How being a Disney freak brought out my inner freak in the bedroom

I love Disney World. I also love sex. But up until recently, my relationship with Disney World and my relationship with sex remained very separate. They had to be, right?

Disney World is for family vacations and children’s imaginations. Sex was naked bodies, sweat, ups and downs, ins and outs — dirty things that can’t be whispered within miles of wholesome Disney World. The Carolyn who roamed Disney in a vintage Epcot Center T-shirt desperately trying get a picture with Lilo and Stitch would never meet the Carolyn desperately trying to remember where she threw her underwear.

But as I began exploring my sexuality a bit, um, deeper, I learned those two Carolyns may have more in common than I thought. Especially the Carolyn who started to venture into the world of sexual dominance and submission. When I was having submissive sex, I was someone else, I was somewhere else. I was physically and mentally exhausted yet refreshed and clear-headed.

I wondered why I was so easily drawn to it. Then it hit me. Fantasy, control, play, exhaustion, freedom, comfort — all of these played a part in the world of dominance-and-submission sex just as much as they played a part in the world of Disney. Being submissive may have been new to me sexually, but I was well-trained in submitting… to a theme park. The Disney freak — the side of me I thought was so innocent — ended up being the side of me that influenced the not-so-innocent freak in the bedroom.

Welcome to Fantasyland

I know I’m in Disney World when I pass through the Disney gates on World Drive in Orlando. The names of highways and streets suddenly get more magical. The buses have ears. I’m surrounded by all things Disney. I make my way to the Magic Kingdom, where I am greeted with the following message that hangs above the entrance: “Here You Leave Today and Enter the World of Yesterday, Tomorrow and Fantasy.”

A good Disney freak knows this quote front and back. It reminds those entering that you have given yourself over. Everything you do for the next day, three days or even 10 days will be controlled by the mouse.

Similarly, when I enter the bedroom of a trusted dom (that is, the dominant person in a sexual relationship), I also lose control. As my leader, he tells me where to sit. He tells me how to sit. He tells me how long to sit. He tells me these things all while playing another important role — the role of my protector. I’ve never felt unsafe losing control with him just as I’ve never felt unsafe losing control in Disney World. It is the job of both Disney World and a dom to take control in a way that still allows you the freedom to explore within the confines of a safe, contained space.

I grew up in a fairly strict household: locked doors, curfews, mandatory “meet the parents first” before a sleepover. But Disney World was the first place my parents allowed me to “let it go” (There had to be at least one Frozen reference). I rode the monorail alone. I explored the parks alone. As long as I had my “key to the kingdom” (now seen in the form of customizable MagicBands), I was free to roam. My parents trusted Disney to keep me safe. The well-thought-out organization of the park gave anxious parents like mine a moment of relief while giving children like me a freedom I knew wouldn’t remain once back home.

During sex, I am able to let myself go the same way my parents let me go years before. It is safe to roam, to go crazy, to enjoy a side of myself that usually remains hidden.

When I play the role of the submissive sexual partner, I transform from my usual buttoned-up, play-by-the-rules self into a child that needs direction. I whine. I pout. I push back. I want to go where I’m not allowed, touch what I’m not allowed to touch. This exploration reminds me of childhood when every moment was an exciting new discovery. When my eyes lit up at new sights and sounds. When I could still be surprised.

A surprise around every corner

Whether it’s a child’s first time or seasoned annual pass-holders, Disney continues to surprise their visitors. On my most recent trip, I was awestruck at the nightly Happily Ever After fireworks over Cinderella’s castle just as much as the little girl experiencing Disney for the first time. Disney had managed to transform this castle I’ve seen a dozen times before into an entirely new viewing experience. My senses perk in pleasure when I’m in Disney World and when I’m in the bedroom — the touch of rope tied around my chest, the sound of unknown movements, the smell of pineapple moments before it is fed to me while blindfolded.

To heighten our senses even more, fans of Disney World and fans of dominance-and-submission sex save these spaces for certain possessions that don’t have a home in the “real world.” Our favorite gear comes out to play the same time we do. Within the confines of the parks, Mickey ears are not only welcomed, they’re normal. I’ve found as a participator of dominance-and-submission sex, I’ve begun a different collection: special outfits dedicated to my nights, toys only permitted for our use. When I’m surrounded by people of the same passion or mindset, I can fully embrace a side of myself that may be judged negatively outside the kingdom.

