, and so I went to the ultrasound alone. I told the nurse that it would be characteristic of my kid to wait till daddy can’t come to make waves. She chuckled and told me she really hoped that was the case. Dr. Karnitis walked in, followed by another nurse. She is one of my favorites, and she comes in with a supportive pat on the back before the scan begins. He starts the scan, and slowly pans across the uterus. “Oh no,” he pauses, “oh no this does not look like good news.” I am still staring at the screen, I am not going to cry. “Your husband was very interactive, that’s very good. He was very observant of the growth of our sac. I’m going to print him a picture of our sac here. It has gotten visibly smaller. The baby probably died a few days ago, but your uterus looks beautiful. I think it’s trying hard to hold on to that baby and protect it.” I made a comment at this point, but I couldn’t tell you what I said. I think I kind of blacked out. Debbie, the nurse, walked over and hugged me and told me she so sorry. Everyone is so sorry. I felt a teardrop against my face, and I prayed they didn’t see it because that would be the give away that I had stupidly gotten my hopes up, but they must’ve seen it because Dr. Karnitis reached to hand my the tissues and just kind of looked down at the floor. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Your uterus looks perfect, we got that formula right. That uterus is ready for triplets. I’m sorry, you did everything, but sometimes the embryo is just not good.” At this point I am full blown crying, and I really just want to get dressed and leave, but now I need to go do blood work. I carry the ultrasound picture of my dead baby with me to the lab to get my blood drawn. I am trying not to make eye contact with anyone because I will not allow myself to cry in front of anyone else. They cannot know that I wasn’t cautious with my optimism. HOW THE HELL DO YOU STAY CAUTIOUS WHEN YOU’VE PRAYED FOR A CHILD FOREVER? I leave the clinic, and text my husband. He says he's so sorry. Everyone is sorry. I’m tired. I just want to go sleep.

On my way home, the roads are terrible but I am driving without caution. Since I am so bad at caution. I am driving and a truck in front of me in going so slow, there is no way around and I just start screaming. Now I am crying and screaming, and I pass a cop and notice I’m definitely going over the speed limit. So I slow down, I take a breath, and I just sit in silence the rest of the way home. I thought I was driving to work, but somehow I ended up at home in the shower. I had already showered that morning, but I needed another one I suppose. I laid in the shower until the water was cold, and for some time after. When I got up, I toweled off, and walked to my bedroom. I woke up three hours later. I took another shower. Our last embryo was dead inside of me. I felt dead inside of me. I don’t want to face anyone. I still don’t. Because when someone hears that I am mourning the loss of a child, yes even at 10 weeks pregnant it is a loss of a child, the questions and opinions will start. “How many times are you going to put yourself through this?” “I knew someone that went through years of treatments and when they stopped trying it finally happened.” “When is enough enough?” “Why spend so much money to have a kid when you can adopt one?” “We care more about you and your health than a baby.” “God has a plan.” “You just have to stay positive.” “It will happen when it happens.” “At least you have your health. There are worse things in life.” It was another 6 days before they were ready to schedule the d&c, but the day before my appointment while at a concert I sat alone in a public bathroom stall covered in my own blood because I began to pass the baby on my own. I panicked at the sight of what looked to be legs and feet. I sat sobbing in a bathroom stall, unsure of what to do, who to talk to...why is it that with infertility, women must suffer alone in silence or face all these insensitive comments and questions?

[imaginesebastian]

The Hills

Anonymous asked:  Hi, I love your writing ! It's so good, I can't stop reading your stuff ! Do you think you could write a Bucky x Reader based upon the song Hills by The Weeknd please ? That'd be amazing !

A/N: So.... you can’t really base an imagine off of The Weeknd’s songs without involving sex, amirite? But bare with me here, it’s the first time I’ve written smut. 

Warnings: Smut, swearing, oral. Stuff like that.

A night in with your friends wasn’t something you really anticipated on happening. 

You laughed while sipping on wine, your mind constantly going back to what happened between you and him. Every thought that reminded you made your ears burn with embarrassment and your friends were starting to notice. 

“Does anyone have any stories they’d like to share? Messy hook ups, best hook up they’ve ever had?” Wanda said, her smile widening once she saw Natasha’s sudden interest in the subject. 

