According to Wikipedia, “packing refers to the wearing of padding or a phallic object in the front of a person’s pants or underwear, to give the appearance of having male genitals. Packing is commonly practiced by trans men, and people who cross-dress as male may also ‘pack’ to do drag king performances.”

Well, that’s all very well and good (and correct), but Wikipedia (and various other online sources, not to mention many people in the real world) seem unaware of the fact that trans men and cross-dressers are not the only ones who pack. How do I know this? Well, simply because I am one of the non-trans, non-cross-dressing ones. Packing is something that has fascinated me (and, let’s face it, turned me on) for most of my sexual life.

Right off the bat, I would like to say that in writing this article I am trying desperately not to step on any toes. I know that packing is a huge aspect of life for many trans men, especially those who are pre-op or non-op, and I appreciate that. I don’t ever want to make it seem as though those of us who practice packing as a fetish are trying to co-opt a major part of life as a trans man. It’s just that I’ve discovered there is very little information out there for those of us who do it just because we think it’s hot. And there’s next to nothing out there in terms of personal experiences.

That’s where this article comes in (or at least, I hope it will!)

One of my earliest (sexual) memories is pilfering the Sears catalogue at the age of eight or so, to hole up in my room and pore over the pictures of well-built men in tight-fitting briefs. I was totally fascinated by the sight of those bulges, and wondered what one would feel like. Let’s just lay it out on the table here, folks: The pictures made me horny. Of course, I had no idea what that meant at the time, or even what I could call the feelings I was having while I looked at those pictures – but that’s the only way to describe it. Those pictures provided fodder for my early masturbation sessions. Yes, eight might be a tad early, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, you know?

A few years later, I had moved on to actual porn, and was well versed in what a naked man looked like. While I found the sight arousing, to be perfectly honest, I was never quite as aroused by a fully naked man as I was by a man sporting a good bulge in a pair of briefs. I still wondered what that would feel like, and I soon discovered that I didn’t necessarily need a man around in order to find out.

And so began my initial forays into the art of (rudimentary) packing.

At that stage in my life, I obviously had limited resources to work with. After all, I was only a teenager, and even if I’d had access to the Internet at that point, I wasn’t old enough to order any kind of genuine packing device. So I used what was handy.

The first time I slipped a small bundle of rolled-up socks into the crotch of my panties, I was totally, 100% hooked. I gazed at myself in my full-length mirror and was unbelievably turned on by what I saw. Fondling my “bulge”, I became aroused in a way I had never experienced before. It was me in the mirror, only better. I practiced adjusting my bulge, trying to get it just right, admiring myself from every angle. I experimented with different sizes, went hard some days and soft on others, but no matter the variations, it always ended the same way – with me lying on my back playing with myself until I brought myself to an intense, body-shaking orgasm.

Let’s fast-forward a bit now (because, while I could wax eloquent about my teenage adventures in packing for days, I doubt you all have the desire to read through it all!) When I became a legal adult, I decided that rolled-up socks just were not going to do the trick anymore, so I turned to the Internet for help in trying to find a more realistic alternative. That’s when I discovered that, hey, I wasn’t the only female-bodied person out in the world looking for a cock to call my own.

But here’s the downside to finding out that there are, indeed, other packing enthusiasts out there: I still feel like an outsider, because the vast majority of what I find about packing (even online) caters to trans men and cross-dressers. I don’t fit into either of these groups and don’t particularly want to. (No offense intended whatsoever!) I am a cisgendered woman. I damn well love my cunt (we’re BFFs!) and wouldn’t want to give it up for anything in the world. I identify as female, and am perfectly comfortable in the body with which I was born.

I just happen to like owning my own cock.

There are very, very few people who know about my fetish. No one in my real life knows; I’ve never told a sex partner, and I’ve definitely never told family members or friends. And even in situations where I have told people online, (in chat rooms and such) the response has always been to assume that I’m trans, or a drag king. I understand why people make those assumptions, I suppose, but it’s still sort of minimizing to know that my fetish is not recognized as having the potential to simply be a fetish. My packing, after all, does not serve any “practical” purpose.