Both Disney freaks and freaks in the bedroom have to be careful about who they reveal their passions to. Not everyone understands why we want to go on vacation or have sex where there is an unspoken demand to “be good.” Why would someone want sex with rules and limitations? A vacation where the lines are long? Dominance-and-submission sex is by my no means easy sex, just as Disney World is by no means an easy vacation.

Anyone who’s taken a trip to Disney World with the FastPass knows your limits will be pushed and your days will be planned to the minute. Your Disney Dining plan dictates where and when you’ll be eating. Your FastPasses tell you where and when you’ll be riding. We don’t understand how people take carefree, go-with-the-flow trips to Disney. How can you go with the flow when there is so much to do and explore? We relish in the painstaking detail because in the end, we know we will be rewarded.

Disney understands that while it is your vacation, it’s not always R&R. Adjustments have to be made in order for you to remain comfortable — whether it’s the park always placing trash cans within 30 feet of each other, the detailed interactive line queues that make passing the time before your favorite ride less painful or the out-of-this-world fireworks displays that end of a tired day.

Comfort has to be considered in the bedroom too — the long oiled massages soothe your skin after spanking, the cold grapes after hot oral sex, the release of a well-deserved orgasm after a long, tortured wait. You may leave exhausted, but you’ll never leave disappointed.

Dominance-and-submissive sex has taught me sex is so much more than a penis inside a vagina, more than an orgasm and more than a story to tell your friends. Sex is letting go of the person I have to be and becoming the person I want to be. It is my job to provide spaces for that person to come out and play. To fantasize. To be a freak. Whether it’s letting go of everything “normal” for five days and four nights at a park or three hours in the bedroom, those moments provide the self-nourishment I need and will indeed return to for inspiration — with or without the mouse ears.

This article originally appeared on SheKnows

Resolutions for a new year

I previously mentioned how one of my inspirations for My Sex Project was Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project. Throughout her project, Gretchen used each month to focus on one theme. For example, January was Boost Energy, February, Remember Love.

Within that, she chose resolutions to keep which would support each month’s theme: Go to sleep earlier, exercise better, quit nagging, fight right. Sometimes these resolutions were big like March’s Enjoy the fun of failure and sometimes they were small like April’s Sing in the mornings. I liked this idea and thought of creating my own sex resolutions. So one night, a few months ago, I tried to figure out what those might be.

I sat on my couch and thought hard. What am I missing from my sex life? I drank a cup of mango juice and thought harder. What do I need to work on in my sex life? I reheated my Indian leftovers. What do I want more of? I reheated the rest of the naan. What do I want less of? I took a shit. I remembered my friend telling me about some sexy movie I needed to watch. I texted him asking for the name. “Hitchcock’s North by Northwest” he said. “It’s crazy hot.”

I found the movie and shelled out the $3 hoping for inspiration. Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint certainly oozed a special kind of chemistry:

Eve: How do I know you aren't a murderer?
Roger: You don't.
Eve: Maybe you're planning to murder me right here tonight?
Roger: Shall I?
Eve: Please do.

Crazy hot, yes, but now I was just crazy horny.  My mission for the night moved further into the distance as my focus went towards Who can I sext? As I searched my phone, Amazon Prime snuck up on me and started playing another sexy movie - Disobedience. Well, after that, I couldn’t come up with a single, manageable resolution that didn’t involve either foreign spies or Orthodox Jews. This was going nowhere.

I’ve been pretty good about questioning my likes and dislikes with sex and generally ‘keeping in touch’ with my body so I was frustrated with my inability to come up with clear, simple resolutions. Frustrated but not surprised. I’ve never been someone who could quickly and easily list off defining qualities about myself. My heroes, my mottos, my goals, I mean, even my favorite music. Like my sexuality, music is such an important part of my life and yet when someone asks me what I like listening to, I get exhausted thinking about a response. I open Spotify and show them my latest, varied playlist. “Here. This.”

During these moments I think of Ann from cycle 3 of America’s Next Top Model. Random reference, I know but at Ann’s elimination, the judges grilled her on basic simple ‘things’, desperate to discover what inspired her.

Judges: Who’s your favorite actress?
Ann: I don’t have one.
Judges: Who’s your favorite singer?
Ann: I just listen to all types.
Tyra: Maybe that’s the problem. Because you’re not pulling from inspiration.