Natasha’s red lips wrapped around the rim of her wine glass. “Well, it was a guy in Cabo. Gorgeous place, so obviously there would be some gorgeous men,” a smirk played on her lips, “anyway, the sex was so bad, I felt like I couldn’t ever have sex again. Until I got back to America, that is.” 

You giggled, playing with your wine glass while Wanada’s eyes went wide, “No! In Cabo, really? What were you doing there?” 

“Let’s just say I had decided to take a private vacation.” Natasha shuddered at her terrible night in bed, probably regretting the entire trip. 

Your eyes close as you thought of him again. Bucky Barnes was sure to be the death of you, but you couldn’t tell anyone. Relationships within The Avengers was difficult to say the least, the complications involved if you had possibly stopped seeing each other would be tremendous. If you could even call it a relationship, that is. 

Although with your lack of title, you still wished Bucky was by you at all times, talking to you huskily while he nibbled softly on your chest. You felt hot just thinking about it. 

Natasha’s eyes glinted as she saw your reddening face, “I think (Y/N) has a story for us, why don’t you share?” 

Your attention was immediately reverted back to reality, “No, no. I don’t have a story. Never had sex even.” You laughed awkwardly, coughing at the end in an attempt to avoid confrontation. 

Wanda rolled her eyes, “Don’t lie. You’re hot, I’m sure you’ve had some amazing hook ups.” 

You sighed, deciding you could be vague just so they would leave the topic alone. “Well, I had went out to drink with friends from college one night, and I met a guy. He,” you struggled not to describe his looks, “was attractive. Very attractive. He is one of those guys that makes you want to pounce on him the moment you see him.” 

Natasha laughed, “Do you still have his number?” she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. 

“He’s mine!” you laughed. “So you’re still seeing him?” 

“On occasion. . .” you trailed off, feeling your phone vibrate in your pocket. 

Bucky: You ready baby? I’m on my way over. 

You gasped, “and that’s him now. You two need to go.” 

Wanda put her hand to her chest, mock hurt, “You’re not even going to let us see him?” 

You stood quickly, pushing them both towards the door of your apartment, “Nope. Not at all. Leave, bye-bye.” 

“You’re being very-” Natasha’s words were cut off by your front door slamming in their faces. You heard laughter at the other end so you breathed a sigh of relief and picked up your phone. 

(Y/N): Hmm... what to wear tonight? I’ll be waiting ;)

The text seemed to imply that you weren’t just stressing over Natasha and Wanda possibly seeing Bucky come to your apartment. 

You rushed to your closet, slipping on a white lacy and slightly see through set of lingerie. Your hair was a mess but that’s how he liked it, so you fluffed it up even more and laid seductively on your bed. 

Soon enough, Bucky walked through your bedroom door, looking as devilishly handsome as ever. He turned and looked you up and down, “Whoa.” 

You grinned, your body laying across the bed with exposure in all the right places. 

He jumped to you, immediately slipping his shirt over his head. “You like what you see?” 

“Always.” He smirked, bringing his face to yours and pressing his lips against yours roughly. 

You hungrily responded to his body immediately, arching your back to his touch and feeling him push your back onto the bed. “How do you want it tonight, darlin’?” 

You licked your lips, “Anyway you want it.” 

He’s smirk widened, his crotch pressing to yours instantly. You felt his hardening length against you, making you moan loudly. 

“Have I told you how hot you look in this?” He whispered, kneading your breast in his hand. “I figured by the way you’re devouring me with your eyes.” You responded sarcastically, making Bucky smile. 

His lips dragged themselves to your chest, nibbling softly as he always did. It drove you insane, but you couldn’t ever get enough of it. 

Bucky slid his hands underneath your body and unhooked the bra, exposing you even more so. He swirled his tongue over your hardening nipple, moaning as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

His lips continued to pepper kisses down your body, stopping just above your pelvic bone, kissing each of your hips before looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Oh darlin’, you better be ready for this.” 

You sucked in a breath through your teeth, feeling him slid your panties off of your legs. He breathed softly onto your sex, making a chill run up your spine. He was agonizingly slow, but eventually he pressed a kiss directly onto your pelvic bone. 