No, my turn-on is simply the idea of having my own secret hiding between my legs. I’m not doing it to get anyone hot but myself. I don’t feel as though I “belong” in any one group that practices packing. I just fucking love to pack, period. I love the feeling, I love walking around with this warm weight between my legs that is foreign and familiar to me at the same time. And when I get home after being out in public all day with “my little secret”, I can hardly wait to strip down so I can fondle and squeeze and stroke my dick until I’m rewarded with what I know will be a mind-blowing orgasm.

Is that so hard to understand?

image from Kayla

Like nearly every other woman on the planet, I have heard just about every rape prevention strategy out there. I’ve heard them everywhere, from everyone. Things that are aimed at reducing the probability that a woman will be the victim of a sexual assault. Frankly, I always thought they made perfect sense; the ideas suggested were, to me, things that every woman should do (or avoid doing) regardless. Don’t walk alone at night; keep your doors locked when you are home alone; take self-defense classes whenever possible. What’s wrong with any of those suggestions? To me, the answer was always: absolutely nothing.

Then I was grabbed in a parking lot, held captive for a week, and repeatedly sexually assaulted. None of the things I had ever done to try and protect myself from that very scenario were of any use to me at that time, in that moment, during those days. I had done everything I possibly could to prevent myself from becoming a victim – and nothing had worked. One would think that now, my faith in rape prevention tips would be destroyed.

Here’s the thing, though: if one thought that, one would be totally wrong.

Let me tell you a story. When I was in college, I lived in a co-ed dorm, but on an exclusively female floor. A friend of mine lived down the hall and had a habit of never locking her door when she went to bed. One night, she awoke in the middle of the night and was absolutely horrified to find a man standing over her bed. Luckily, her scream scared him off before he had the chance to do anything. (And god knows I don’t even want to imagine what he could have done if she hadn’t woken up.) But I will freely admit that after it happened, after I had made sure she was okay, the first thing I said to her was, “Now will you please keep your door locked at night from now on?!”

If something had happened to her that night (god forbid), it wouldn’t have been her fault (because after all, it is up to the potential attacker to control his own behaviour) but I couldn’t (and can’t) help believing that had she locked her door in the first place, she would have removed the possibility of him getting into her room in the first place.

I can understand where the backlash against victim-blaming comes from. When you have been sexually assaulted, the last thing you want to have planted in your mind is the idea that you are, somehow, responsible for what happened to you – or, at the very least, responsible for ensuring that it didn’t happen to you. I’ve been there. I’ve been in the position of being asked, over and over, “Well, did you fight back? Did you scream? Why didn’t you try to get away sooner?” And I didn’t fight back, and I didn’t scream, because I was trying to survive to get away. I didn’t try to get away sooner because I was biding my time and trying to ensure that when I did try to escape, I would succeed, instead of being caught and perhaps losing my life in the very act of trying to preserve it.

But even with what happened to me, I still believe that potentially preventative measures are important, because I honestly don’t see them as a form of victim-blaming. No, it is not, nor has it ever been, a woman’s responsibility to keep from getting raped. It is always the rapist’s responsibility, without exception. And in an ideal society, women would have no need for rape prevention tips, because men would never rape.

Unfortunately, we don’t live in an ideal society.

As nice as it would be for the concept of rape to be completely abolished from our worldview, that has not happened yet. And I fear that it would be rather unrealistic for us to expect it to ever do so. The world is an ugly place in some respects, and rape is one of the ugliest. Yes, the view of rape should most definitely move from “don’t get raped” to “don’t rape”, but as of right now – in the year 2011 – that doesn’t seem to be doing the job. At least, not to the extent we would like. So in my opinion, we as women owe it to ourselves to try and protect ourselves to the best of our abilities. At the very least, it can give us some sense of having control over our bodies. And if (again, god forbid) we do everything we can, and we still become the victims of rape, that in no way means that we are to blame for what has happened. Because that’s something I’ve learned in my own experience – you can do everything you think is possible to protect yourself and still fall victim, but that doesn’t mean you’ve failed in any way.