Dammit Ann! Gwyneth Paltrow, Celine Dion...say anyone! Despite the ridiculousness of the judges’ exercise, I sympathized with her. There was something inside Ann that she didn’t yet know how to express or where it came from or what it even meant and ultimately that got her eliminated. Well that and competitor turned Housewife, Eva Pigford’s ability to bring in higher ratings. But basically, You don’t know yourself well enough. Bye bye. Pack your bags.

Now that it was a new year (and not just a random Tuesday), I thought maybe I should try again. Would the beginning of 2019 make thinking of resolutions an easier process?

Hours and two seasons deep into FX’s The Americans later...nope. Thinking of sexual resolutions was kinda impossible when 1) Philip and Elizabeth Jennings kept murdering people and 2) I had no idea what my sexual future looked like. It’s hard to define ‘resolutions’ I want for my sex life when each experience is going to prove itself to be completely unique from the next. Consider my various distractions: The sultry, almost disturbing dialogue of North by Northwest. The forbidden nature of the lovemaking in Disobedience. The deep connection shared by Elizabeth and Philip in their long ‘What did we just do?’ stares. Each moment sexy to me for their own very sexy, very unique reason. I can’t force the feelings, the smells, the tastes that will surround the moment right then and there. A promise to Talk dirty or Stare intensely into my partner’s eyes is pointless when I just don’t know. I can’t force it. Perhaps not a ‘sex resolution’, but a way of life, is to keep discovering, keep learning, keep becoming the most me I can be based on what I am given.

I thought about what Tyra said regarding Ann’s treatment of modeling: “I don’t think she thinks it’s about hard work. I don’t think she thinks it has anything to do with any type of research.” Well here I am. This is my research. Happy new year.

You're doing this to yourself

I took my dog, Remy, outside to pee. He was giving me the ‘I gotta pee’ signal of an intense stare. But when we got outside, Remy realized it was raining and suddenly his urge to pee vanished.

“Come on, baby.” I said. I pulled him to the curb expecting him to immediately hunker down and piss (which is what he usually does in inclement weather). Instead, Remy started pacing back and forth up the sidewalk growing more frustrated with each rain drop that fell on him. He was annoyed, shaking the wet off of him every three seconds. Yet, despite his growing frustration, he refused to pee.

“What the hell, Remy!” I said, getting soaked myself. “You’re doing this to yourself!” As soon as I said those words, I felt my metaphorical foot go directly in my mouth.

You see, the night before I had a date of sorts. I thought I had wanted this ‘date.’ I thought it was my duty to give the traditional back and forth of getting to know someone ‘the ole fashioned way’ over drinks another try. But as soon as I caught myself repeating the same six anecdotes, the same stories I’ve decided make me ‘interesting’, I wanted to jab the perfectly chipped ice cubes of my overpriced cocktail straight into my eyes. I 100% did this to myself. Who cares where I went to college and what my favorite movie is and what’s currently playing on my Spotify? Each date I put myself through was another confirmation that those things don’t matter to me…at first.

What I want to know about someone, above all else, is: Are we physically compatible? What’s the point of comparing our Discover Weeklys or our tastes in film if we don’t know our tastes for each other?

If our bodies don’t fit together nicely, if our tongues don’t understand each other, if my hands can’t find a place to touch, I rather stop right there. But if all those things are working and feel good and feel natural THEN let’s do all the mundane, routine bullshit of getting to know each other. Dating is so much easier once I have a grip on our physical connection. Their stories seem more exciting, MY stories seem less idiotic. If a connection is nonexistent, what a gigantic waste of time! It’s no ones fault, it just is. Having a similar taste in music won’t change that.

So there I was, like my dog, in a situation I knew how to fix but didn’t. One of use uncomfortably pacing in the rain waiting for the sweet release of an empty bladder, the other uncomfortably sitting at a bar waiting for a tongue in their mouth. Despite everything I know about myself, I’m certain I’ll find myself in another date down the line. But instead of starting the night with ‘Shall we get a drink?’, I think I’ll opt for ‘Shall we see if there’s an attraction?’

Kinky thoughts of a college Carolyn

Something I look forward to with My Sex Project is looking back years from now and cringing with delight at the thoughts and musings of a 33-year old Carolyn on her sexual journey. Much like I did when I read this rambling I wrote as a 20-year old Carolyn during her sophomore year of college.

I found this writing on an old hard drive and couldn’t believe it was written almost exactly 13 years ago to the day on November 17th, 2005. Here was a Carolyn doing exactly what she’s doing now: trying to figure this shit out. I knew I had a lot to learn then. I know I have a lot to learn now. Crazy how much we change while never really changing at all.