“So wet for me already.” He moaned, pushing his finger into you. You threw your head back, his tongue on your clit in an instant. Your hands found their way back to his hair, tugging at the roots. The vibration of his groan went directly onto your clit, “Oh god, Bucky.” 

You felt the familiar heat rise in your belly, almost pushing you over the edge. “Bucky stop, not yet-” you tried to raise your hips away from him but he continued to relentlessly push his finger in and out of you, licking all over. Your hips were held down by his other arm, his eyes meeting yours as you rose to your climax for the first time that night. 

Your chest heaved heavily, your back arching as you came. “Gorgeous.” He whispered, bringing his mouth up to you and kissing you roughly. 

You reached quickly for his belt, unbuckling it and unbuttoning his jeans. “Eager, are we?” 

You smiled, taking him into your hand and pumping up and down quickly. Bucky moaned immediately, feeling your tongue swirl around the tip of his cock. 

Your lack of gag reflex always came as a surprise to men, and Bucky was definitely one of them. You pushed his entire member into your mouth, holding his hips and feeling him flex underneath your hands. “Holy fuck, (Y/N).” 

Your pulled away, grinning triumphantly and sucking the tip of his cock. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, “If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to stop baby.” 

You continued to suck hard, causing him to take you by your hair and push you off of him. 

You smiled, “Oops?” 

“Oops is right, now you’ve earned it.” Bucky said huskily, pushing onto the bed and lining himself up with you. 

Quickly, he thrust into you and stayed still, sucking in a breath, “Still so fucking tight.” 

He started to move slowly, using his hands to hold himself above you while he bit down onto your collar bone. 

His hips picked up speed, now going much quicker. You moaned loudly as you felt his body brush up against your clit. “That’s right baby, let everyone hear you.” 

You moaned again, your body already ready to cum again. Bucky noticed this, because he began to take long strokes in and out of you. Your bottom lip was brought between his bottom teeth, your fingernails scratching into his back. 

He switched up his speed again, making your release come agonizingly slow. “Fuck, Bucky. Faster.” 

He smirked, “You sure baby?” 

You nodded. 

His eyes darkened, putting his arms underneath your knees and raising your legs. Bucky thrust deeper into you, hitting your g-spot over and over again until you were a writhing mess underneath him. “Come on, baby. Cum.” 

Bucky’s words went right to your groin, making you back arch into his chest, “Bucky!” 

Bucky’s thrusts became sloppier, a loud groan erupting from his chest as he came loudly, shouting your name. 

He collapsed onto your chest, right where he always laid after sex. He buried his face into your skin, breathing hard. You grinned, completely out of breath as you stared up at the ceiling with no regrets. 

Maybe sneaking around wasn’t such a bad thing. But then again, you know you wanted a relationship with him. You wanted cheesy dates, movie nights, flowers and chocolates. There was more to him than sex and you knew that, he just didn’t want to open up. He didn’t want an actual relationship, and you had to respect that. 

Both of your phones buzzed quickly, breaking the two of you out of your little world. You reached at the nightstand, handing Bucky his phone and looking at your own. “Steve?” He said, his chest still glistening with sweat. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, “I’ll meet you there?” 

“Why don’t we just go together? It’s not like they’ll know we were doing anything.” Bucky reasoned, pulling on his boxers. 

You smiled, walking to your dresser and looking for fresh clothing. Bucky came up behind you, smacking your ass lightly, “Wear red. You look great in red.” 

Your cheeks heated up immediately as his arms wrapped around your waist and he pecked a small kiss on your neck. 

Maybe he was coming around to the idea. Maybe he wants the same thing as you. You couldn’t ask him now, you’d have to find the right time. Either way, you knew you couldn’t lose Bucky from your life. 

[mybumpbirthandbeyond]

Home

So, that was it, we were on our way home with our newborn baby! Hard to believe, but I know I was lucky I got to stay in the hospital longer than the usual 6 hours!!!

I sat in the back with Cailean on the journey home. We have two Springer Spaniels who were staying with my mum so we had to coordinate picking them up as well. You do worry about how the dogs will adapt and behave, but our two were brilliant. A tip I would give anyone in the same position is that we gave my mum the first hat we put on Cailean immediately after he was born to take home with her, so the dogs could get the scent of him. When she visited the next day, we gave her a blanket we put on him overnight. 