Learning rape prevention techniques helped me, first and foremost, to keep my head about me when I was in the most terrifying scenario of my life. It gave me the wherewithal to cope during the days when I doubted I would survive, and ultimately allowed me to gather up the courage and the nerve I needed to save myself. Maybe that sounds trite, but I swear it’s true. No, locking my door every night didn’t keep me from getting ambushed from behind in a dark parking lot, but I still do it, even a year later.

Because I might not be able to change my past, but I’m willing to do whatever I have to do to (try) and ensure my future. Aren’t you?

Last March, I was sexually assaulted.

Last month, my boyfriend of four years dumped me.

You might think you know why those two events are related, but I’m willing to bet that your guess would be wrong. Most people do get it wrong.

You see, my boyfriend tried very hard to be understanding after my assault. He bought books, he joined websites specializing in partners of sexual assault survivors. He was ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices he had to make in order to make me feel comfortable. He stressed, over and over again, that he didn’t care how long it took me to get back to “normal” – he would be patient, and support me for however long it took.

I guess he wasn’t counting on me not going “by the book”, though. And that, dear readers, is what I want to talk about today – the fact that sexual assault survival is not one-size-fits-all. There is no “right” way to heal after an assault.

I read all of the books, too, you see. After it happened, my therapist recommended an entire list of self-help manuals to me, and I read them all, because I figured that’s what someone does after an event like this happens. So I read them all – but the thing is, I didn’t see myself in any of them. Not really, anyway. I understand that not everyone reacts the same way, and even that I might be a bit of an aberration in terms of how I’m dealing with the aftermath – but still, to be honest, I expected better from a person who had always claimed to love me, claimed that he would support me “no matter what.”

Immediately following my assault, I had pretty much all of the classic symptoms, all of the expected after effects of a traumatic assault. I was afraid to stay alone at night, something I had never experienced before; I became nearly obsessive about making sure that my doors were locked after dark. I stopped running, because I was convinced that someone would attack me from behind. I had nightmares.

And, of course, I didn’t even want to hear about sex.

He understood, though. He didn’t pressure me. And that was great.

As time went on, though, (especially after the trial and conviction of my rapist) I began to realize that I was not willing to live the rest of my life in fear. My life had become something that I had no control over, and I hated that – I had always been fiercely independent, and I missed that so much that I knew I had to do something. I had to try to take my life back, even if it took years to do.

I took self-defense classes, and regained some of my confidence. I forced myself to stay alone, and tried to reduce my obsession with locks. I began to run again – something that had always brought me peace and a profound sense of well-being – and realized that, finally, I was beginning to take back control of my own life. There was no reason for me to be so very afraid anymore – the man who had caused me so much damage was locked away, and I refused to go through the rest of my life being afraid of my own shadow. I began volunteering at a local rape crisis centre, helping survivors like me realize that rape does not have to mean your life is over, that you can move on without feeling that you’re doing something you shouldn’t.

Unfortunately…my boyfriend did not share in my joy about finding my way back to my life.

I really don’t want to paint him as the bad guy here, because deep down I know that he meant well. But honestly, it seemed as though once I had taken steps to take my life back, he didn’t know how to treat me anymore. He once said those very words to me: “I don’t know how to deal with you now.”

I asked him what he meant: “I’m the same as I ever was.”

“No,” he said, “you’re not. You’re not supposed to be like this, not yet. It hasn’t been that long since it happened.” (He couldn’t say the word “rape”, you see.)

The upshot? My boyfriend had been led to believe, from all of the books he read and all of the support group websites he joined, that he needed to be a “hero” for me. That I would need him to be strong for me (because apparently, I was never allowed to be strong for myself again.) And when he realized that I could be my own hero, that I could be strong for myself – he couldn’t figure out what to do. And because he couldn’t figure out what his role was supposed to be, he chose to end our relationship rather than ask me what I needed from him. If he had, I would have been able to tell him: “I need you to treat me the way you always have. That’s all. No more, no less.”

Obviously, I can only speak for myself, but to me, being treated as though I’m going to implode if someone breathes on me too hard is not going to help me. I don’t particularly enjoy feeling as though I’ve got a giant scarlet “R” branded on my forehead. Yes, I am a rape survivor; yes, it was a horrible experience. Yes, it’s changed me forever, and I’m never going to be the same person again.