This was awkward as hell to read for me (It will be for you too). I feel embarrassed for the Carolyn who thought she was having super kinky sex when really she was only having…sex. But I am happy for this Carolyn. She was finally doing IT after years of thinking about IT before she knew what IT was. You can’t get that high back no matter how good IT gets down the line.

So please enjoy this, if you will, ‘vintage’ My Sex Project entry.

—-

November 17th, 2005

I need to get something off my chest. I swear I am not trying to be Christina Ricci from Prozac Nation and I swear I’m not doing this to feel indie, artsy, or cooler than I already am. That’s what my livejournal and myspace are for. I just think having my insane thoughts down in writing is better than in my head.

SEX!

I did it. I wrote it out and now I am going to talk about it. It always amazed and intrigued me even before I even experienced it. I would read my mom’s REDBOOK magazine and skip to the articles about sex tips. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made me feel racy. I’d sit in my basement and find an erotic novel. The ones with the big, muscular men on the cover. The ladies with flowing hair and some royal looking dress properly placed over all the “bad” body parts. They usually took place on some random island or a ship. I’d thumb through the pages until I found the ones with the sex scenes. I had to be no more than 12. Most likely younger.

Back in 7th grade my friend Connie told me redheads and Scorpios are supposed to be good in bed. I am both of these qualities. I don’t find myself to be good in bed though. I am still a trainee when it comes to the tricks of sex. I don’t know what else to do but lay there and I am too scared to try something else. But though I may not be the ultimate sex goddess, I do think my redhead Scorpio traits have made me obsessed with sex. I called it back in my senior year of high school. I said to my friends, I think when I finally have sex, I am going to want it all the time.

My first time was weird as was expected. I didn’t know it was coming. I wasn’t in love. I had no idea what to do. I don’t regret it all which I am thankful for, but it definitely did not fill me with the sexual energy and desire I have now.

One night while me and D* were a little drunk we stumbled upon an apartment. We were promised that in this apartment would be bowls and blunts galore. Like sneaky little stoners we crept ourselves into this apartment and sat with anticipation. There he was. Willy Wonka. Our provider of the green goddess was someone who had a great likeness to Willy Wonka. Blue eyes. Crazy hair. I died a little inside. Weed and Willy Wonka. The two loves of my life.

I confessed to him I had a thing for Gene Wilder and he looked like him. He didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or be offended. D reassured him it was a good thing. I clung on to his every word. “Do you want to see my cat do tricks?” My heavy, high head slowly nodded yes.

After we were blazed out of our minds we went the apartment next door. D was ferociously getting hit on by some drunk kid while me and Willy Wonka sat on a couch. We watched the attempts of this kid and laughed. The Candy Man leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Your friend is occupied. I’m going back to my place. You’re obviously invited.” And he was gone. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I was overcome with excitement and fright at returning to his apartment alone.

D calmed me down and said we’ll all go back together. So me, D, and drunk kid returned. A slight disappointment ran through me when his place was filled with people. We sat down and let ourselves become absorbed in our high. I had never wanted someone so bad in my life then at that very moment. So I tried to make it happen.

I did my girl thing and crept off to the bathroom. In the bathroom I didn’t pee or wash my hands or anything. I just stared at myself in the mirror freaking out thinking I need to make out with this guy. I prayed and wished and hoped that when I opened that door he would be there with the same idea in mind. I prepped myself and swung the door open. The darkness of the room overwhelmed me and I couldn’t see. He wasn’t there. I mouthed “fuck.” I took a step out and when my eyes fully readjusted to the darkness there was Wonka’s figure sitting on a couch in front of me. Again I died inside.

My giddy self sat down next to him. We exchanged words. Words I cannot remember. I do remember saying I had to make out with him. It finally happened. We made out and to this day it was the best makeout session of my life. My hair was in pig tails a choice of hairstyle I will never regret. He clung on to them and pulled me closer. I thought to myself, wow. Here’s a masturbatory fantasy I will never forget**. We exchanged numbers before I left then I sadly returned to my lonely dorm room.

That is the beginning of the end.

He crept into my thoughts all the time. When we met up again a week later I gave myself to him. I gave myself to him again before I left for Disney World. And then again. And then a little after that, again.