My mum was actually meant to drop off the dogs but I changed my mind. Our house is their house, and I didn’t want them coming home to find him in their house and react badly. I told my mum we would pick them up and have them enter the house first. That way, they were already in the house when we brought Cailean in. Texa, our youngest Springer, is a bit anti-social. She’s 4 but likes to take herself off her to bed so she was probably the one we were worried about most. Skye is her mother and 8, so we knew we probably wouldn’t have a problem with her, especially as she had had her own litter. Texa was immediately interested when she got in the boot! She was straining to get her over the back of the seat to look at him, and was sniffing like mad! My husband took them into the house and then I brought Cailean in when they were settled. They were really interested and continued to sniff him. They have been brilliant with him since day 1 and we needn’t have worried. Texa in particular has come into the living room more often and they are so protective. Texa is actually the one to run into his nursery first thing in the morning to check on him and they both immediately sit next to the person holding them when we have visitors. They constantly lick the back of his head and his wee feet and he is completely unfazed by them. We are so lucky to have such good dogs. 🥰

I struggled a bit at home to do the simplest of things because of my stitches and feeling so sore down there. As a result my husband was an absolute superhero! I couldn’t change Cailean on the floor because I couldn’t bend properly, and my back was absolutely killing me so I couldn’t change him standing at the changing table either initially. It was really frustrating. I was so lucky Alex was so hands on, but I felt so inadequate that I couldn’t do these things and all I could do was breastfeed. At that point I think it’s really important to be honest, but also to be kind to yourself. Your body goes through so much in labour and of course you’re not going to heal overnight. As long as you have a great support network (I definitely have that!), don’t feel you can’t ask for help, or accept it for that matter.

Cailean was a hungry feeder and would regularly be on the breast for 30-40 minutes. They don't always feed the whole time - remember their tummies are so small, they sometimes just prefer the comfort, or they fall asleep. What I struggled with, was that he gave me what I thought were cues, even after that length of time and when he would fall asleep and come off himself. Things like hands in the mouth, crying, etc. What helped us was a dummy. I had these ideas of trying not to give him one, but the reality is he was probably always going to need one. The midwives told us the minute he was born he was sucking his hand so said he would either need a dummy or be a thumb sucker. Initially I tried to convince myself we would only give it to him at night, but again, who was I kidding?! It turned out to be a comfort for him, helped soothe hiccups after a feed, and calmed him down when the feed came to an end (which he is never happy about!!). At the end of the day, whatever gives you and your baby an easier life is important. As my mum pointed out, he’s unlikely to be running about a rugby pitch with a dummy!! 😅

I was visited by the community midwives every second day after came home. They usually see you for 10-14 days following the birth. If everything has gone well, they will usually sign you off after 10 days which I think is far too short! As with most things NHS, I totally understand they are understaffed and resources are spread thin. So much so, that as I mentioned previously, I only saw my own midwife once the whole time. This was far from ideal given what I was about to go through.

The first visit, two midwives visited us. One checked Cailean: looking over his chord, weight, checked re toilet function etc; the other checked me: that the uterus had contracted, my stitches and also my stomach. Here’s where the words of the midwife at my 36 week check came back to haunt me and still do now. I had the less experienced of the two checking me. She frowned and called her colleague through. Her colleague pressed my stomach and confirmed my muscle separation was as bad as it could be 😓. She could keep pressing all the way down to my bowel and there was just nothing. She told me she would drop in a tubi grip for me the next morning and I was to wear it all day (not at night) until my 6 week GP check. I’ve just found out that I really should have been referred to a pelvic physiotherapist at this point, and shouldn’t have had to wait for 6 weeks! More on that later...This however, explained why my back was so sore - I literally had no core to support my lower back. No wonder I was moving like I was 90! 😱Aside from the obvious reasons...