But why does that have to be a negative thing?

I think that there’s this pervasive belief that rape survivors are forever damaged. Afraid to stay alone, eternally mistrustful of people they don’t know, always hesitant about sex. And for many survivors, I have no doubt that’s the case. God knows we’ve got the right to feel all of that. But I have worked so hard to overcome my fears. I have battled my demons, fought my insecurities. I refuse to live the rest of my life in fear, because – well, I look at it like this: My rapist had control over me for six days, but I refuse to let him have control over me for the rest of my life. I’m not saying that it’s easy – it most definitely is not – but for me, that is the way I choose to recover and heal. I refuse to sit in my house with the doors locked, afraid to live my life because one person saw fit to try and take my freedom from me.

It hurts me that the person I had loved for four years was not able to understand that. What hurts even more, I think, is that he didn’t even seem to hear me when I tried to tell him that I didn’t need him to be my hero. I only needed him to support me through my own way of healing. But it seemed as though he had a need to play the hero, and it was impossible to do when I refused to play the role of damsel in distress.

I wish I could have made him understand that no matter how many books he read, he was missing one crucial point: Rape survivors don’t come with instruction manuals. We’re not cookie cutter clones, and there is no “right” way to deal with this kind of trauma. We all choose our own ways of dealing with our experiences, and whatever those ways are, we deserve to be supported by those we love – unconditionally.

I’m doing okay now. It’s only been a month since the breakup, so who knows, maybe I’ll have some sort of major delayed reaction. But at this point in my life, I realize that I don’t have the time or the desire to sit around dwelling on losing someone who was determined to be a hero, when all I wanted was a boyfriend who would love and support me no matter what.

Hopefully I’ll find that again someday – but for now, I’m perfectly okay with being my own hero.

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I’ve come to a pretty startling realization recently. I’ve realized that, when it comes to feminism, there seems to be some arbitrary list of requirements that a woman has to meet before she can be considered a “good” feminist. And the problem with that – in my eyes anyway, and certainly in my own experience – is that the most ardent champions of this list are other feminists. It’s a problem because those of us who don’t meet the requirements are not seen as being “worthy” of the feminist movement, and that is an attitude that can only lead to divisiveness within the movement. That’s not going to help anyone. How can we change the world if we’re too busy backstabbing each other?

By now I’m sure there are more than a few readers shaking their heads and thinking that I’ve lost my marbles. And who knows, maybe I’m the only woman who’s experienced this. But I have experienced enough of it, and from enough people, to think that the attitude is a relatively common one.

Let me give you an example. My best friend recently got married and chose to take her husband’s name. Upon hearing this, her sister-in-law remarked, “Leave it to her to set back the women’s movement by 50 years.”

Excuse me?

I ask you: What does taking your husband’s name have to do with the women’s movement? What does it have to do with my best friend apparently being a “feminist traitor”? (That quote is courtesy of her own sister.) Why does her own personal choice reflect on her position within the feminist movement?

I know, I know – there are those who would wax intellectual on the history behind this particular tradition. How taking your husband’s name signifies that you are labeling yourself as nothing more than your husband’s property. I’ve heard it all before. But what gets me, is that in this particular situation, the people who insist that taking your husband’s name is a betrayal to the feminist movement are forgetting something vital. When you get married, the two most common choices are keeping your own name, or taking your husband’s. If you take your husband’s name, you’re a bad feminist because you’re signifying that you’re the property of your husband. But…isn’t your maiden name actually your father’s name? And if you keep your maiden name, you’re not signifying that you’re the property of your new husband – but you’re still signifying that you’re *someone’s* property, aren’t you? It’s a classic case of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” – except that it isn’t, because keeping your “own” name is what you do if you’re a “good” feminist. The inherent patriarchy of keeping your own name is hardly ever brought up, however, because apparently that’s the right choice. And that, unfortunately, seems to be what feminism is becoming – making the “right” choice in order to keep your feminist card.