He’s a drug. Over the summer he would call me and leave voice mails. “Hey girrrrrrrrrl….” The whole situation was and is quite shady. I go there. We get high. I watch him and his friends play video games. They drop off one by one. We get busy. I leave. Rinse and repeat.

Every time on my drive home I say, that was the last time. This can’t be good for me. But then a week later I’d be sitting on the same couch, watching the same video games, thinking the same things on my drive home. I have never had that much action in my life. It got to the point where it was at least once a week. Amateur, yes, but that is a lot in my life. This is when the addiction set in. I needed it. I craved it. I got excited whenever it began. He skillfully led me into his bedroom and pulled off my skirt. He played with my breasts before even taking the shirt off so that when he finally did, my chest was filled with goosebumps. When he removed my shirt he brought my arms with him, pinning them down when the shirt was off. I had nowhere to go but there was nowhere else I wanted to go. This man was filled with skills and tricks up his sleeve.

Unfortunately I have never came with him. I have come close to it but never experienced the spasms of a full-fledged orgasm. This is not to say it was unenjoyable. Far from it. I still was naked with him and he still made my hands and feet go tingly.  

—-

I laughed so hard when I read that last paragraph. This amateur, erotic tale finalized by the harsh reality that this dude did not have my interests in mind and I was having Charlie horses instead of orgasms.

It’s obviously not the sex that sticks out for me about my time with Wonka. What was so sexy for me was the fact that it wasn’t some long drawn out, ‘Will they, won’t they?’ nonsense. I wanted something and I got it. My inner Veruca Salt who wants it now, who insists on pink macaroons and performing baboons, who deep down lives in all of us, was slowly but surely finding her voice.

—-

* one of my roommates
** I don’t still use this fantasy

Embracing myself (not like that)

I have this book The Erotic Impulse: Honoring the Sensual Self. I bought it in Denver when I was there for a comedy festival. I was perusing the store with other comedians who I had just met moments before. We all got a crash course in each other’s personalities as we brought our chosen books to the counter. I blushed as I put the aforementioned Erotic Impulse on the counter.

Since I’ve been trying to replace my bedtime ritual of falling asleep to my iPad blaring Netflix nonsense to the more reasonable ritual of reading, I keep Erotic Impulse at my bedside and sometimes peruse before it I go to sleep.

The book includes essays and stories and poems written by various authors, some recognizable to me, some not. The book is not porn. It doesn’t turn me on like that but it does stimulate me. Each story/essay/poem offers something completely different but all with the intent of “opening the gates to a richer, more satisfying erotic life” for the reader. I find myself nodding along and relating to certain passages. And then are those passages that I don’t relate to: stories of coming out, poems and essays too complex for me, effects of the AIDS crisis.

There used to be a time I might skip those readings that I didn’t relate to. If something was too far removed from my world, I’d flip ahead and find something more relatable. A tactic I regrettably used in life too. What a dumb and terrible way to live that I’ve fortunately worked hard to break. I have no interest anymore in contributing to a close-minded way of thinking. I’ve seen the results. We’ve felt the results.

It’s become more and more easy to curate one’s life to your exact needs and surround yourself with only the pretty things you want to see. It makes starting a blog about my possibly mundane, dumb, scary, sexy thoughts on sexuality feel like a waste of time. Does anyone care about the opinions of some random white girl in her thirties who loves sex? Women love sex, have been loving sex. People love sex. I am, let’s face it, a nobody. Do I deserve to be taken seriously? Given a chance? What can I bring to the table?

(As I write this, two barely twenty-somethings sit next to me at Jack’s Coffee in the West Village. I’m tempted to ask them if they would give a shit about what some 33-year-old, non-sexpert, comedian had to say about sex. They keep saying words like ‘seminar’ and ‘homework’. They’re gonna be so much more successful than me.)

My stand-up act is very sex heavy. My experiences are interwoven throughout jokes, designed to be ‘funny’, certain words chosen over others. Yes, I am honest but do people believe me? Is this shit important? My jokes are inspired by very real moments and thoughts and feelings but they are being told on comedy shows where it’s reasonable to question the validity of what someone is saying. Something inside me keeps tricking me into thinking I have to prove that sexuality really is important to me and not just some attempt to be shocking. It’s why when people come up to me after sets and ask ‘Did that really happen?’, ‘Was that real?’ and I can confidently say ‘Yes!’, I get very happy. That moment when I say ‘yes’ is a reward for me. Once people realize I’m telling the truth, not only do they trust me, but they want to hear more. We talk. We share. It’s a reminder that my possibly mundane, dumb, scary, sexy sex life, your sex life, everyone’s sex life is important.