Cailean’s check revealed there was some gunk in his eye and I was advised to express breast milk into it to hopefully clear it up. We would see a midwife again on Friday so they would check again then. Friday came and thankfully it was my own midwife. She asked if I went myself which I confirmed and said I had a great labour. I asked her if she was right in guessing at my last appointment what I was having. She laughed and said yes, I knew it was boy because he was causing trouble! She was surprised to learn of Cailean’s weight, as she said he was a decent size so it makes you wonder where he was hiding when I was trying to measure him!! 

She did the heel prick test and he was a wee star, didn’t even cry. She also checked me over and was happy the stitches were healing well and said they had done a great job. I mentioned I had started sweating profusely and didn’t know where it had come from. She thought it was just my hormones as my milk was changing from the colostrum to the actual milk now. She witnessed the feed and was happy with the latch and said we were doing great. Unfortunately Cailean’s eyes were crusty so she couldn’t take a swab, but said she would do so on Monday when she next saw me. It was a great comfort to have my own midwife visit and I wished I had been lucky enough to have her again.

I also had been visited by the breastfeeding support worker. They are honestly some of the best people you will ever meet after giving birth! She spent a good few hours at the house just chatting in general but talking through feeding. She explained he was latching well, but I had clearly had some damage to my nipples so just to really make sure he was latching properly and if not, re-position him. She witnessed a feed and helped me get the right position, although said in general everything looked good. She and her colleague made it clear they were always available for advice, and to call back if needed anything. Definitely arrange a visit if you decide to breastfeed, even if you feel quite confident, as they really give such good advice and are actually just great people to talk to and chat about any concerns with.

In terms of our own ‘routine’, (if such a thing exists with a newborn!) Cailean was probably feeding every 3-4 hours. At night time, we brought the Moses basket up to beside our bed. I found next to me beds really expensive so we stuck with the Moses basket. I also switched our bedroom light for one which was much warmer and less bright so that when we put it on to check on him, the room stayed dim and he would know it was bedtime. We didn’t do much speaking during the night, for the same reason. What worked for us, was changing him first, then feeding so that if he was sleepy after a feed he wasn’t then more alert after being changed. Unfortunately for us, Cailean has always been quite a sicky baby so we had to be really thorough when winding him. It also meant we would keep him up for about 30 minutes post feed to ensure he wouldn’t be sick when he lay down. Initially, it’s completely natural to be up at every sound they make, but I was terrified he would be sick and choke. Thankfully, it seemed he like to turn his head to the side and do it instead. He never liked having the blanket on his feet and very early on would kick and kick until the blanket was off so we tended to drape the blanket over the bottom of the basket so it was still over him, just not tucked in.

With him being such a hungry baby it quickly exhausted me breastfeeding all hours of the day and night so we did opt for a bottle of formula or expressed milk at night. You can’t initially express with a pump that well and it’s not recommended until breastfeeding is established and milk is coming through. Thankfully, he did take a bottle absolutely fine - probably because he was so greedy! I was always going to introduce formula as well though, as I am only taking 6 months maternity so it wouldn’t be possible to breastfeed for as long as some mums. 

Little did I know that my feeding plans would swiftly change....

[argotmagazine-blog]

Hysto

I had my reproductive organs voluntarily removed at twenty-two years-old. I’d like to imagine they’re pickled and floating in a jar waiting to be dissected. This is not the first time the distance between myself and my body has become literal; my perfectly healthy flesh and blood are my own worst enemy. My body is company I can only hold at this distance, like a prism against the ceiling light, a spectrum full of indecipherable color. A piece of me, somewhere, is gone.

There’s a lot of hand-wringing about what it means for a transgender person to have surgery. I had to refuse any and all food and liquid, a seemingly impossible task for raging coffee-addict. I gingerly walked up the women’s and infant’s clinic front-desk alone, and told them that I was indeed, the patient being operated on this afternoon. To any passing stranger, I was a young man asking about his partner, wife, child. The reality was I stumbled over my words, with sweat on my forehead as the clerk found my name and said I needed to sign paperwork.

“Are you the patient?” the clerk asked me. I don’t recall anything unique about her. She looked me over with the type of familiarity she might give an unpleasant co-worker’s child.

I say yes. At this point, there’s no going back.