And that’s only the beginning. Oh, there is so much more.

A few years ago, I ran the Women’s Centre at my university. One of the major events of the year was the campus production of The Vagina Monologues. As hard as this is to believe, I had never seen the play, or even read the book. I felt it was my duty to familiarize myself with the various monologues, so I settled in to read the book.

It wasn’t long before I found something that raised my blood pressure, and reminded me of yet another “requirement” that I have encountered in my life as a feminist.

“You cannot love a vagina unless you love hair.”

Oh, readers, how did this annoy me? Let me count the ways. Actually, let’s not, because I doubt I could count that high. But let me give you a condensed version.

First of all (and this is something that annoys me about the play in general): for someone who is so concerned about the state of women’s vaginas everywhere, Eve Ensler seems confused about what the vagina actually is. Dear Eve: Women do not have hair on their vaginas (well, maybe some do, but that’s between them and their doctors.) Women do, however, have hair on their vulvas, and the decision some women make about what to do with said hair seems to be a contentious topic among some in the feminist community.

Look, I shave my pubic hair, okay? I don’t like my pubic hair, I never have, and I’m never going to. I prefer the heightened sensation I get with a bare pubic region, and so I shave it. It’s my vulva and it’s my decision, and frankly, I shouldn’t have to hear about how being shaved makes me look like a child, dammit. Because frankly? I am thirty years old, and if the fact that I also have breasts and hips doesn’t clue someone in to the fact that I am not, in fact, a prepubescent child, then I don’t think I’m the one with the problem.

Now mind you, I’ve never actually heard that from anyone who has actually seen my vulva, and therefore might actually have a say in what I do with my pubic hair. No, I’ve only heard it from perfect strangers who seem to think they have a right to dictate what I choose to do with my own damn genitals. People who, in other words, have absolutely no right to have any opinion whatsoever when it comes to my nether regions.

And yeah, I’ve heard all the rhetoric that the reason I choose to remove my pubic hair is because I’ve supposedly been conditioned by our patriarchal society to think that having pubic hair is unattractive and dirty. And I’m here to tell you that in my case, that’s bullshit. I do it because I damn well want to, and I resent anyone who tries to convince me that it’s really not a decision based on my own preferences. You know what? Stop telling me that not only am I too stupid to make my own decisions, I’m too stupid to even know why I’m making those decisions. Why is it so hard to accept that, yes, I know all about the patriarchy and the effect it’s had on women, and you know what? I still want to shave my pubic hair, and it’s no one’s damn business but mine.

That’s what really gets me about this whole issue, you know. It’s not only stupid, but it’s insulting to women to insist that every decision we make – from shaving our legs to changing our names if we choose to get married – is because deep down we all have this innate need to please the patriarchy. Dammit, stop telling me I’m too stupid to make a well-informed decision on my own. How is that supposed to further the feminist movement?

The answer is simple, really. It doesn’t.

This kind of attitude does absolutely nothing for feminism, because it has nothing to do with feminism. Why am I a bad feminist if I shave my legs? If I get married and choose to take my husband’s name, do I have to hand in my feminist card? Why are these inane issues so very important to some people, and why the hell should any of us care?

The answer to that question is simple too (at least in my opinion). We shouldn’t care. We really shouldn’t. Because none of it has any bearing on our position within the feminist community, on our worth as warriors in the feminist army. There is absolutely no reason why a woman who shaves her legs and chooses to take her husband’s name cannot make worthwhile, valuable contributions to the women’s movement. Why would those things have any bearing whatsoever on her beliefs, or her ability to do great things for women everywhere?

And so, to those women who would have me hand in my feminist card simply because of the choices I make about my own life, I say: This is my life, and the choices I make within it are my own. Your opinions mean nothing, and you have no right to tell me that I’m not a “real” feminist because you think I’m too stupid to make an informed decision on my own.

Quit being so judgmental, get down off your high horse, and let’s get on with the important stuff. Shall we?

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Last year, a friend of mine heard some terrifying words during a routine physical: “There seems to be a mass in your left breast.” Words that no woman wants to hear. Her doctor seemed appropriately concerned, but assured her that the chances of it being cancer were slim, especially given her age – she was 24. The doctor sent an order for a mammogram and let my friend know that she would receive a call regarding the date soon.