Of course I hope readers nod along in agreement to future entries but an even bigger hope for the blog is that my intent to discover a more satisfying, educated, well-rounded erotic life shines though. Embracing what I do know, embracing what you know. This is not an act.

It's my birthday

Today is my 33rd birthday and the start of My Sex Project. My Sex Project, while, yes, a new project, is ultimately the continuation of what will (hopefully) be my lifelong project of sexually peaking.

If you don’t know me, over the past three years I’ve talked a lot about my sexually peaking journey. Every tweet a new insight into my horniness. I talked about the confusing early stages, the experimental stages, the threesome stages! But a story I’ve never shared dates back to the weekend it all began. The weekend of my 30th birthday.

Three years ago I celebrated my 30th birthday in New Orleans. It was one of many places I always wanted to go and seemed an appropriate place to start my ‘Dirty Thirties.’ I believed that once I was thirty, I would seamlessly transition into the role of confident, sexually awakened woman. An understudy no more. I imagined coming home from New Orleans and immediately writing the next bestseller: Eat, Pray, Fuck.

Now usually when I travel alone, there’s an initial moment of panic. Why didn’t I ask a friend to join me? Do I even have friends? Am I the absolute biggest loser ever? Not this time. There wasn’t a single person I thought worthy enough to share this journey with me. It was my way or the highway. Move bitch, get out the way. Looking back, it’s truly amazing how confident one is the first 12 hours of turning 30. Well, I arrived in New Orleans the afternoon of my birthday absolutely glowing! Not from confidence rather unexpected heat and plane grease. So far 30 was looking and feeling hot.

I showered and headed to Bourbon Street. I heard honky tonk-like music coming from a bar called the Cat’s Meow. I’m sure in my head I thought something like ‘Cat’s Meow? Wait till they see my pussy.’ Seriously, the confidence. I got a margarita and purposely sat at an empty table. My first challenge as a sexually peaking woman: Let them come to you. Two songs later and after I had politely sacrificed the stools around me to butts in need, my second challenge as a sexually peaking woman came to light: Keep moving.

I walked into the outside patio of a bar playing jazz. Jazz. New Orleans’ bread and butter. This felt right. I took a seat at the bar next to a group of attractive dudes and flashed my toothiest Julia Roberts smile. I flipped my ponytail and let my pheromones loose. At this, one of the guys introduced himself. He and his friends were in town celebrating a bachelor party. I mentally patted myself on the back. The pending orgy was going to make a great chapter in Eat, Pray, Fuck. I asked what their plans were. Strip club? Dancing? Hotel party? Naked swamp tour? His answer was even hotter. He was going back to the hotel to check on his wife and kid. Turns out the only bachelor at the bachelor party was the man of honor himself. I contemplated reactivating my Tinder account for the weekend.

I kept walking and found a bar called 21st Amendment. The music being played reminded me of Boardwalk Empire and if there’s one thing you should know about me it’s that prohibition era music gets me wet. I took a seat and watched the musicians. I don’t know why but I had my eye on the dead-eyed, bass player. He reminded me of Judd Apatow even though I had no idea what Judd Apatow looked like. But when the musicians took their break, it wasn’t he who sat next to me, it was the saxophone player. The saxophone player (whom I’ll refer to as Sam), bought me whiskey and thought I was funny. Plus, as a seasoned local, I could tell he enjoyed talking to a first-time visitor. I stayed for the rest of his set.

Sam and I strolled around the French Quarter. I giggled as strangers pinned dollar bills on my jacket for my birthday. Traveling to New Orleans on your birthday is worth it for this tradition alone. All the attention and free money had me very excited. I felt myself peaking.

The night kept on and somewhere between Canal Street and my hotel, Sam stopped to kiss me. I felt my confidence battery recharging. I was almost at 90% when he pulled away and calmly broke the following news to me: Sam wanted to give me the best head of my life. He said it so matter of factly that it took me a moment to register. When the words hit me again I froze. The newly confident Carolyn suddenly felt very nervous and even more unprepared. I felt my prowess shrink and battery drain as I politely declined. We exchanged numbers and I left. I spent the rest of the night watching My Kid Would Never Do That while eating delicious hotel peanut butter and jelly sandwiches under the covers. I decided this was the ‘Eat’ portion of my book.