Cue me being asked to follow the dotted yellow lines into a room where I’m met with a dark hallway—not unlike the one from Barton Fink. It was surreal and slightly off-putting, like a dim forgotten corner of a movie set. I walked into the office to sign the consent forms and am asked to follow more yellow dotted lines to another department. In a matter of hours, I would be put to a sleep and operated on, as if none of this preamble ever happened.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of the yellow-brick road Judy Garland and her dog dutifully traveled on to see the wizard, a mystical hermit in his emerald towers. The Wizard of Oz was an obsession in my single-parent household. The stripes on the floor are intended to guide patients and their families, but I went through this all alone, feeling like Dorothy after her house crashed on top of a poor witch. I want to apologize for intruding, for bringing this body into a women’s space, but because of my sex this is where the surgery must take place. It’s frustrating introducing myself; I’m ready as I’ll ever be for the procedure.

When a trans body enters a hospital, it’s as easy as being sucked up into a tornado. It’s swept away from a sepia-hued world into a hyper-visible, technicolor land of prying eyes and confused stares. It’s enough to give anyone cold feet. But there are medical fees for that. There are dollar signs flying like winged-monkeys everywhere. Legal paperwork saying I’m someone else might as well be a house dropping down on my head. That it clearly says they have the wrong patient.

But I had a letter saying I was supposed to be here, for this, I emphasized to the clerk, being as vague as possible. The surgery. I’m piss-broke and have just signed away a significant amount of money to pay for a surgery I would never be able to afford without my Ivy League college insurance.

Nice people get what they want and I wanted to have my organs removed to become a better, more whole person because of it. I was determined to find my ruby slippers, slap them together, and walk out to attend class next week like nothing happened. In retrospect, this is the apex of the overachiever mentality: going in for major surgery on Friday and talking about Foucault the following Monday.

I was used to trying to appeal to others for respect, so I smiled and nodded with every well- intentioned “miss” and “m’am” knowing all too well that the clinical description of “gender identity disorder” was stamped on every page of my paperwork. This was the nature of the beast, and I was lost in this Oz world, stumbling my way along, doing my best not to make myself too noticeable. All I wanted was to go home, metaphorically, into a body I could better recognize myself in. I had a big house crash in on my life and it was the body I lived in.

The DSM-5 now calls “gender identity disorder” “gender dysphoria disorder,” which supposedly lessens the stigma attached to transgender people. But bodies are messy and on principal, they’re subject to change regardless of how we choose to talk about them. This is inherently a problem with language and how culture violently twists and depicts trans bodies. I’m not here to entertain baseless arguments about people wanting to cut off limbs because they “think they should be an amputee.” Here was the brick wall in my transition: squishy organs, ripe for the picking.

Fixating on what people ought to do to their body isn’t new or exciting. I’m interested in the visceral messiness of the experience, the bureaucratic ritualism that preludes any endeavor to present ourselves to medical institutions. The mechanical process of sex-related surgery isn’t exciting. I doubt those other than the morbidly curious and skeptical would find the technicalities illuminating. It’s boring being a transgender person going under the knife. Waiting for surgery is like watching grass grow—nothing ever happens. It’s miles upon miles of dotted lines, signatures, and the sound of your own urine splashing against a measurement cup minutes before you’re on the gurney.

I spent my recovery watching gross, schlocky movies. It’s comforting losing myself in the screen, doing my best to get into another person’s head. It’s a good enough distraction from picturing the sinews of my abdomen healing together, my pelvic muscles recoiling after being sliced open for the surgery to take place. My gruesome tendencies go wild—I want to imagine all sorts of morbid transformations taking place where my uterus once was. I pictured it like the scene in The Fly, where Jeff Goldblum realizes he’s growing tiny insectoid feelers on his forearms. This scene is not unlike my own discoveries of individual chin hairs after years of injecting testosterone.

Compared to most transgender men, I’m about as masculine as a naked mole-rat. My body will now require synthetic hormones to be injected on a weekly basis in order to maintain itself. This is something I of course discussed at lengths for months with my doctor. There’s no problem here—I became obsessed with my own boredom waiting for my body to heal. I felt abnormally well.

I fantasized about a creature inside of me ready to burst out like an Alien parasite, announcing that I’m here, finally in this new home I call my meat and flesh. But no abomination will come tearing me open from the inside-out. Only my own ennui ready to swallow itself whole like Ouroboros.