She waited fourteen weeks for the call.

When the mammogram was performed – finally – she was told that the results weren’t completely clear, but that it did look like it could be a malignancy. An MRI was ordered so that the results could be finalized. Again, she was told that she would receive a call with the appointment date for the test.

She waited another nine weeks for that call.

At the end of it all – to make a long story (somewhat) short, my friend, at the age of 24, was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma (stage 3). Once she received the official diagnosis, things began to move much faster. Her life became a blur of chemotherapy, radiation, and specialist appointments. She said to me at one point, that she felt as though she had to fight for her life before she even knew she had cancer – like she had to convince medical professionals that she really was sick and not just faking it. Yes, she knew that breast cancer becomes more common as women age, but she felt as though her age was working against her in a way that it shouldn’t have.

Sadly, she is not the only woman I know under the age of 40 who has been diagnosed with breast cancer. They have all, without exception, had to fight exceptionally hard to even obtain the medical testing needed to arrive at a diagnosis.

In my country (Canada), by the end of this year, approximately 23,000 women will have been diagnosed with breast cancer. Of that number, approximately 5,100 will die of the disease. It is the most common cancer among Canadian women – one in nine Canadian women will be diagnosed with it in their lifetime. The incidence of breast cancer has risen steadily in Canada since the mid-1980’s, due in part to increased mammography screening – screening which, experts agree, is the most important tool in detecting and diagnosing breast cancer, thus allowing earlier treatment, and in turn increasing the likelihood of survival for women affected.

According to the Canadian Cancer Society, women between the ages of 40-49 should talk to their doctors about their risk of breast cancer, along with the risks and benefits of mammography; between the ages of 50-69 should have a mammogram every 2 years; and those aged 70 or over should talk to their doctors about how often they should have a mammogram.

But what can women do if they fall outside of the age parameters for mammography? Although mammograms in Canada are not recommended for women under the age of 40, breast cancer can strike at any age, and, as mentioned above, mammograms are arguably the most important step in the diagnosis of breast cancer. When women are not receiving an annual (or even bi-annual) mammogram, then how are they supposed to know if there is anything to worry about?

This, my fellow women, is where awareness comes in. And I’m not just talking about the awareness campaigns we’ve all become used to. This is about more than the Run for the Cure, about more than pink ribbons. This is bigger than that. I’m talking about personal awareness. We have to learn to be our own biggest advocates – to literally fight for our own lives.

We all know that regular BSEs (breast self-examinations) are important, right? We’ve all heard the facts. I don’t know about anyone else, but I always felt kind of weird doing them. Not only did I feel weird, but I also felt uninformed. What, exactly, was I feeling for? How would I know the difference between normal breast tissue and a lump that could, potentially, be something serious? The questions were just endless – and so I can completely understand the hesitation a lot of women have about BSEs.

This is where your family doctor can be a huge help – or, if you don’t have a family doctor, many free clinics can help. In some areas, health authorities offer free breast exams regardless of a woman’s age. And having that first exam performed by a professional gives you the chance to ask as many questions as you need to in regards to what is normal, and what should signal a red flag for you. Don’t be afraid to be inquisitive; after all, this is your health we’re talking about, and you should be armed with every bit of information you can get.

And don’t be afraid to ask for further clarification, either. During my last physical (which always includes a breast exam) my family doctor mentioned that I have fibrocystic breasts. I immediately asked for further clarification (because let’s face it, that phrase sounds more than a little frightening.) She explained exactly what it meant (that my breast tissue is denser than normal, and that means that they feel “lumpy”, but that this is a benign condition.) She also explained, and then demonstrated with props, the difference between the feeling of fibrous breast tissue and a possibly malignant lump (yes, there IS a difference; I didn’t think there would be a difference you could feel, but there definitely is.) So now, I have an extra bit of information that means I won’t immediately jump to the wrong conclusion if I do encounter a lump. Yes, I will have it checked out if I’m not sure, but at least I have the knowledge that will help me, at least somewhat, to keep calm.