Despite the early hiccup, I continued to have a great time in New Orleans. I went to so many bars, and a music festival, and a Peaches concert! I made friends with people I still cherish today and I even went on a ferris wheel! But my lack of dirty deeds had me questioning my new role of sexually awakened woman. Sure, I got dinner at 1am with Peaches’ backup vagina dancers but my vagina wanted to be the star!

I spent my last day at the World War II museum. Somehow in three days I skipped my ‘Dirty Thirties’ and went straight to ‘Obsessed with War Late-Fourties.’

I sobered up with propaganda and exhibits on the use of cooking grease for explosives (Neat!). I had to do something before the bomb ticking inside me exploded, or worse, never went off. I decided to give Sam (and myself) a second chance.

I found him at one of his gigs back on Bourbon. We got dinner and drinks and swapped condensed versions of our hopes and dreams. I said nothing of his previous night’s request to give me the best head of my life as he gave me an impromptu ghost tour. It wasn’t until we moseyed away from the Lalaurie Mansion and toward my hotel that I could sense his offer about to make a comeback.

We made it back in time for the free peanut butter and jelly and hot chocolate. We sat in the lobby and enjoyed our free treats while the prospect of another ‘treat’ lingered in the air. I reminded Sam about my early flight the next day to which he responded with some cliche about ‘ships passing in the night’. But then, for the second time during my four days in New Orleans, Sam asked permission for the chance to give me the best head of my life. I knew it was coming and yet I froze again. There I was, my one half a grown woman trying to embrace her sexuality, the other half nervously eating a PB&J. I didn’t feel threatened or think he was trying to take advantage of me so why was I so nervous?

I may not have realized it then but the thing that freaked me out was his honesty, albeit a bit conceited. Sam was very clear and upfront in what he wanted from me. Scratch that, what he wanted to do to me. Up until then, my sexual experiences were never so decided. Logistics weren’t really discussed, they just happened. I also wasn’t used to someone completely setting aside their own satisfaction. Was I really being offered the chance to just ‘get mine’?

In the popular book, The Ethical Slut, the authors remind those in open sexual lifestyles that, “The important thing is to be aware of your needs and wants so you can go about getting them met with full consciousness. If you pretend that you have no needs for sex, affection, or emotional support, you are lying to yourself, and you will wind up trying to get your needs met by indirect methods that won’t work very well.” The more I continue to familiarize myself with this type of honesty, the louder it rings true. Being honest has been an extremely important revelation in owning my sexuality. I’ve learned way more about myself by pinpointing and expressing my exact sexual needs than just by ‘getting laid.’ Not only that, being upfront has provided me a whole new way of approaching casual sex, an act I naively thought of as more bad than good. Casual sex doesn’t have to sloppy, it doesn’t have to be rushed, hell, it doesn’t even have to be the standard definition of sex. Just because you may not ever see that person again doesn’t mean the moment should be void of your truest self.

Now, did I go through with it? Was it the best? Are saxophone players as good with their mouths as they claim? Were the free PB&J’s at Le Pavillon really that good?! Hm, I think I’ll plead the peanut butter fifth and keep my mouth stuck shut. After all, this is only the first entry of many and it’s my birthday. Stay tuned.

What is My Sex Project?

What?
My Sex Project is my attempt to explore and write about sex as much as I can during my 33rd year of life. Some entries may be very honest essays, some entries may be very silly lists, and most will probably be somewhere in between.

Every week I’ll find new ways to shape and sharpen my sexuality through books, events, experiences, conversations, toys, videos, people, questions and (fingers-crossed) sex.

What happens at 34? Well, hopefully a book deal. But if not, at least a better understanding of myself, my sexual interests, and an entire year’s worth of salacious stories and humorous advice. Or humorous stories and salacious advice. I’ll let you decide.

 Who?
Me. Hi. I’m Carolyn. You may know me from being a comedian or (the more likely scenario) you don’t know me at all. I like doing jokes about sex. I like making my web series about sex. I also love mangoes and Disney World and would be happy to relate them to sex if you’d like.

Where?
Here, there, everywhere! I am based in Brooklyn, NY but I think about, write about and ‘do’ sex all over! The human body is a wonderful, travel-friendly thing.

When?
My Sex Project will officially begin on my 33rd birthday, October 29th, 2018. In The Happiness Project (more to come about that later) Gretchen Rubin uses milestone moments as ‘cues for evaluation and reflection’ that ‘often act[s] as a catalyst for positive change’. My 33rd birthday isn’t necessarily a major birthday but why wait?