The monster analogies are easy—Frankenstein, Chimera, test-tube creatures. Walking through the world with this body is the equivalent of hiding the fact you are, partially, the product of someone else’s handiwork. This is how I’ve come to terms with own sense of monstrosity, the jagged edges of my body that don’t quite all fit together.

Scholar Susan Stryker describes the trans body in her essay/performance piece My Words To Victor Frankenstein Above the Village of Chamounix:

“The transsexual body is an unnatural body. It is the product of medical science. It is a technological construction. It is flesh torn apart and sewn together again in a shape other than that in which it was born.”

The trans body is both the site of medical and technological impact, crashing into each other violently to make beautiful results. The Frankenstein-qualities of a body that will need hormones to survive is admirable to me—it’s a powerful announcement of my own autonomy, the desire to live in a world constantly trying to kill me. I cut ties with the old biological demands of my old body for a new one, tailored to fit, in a form from “flesh torn apart.” This cycle began when I had chest reconstruction surgery and my hysterectomy is another symbolic middle-finger to the world. I have the agency to sew this body back together, transform it an optimized, beautiful living being.

When I inject my weekly hormones, I feel euphoria. I feel my body re-organize itself when I complete a dose. It’s an all-consuming experience that demands a concentrated up-keep of syringes, doses, needles, and gauges. To reject what I was given, I reach out for the tools at hand, become my own cyborg, someone who builds out of what’s despised.

From Testo Junkie by Paul B. Preciado:

“I’m not taking testosterone to change myself into a man or as a physical strategy of transsexualism; I take it to foil what society wanted to make of me, so that I can write, fuck, feel a form of pleasure that is post-pornographic, add a molecular prostheses to my low-tech transgender identity composed of dildos, texts, and moving images; I do it to avenge your death.”

Letting myself be used, medically, is an act of freedom. In his introduction to Testo Junkie, Preciado announces an “low-tech transgender identity” in conversation with the death of those he knows and loves. The consequences of dying, either on or off the surgery table, are all the same: the muscles give out and the body finally rests. Preciado and Stryker speak on the dissociation and pain of the trans body better than I ever could—the body isn’t one object, but a collection of “Frankenstein-qualities” and “dildos, texts, and moving images.” It’s an amalgamation of lost pieces sewn back together to make a façade that lasts just long enough, a shelter that endures just enough rough weather to survive. It’s a house, albeit one that crashed from the sky long ago.

Strewn on my bed, with my flesh bending itself back into shape, I couldn’t help but return to the image of bloodied meat. The recovery process is blinding, painful, and full of medication. My mind wandered to Elvira Weishaupt’s monologue in the climatic slaughterhouse scene of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s In a Year of 13 Moons, in which a transgender woman recounts her childhood nostalgia with a friend. The scene is brutal, with vivid, long shots of cows being partially decapitated, their bloody flesh bare as Elvira speaks. Elvira is abused and traumatized by the men in her life after genital confirmation surgery, after which she commits suicide. The film, released in 1978—only one year before Janice Raymond published her hateful The Transexual Empire—explicitly associates the transformation of Elvira’s body with the carnage and violence that comes with production-line slaughterhouses. The transgender body is a site of mutilation and damage—surgeries only leave emotional and physical gashes that cannot heal, according to Fassbinder. The sentiment of the film is not empowering nor approving of transgender people’s autonomy in determining their own biology. It’s a moment of disgust and the re-opening of traumatic wounds by recollecting memories of a past body, one that the speaker cannot cling on to anymore.

The body is easily destroyed. It is also easily rebuilt, as sinews and connecting tissue regrow, the body regenerates itself, waking up again after being dormant. It’s amazingly resilient. A new flesh can spawn from the shrivel and bloodied remains of the last occupant—the meat of the body isn’t a dying thing. It grows and becomes—my scars now are just that now, only scars.

I still don’t know what the proper response is when people ask about the surgery.

It’s just a pinch, I want to tell them. A snap of the wrists. A crack of the skull.

A bullet to the heart. A fist to the eye.

That word, transsexual, hanging heavy and wet on a company’s tongue, because you had the dollar to your name and the will to live. Sticks and stones.