The bottom line, at least in my humble opinion – based on the experiences of the friends I have watched battle this disease – is that we literally have to be willing to fight for our own lives. While medical professionals obviously have years of education and training behind them, they cannot – and should not – underestimate the value of the patient’s experience of living in their own body. Living in your body for your entire life trumps 10 years of medical training, no questions asked.

Women who fall below the age guidelines for mammograms, then, have to be willing to speak up for themselves. If you find a lump, and your doctor dismisses any mention of the possibility of breast cancer – don’t give in. Make sure your doctor understands that you are not willing to wait it out. If you are fortunate enough to have a doctor who is concerned about the discovery of a breast lump – regardless of your age – work with him or her to get the diagnostic tests performed as soon as possible. Time is of the essence when it comes to breast cancer, and the sooner it is diagnosed, the better the chances of survival. Don’t be content to wait. Don’t tell yourself “Well, they probably have a lot of patients to see.” Make phone calls, as many as you have to. Make yourself known to the medical staff; make sure that you don’t get lost in the cracks. Don’t let yourself become just another number.

I know. This all sounds easier said than done, and you’re all sitting there thinking, “You’re nuts. I don’t have the time to be on the phone all day long with doctors.” And I can understand that, I really can. It doesn’t sound pleasant, and I know from my friends that it isn’t pleasant. But if you ever find yourself in the situation where you find a lump, and you’re sitting by the phone waiting for a call – believe me, you won’t be able to think about anything else, let alone dedicate your time to anything else.

According to the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation, 950 women under the age of 40 will be diagnosed with breast cancer by the end of this year. Chances are, most of those 950 women will have never had a mammogram, because they fall outside of the age parameters for mammography screening. This statistic means that awareness is especially important to the women in this particular age group, and that women under the age of 40 need to be especially vigilant in their own medical care. Not only do women in this group need to be able to recognize the signs and symptoms of breast cancer, but they need to arm themselves with the knowledge needed to work with doctors and other medical professionals to ensure that diagnosis and treatment can be obtained as soon as is humanly possible in cases where suspicious breast masses are discovered.

It cannot be said enough: It’s a matter of life and death.

I am a total Gemini.

There are two very different sides to me, and most people in my life only get to see one. As a matter of fact, I would venture to say that no one really knows both sides of me fully (with the possible exception of my best friend; she knows quite a bit about the “hidden” side of me, but there are still some things that even she doesn’t know.)

Most people see me as a sort-of quiet person; I remember pretty vividly that one online friend, after seeing a clip of me in a YouTube video, said that I seemed “shy”. That, I suppose, is one thing people might see if they didn’t know me very well. Those who know me a little better, though, know that I am, really, anything but shy. I don’t particularly have a problem with talking to people, and I certainly don’t have much of a problem telling them when I have a problem with something they’ve done or said.

That said, though, I can be somewhat reserved with people I don’t know very well. I suppose I like to stand back and take things in before I decide whether or not I want to share that part of myself with people I don’t know yet. So I guess, in one sense, that former reader hit upon one side of my Geminian nature. It’s just not the side that people who know me well are very familiar with.

If you walked into my dorm room, you would probably form a certain opinion of the person who lives there. You would look at the walls, plastered with pictures of children (my godson and the children of various cousins and friends), You would look at my bed, where along the headboard sit stuffed animals of various shapes, sizes and species, all arranged in a very specific manner. You would look at my bookcase and see various greeting cards from relatives and friends, standing all in a row in front of thick books on various aspects of history.

You would look at those things and you would form a specific opinion, of this I have absolutely no doubt. And you would not be entirely mistaken in the opinion you formed (at least, if you form the kind of opinion I assume you would.) But there are things you would be unable to see, things that would give you further insight into the dual nature of my personality. Things that would seem rather jarring against the visible items in this cubbyhole I call my temporary home.