Also, fun fact, Sarah Jessica Parker was 33 at the start of Sex and the City.

Why?
Three reasons (for now):

1) For someone who is obsessed with the intricacies and weirdness surround sex as much as I am, I could benefit from knowing more about my favorite subject. I’ve accepted I’m not going back to school for some degree in psychology, or sex therapy, or bone doctor (spoiler alert: I’m kinda lazy), but attempting to become some sort of unofficial sex expert through my own research, reading and writing gets me very excited.

2) After finding it on the street, (which is sadly how I acquire most of my books) I read Gretchen Rubin’s above-mentioned The Happiness Project. I wasn’t concerned about my levels of happiness but I was inspired by her commitment to the project and the detailed record-keeping of her journey. It made me want to give myself a challenge of my own. I’ve learned over the years, I flounder without deadlines or routine. But blogging weekly for a year, that I can (hopefully) do!

3) And lastly, I’m grateful that for the past few years I’ve become comfortable exploring my sexuality in the bedroom and on stage. But something about writing about sex in this way, on this platform, scares me. It seems much more real than the condensed, heightened stories I tell on stage.

It’s why I love this quote from from American photographer Nan Goldin: Sex isn’t about performance; it’s about a certain kind of communication founded on trust and exposure and vulnerability that can’t be expressed any other way. This is my attempt to push past that fear. Trust that my honesty will be entertaining (and educational!), expose myself in a different way and embrace my vulnerability for those who are unable to express themselves sexually in a way they want and deserve.

And hey, if none of that appeals to you, just laugh.

Nature is calling, gentlemen

Dear men,

This past weekend I celebrated Father’s Day by performing comedy on stage with my dad.

I watched as he put himself out there on my behalf. How he came the closest he’s ever been to actually putting himself in my shoes. I felt a seismic shift in my universe. A weight lifted off my shoulders.

I wish more of you would continue to surprise me in the way that dad did. Not necessarily performing comedy on stage with your daughters but seeing your daughters. Hearing the women in your lives who are your friends, your colleagues, strangers you pass on the street. This out of character moment from my serious, stoic father was proof that you have it in you.

Over the last two months, I’ve been overtly and aggressively told by strangers of your kind how gorgeous and beautiful I am. I've received unwanted messages telling me about the size of one’s dick.  I've been asked if I 'take care of those legs’ myself'. I've heard 'Oh, I like you.' as I cross the street. And then when I didn't respond or told them to stop, I’ve been met back with an all-too-familiar attitude. ‘Oh, you can't just say thank you?' As if they warrant my thanks. As if I should be grateful. As if I needed your validation.

I’m constantly questioning when it is ok to speak up. When it is considered ‘right’. I sat on a bus back to New York and allowed the man sitting next to me to keep his elbows just a bit too much on my side of the armrest. I could feel the heat of his skin and I hated it. “Relax, Carolyn. You’re being crazy.” I told myself. I didn’t ask him to move and remained uncomfortable.

Back in March in Arizona, after returning from sessions at the Southwest Love Fest, I walked to my Lyft driver waiting for me outside. I noticed he was standing outside his car door and wondered if I was truly seeing what I was seeing. I got in the back seat and looked again. Yes, he was pissing outside the car. I didn’t know what to do as he took his seat up front. “Sorry, nature called, ma'am.” he said. Hours earlier I sat in awe listening to Susan Wright, one of the directors of the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom, speak on the importance of consent. Speak on giving yourself the confidence to remove yourself from uncomfortable situations and yet I sat frozen. I could not find the words. I let him take me to my destination and screamed at myself in my head for not immediately telling him to fuck off or refuse the ride.

The elbow moment was small, the Lyft driver moment was bigger. Was I in harm's way? Probably not. But it was another moment of a man 'doing as he pleased'. ‘Nature’ calling. What would be the next, bigger moment where I couldn’t stick up for myself?

It’s good to remind myself that there is no ‘right’ moment to speak up. There is only how I feel and that should be enough. My dad is not guilty of actions like the above, nor is he of that mindset. But up until recently I had settled with the fact that my father is who he is. You can’t change a man just like you can’t change nature, right? But as we see everyday, nature adapts and nature blends. It survives by stretching necks and changing colors. Take a look around, my little finches. It’s time for you to change.