My body is vetting itself down the yellow brick road, hitting all the speed bumps along the way. It’s as good as broken. I like it this way.

Blake Planty loves crawling the web at the witching hour. He has fiction and essays published and forthcoming in Nat Brut, DREGINALD, Heavy Feather Review, Waxwing, The Fanzine, Tenderness Lit, and more. Find him talking about cyborgs and coffee at @_dispossessed on Twitter and online at catboy.club.

[knitsandnursing-blog]

Endometriosis Awareness Month

For as long as I can remember, I have suffered from chronic pelvic pain. Throughout high school and college, I saw countless different OBGYN’s in hopes of gaining some sort of understanding as to what was going on with my body. Why was I always in pelvic pain? How come the pain didn’t subside when my cycle was over? Why did my menstrual cramps make me nauseous? Why didn’t anything I do help ease the pain?

I was constantly told that many women suffer from intense menstrual cramps. That it’s just a part of life as a woman. To “toughen up” and “stop complaining”. I had one doctor say “if you think your menstrual cramps are bad, wait until you’re in labor with contractions”. So I sucked it up. I shut my mouth, I stopped complaining, and I continued living my pain filled life.

That is, until November 2015. I had just graduated college in Monterey and moved south to Ventura, CA. I lived across the street from a hospital, so when it came time to find an OBGYN for my yearly exam, I simply walked across the street. The office I stumbled into, little had I known, was the office of an Endometriosis specialist. I had finally met a doctor who could give me some answers.

I walked into that appointment with so many questions - as I do whenever I see a new doctor. I hoped more than anything that Dr. Ramirez would answer some of my questions - and he did that and more.

I told him all about my medical history. About all of the enlarged ovarian cysts I had had since high school. About the chronic pelvic pain I was constantly in. About the countless doctors I had seen in the past. He asked if I would feel comfortable with him giving me a pelvic ultrasound, and I happily agreed. No other doctor had ever given me one.

What he found was completely shocking to me. Each of my ovaries was covered in little white spots. “What are those?!” I asked. “Ovarian cysts” he replied, and continued explaining polycystic ovary syndrome to me. This syndrome is why I have experienced so many enlarged cysts on my ovaries, and it can be controlled with medicine. I was relieved.

He also saw free fluid throughout my abdomen - what he thought was a sign of Endometriosis. Endometriosis is a disease in which during a woman’s menstrual cycle, part of the endometrial layer (innermost layer) of her uterus escapes out of the uterus into areas such as the fallopian tubes, ovaries, and intestines rather than shedding out. Each month during your menstrual cycle, when your uterus contracts while it sheds, the free-floating pieces of your endometrium (called lesions) also contract. This causes chronic pelvic pain. It is a disease that can only be formally diagnosed through surgery, and is present in 10% of women.

I left Dr. Ramirez’s office in tears. I walked home absolutely terrified of everything I had just learned about myself, as well as relieved that I finally had some answers.  Why had no other doctor performed a pelvic ultrasound on me before? Why did nobody else catch this?

I received my first laparoscopic surgery to treat my endometriosis in May 2016. It was confirmed that I had the disease in Stage III. I had lesions in my abdomen as high up as my lungs. My doctor removed as much of these lesions as he could, sewed me up, and delivered the news to me when I woke.

For three months following the surgery I received Lupron treatment with Adbac therapy - a treatment that essentially shut down my uterus (as in put me through menopause) to avoid an early onset of lesions reoccurring. It was the most wonderful pain-free three months of my life. It was so crazy to wake up everyday and NOT feel pain in my pelvic area - a normal feeling to others that was completely new to me. I was so relieved.

Since coming off of the treatment, my pain has returned but not nearly to the extent that it used to be. I still wake every day with pelvic pain, but a pain that is livable. I will need more surgeries to remove lesions in the future, with a probable hysterectomy before I am 40.

I am sharing my story because March is Endometriosis Awareness month. Up until this point, I have been absolutely terrified to share my story. As a teen and early adult, I was always told by doctors to suck it up and not talk about the pain I was constantly in. I’m sharing my story in hopes that it helps another woman find relief from this disease that is so common in women, but so often overlooked by doctors. Do not stay quiet. Do not toughen up. Find your answers.