There are well-worn copies of Cosmo and Playgirl stuffed in among my history tomes, issues that have been read over and over, articles that have been pored over scrupulously. Yes, I know that in many ways Cosmo is a laughable publication, and that much of the information contained within its pages is…well, suspect (or, at least, some of it is.) But it’s my guilty pleasure; when I’ve had enough of Ivan the Terrible, or the plight of native women during the height of the fur trade in pre-confederate Canada, nothing can perk me up quite like a dose of Cosmo. Ditto for my well-read volumes of erotica.

Then, there is the headboard, the living space of the stuffed animals. Yes, there are various little stuffed creatures living on top of the headboard, but lurking within its depths are: a mini bullet vibrator, a bottle of Hathor organic lube, two jars of “Nipple Nibblers” (one strawberry, one mango), and a bottle of Shunga Secret Garden Orgasm-Enhancing Gel.

Moving along to my dresser drawers: these are, of course, filled with my clothes — as you would probably assume. But hidden hither and yon beneath my jeans, dress pants, skirts and other clothing-like items, scattered throughout like little prizes in a fucked-up Cracker Jack box, you would find two dildos (a bumpy, swirly glass “juicer” and an outrageously veined thing that looks like it’s just been to the gym…seriously), half a dozen vibrators, a set of anal beads, a packing dildo, and a pair of Smart Balls. In the medicine cabinet to the north of the dresser, you would find Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, naproxen, facial cleanser….and a bottle of Durex Play Sensation Enhancing silicone lube (the kind that tingles delightfully).

And then there is the adorable little cosmetic bag that sits on my desk. Cream-coloured, with a picture of an impossibly cute kitten on the front. If you were to open it you would discover a veritable treasure trove of condoms. Not that, you know, I’ve had any opportunity to use them on an actual living, breathing male in a ridiculously long period of time (and that will be discussed further on in this post), but hey, they make toy cleanup a hell of a lot easier.

The point is, there is a major facet of my personality that very few people in my life are aware of. They look at me and they see a short, slightly (okay, fine, decidedly) overweight chick in her late twenties who is pretty quiet (except when provoked), who keeps to herself, who doesn’t party or go to the bars, who probably just sits in her room and reads in her free time (when she’s not studying frantically like the nerd she is, of course.) They figure, considering the work that I do on campus, and the way I’m perceived, that the bookmarks on my well-worn laptop consist of feminist links and historical information sites. They’d be right, but only partly, because buried among the links to the Russian Academic Information Institute and the Avalon Sexual Assault Centre, there are links to various adult blogs, sex shops and porn sites.

These people know of my “everyday” job — namely, my work with the Women’s Centre — but they don’t know that I used to work as a phone sex operator, or that I currently work as a sex toy reviewer. They know that I write — but they don’t know that I used to write erotica, good erotica, and get paid for it.

They don’t know that underneath my always conservative, never-revealing clothing, I am without underwear more often than not. They don’t know that I love anything sexual, that although I look like a bit of a schoolmarm (how appropriate, considering my choice of career!) I am, in actuality, a bit of a wannabe slut. I want a tattoo. I want to get my nipples pierced, along with my clit, and connect them all by a silver chain — then put on my conservative clothes (sans panties) and go through my day, all the while harbouring my own dirty little secret.

Now, when I say I am “a bit of a wannabe slut”, I have a very specific “sluttiness” in mind. I don’t really agree with the traditional definition of the word “slut” anyway — I really abhor the idea that a woman who enjoys sex and sexuality, who revels in her own sensuality, is labelled a slut, especially when she is utterly unapologetic about it all. When I say I am a bit of a wannabe slut, I don’t mean that I would want to be with various, anonymous men in a series of furtive hookups after an encounter in a bar. I know that there are people in the world (many people) for whom casual sex is a way of life, and I say more power to them. Because I can definitely see the attraction in no-strings-attached sex, the idea of simply getting your rocks off and then parting ways with no expectations of future attachments. But the thing is, casual sex isn’t….it’s not for me. It’s not. I know that. I will admit right here and now that I have only had two sex partners, that the sex with them was decidedly vanilla, and that I can actually count on both hands the number of times I have actually had sex.

So the type of “sluttiness” that I have in mind is different from the “traditional” definition (which I think is rather stupid anyway.) No, what I want, frankly, is to be a slut for someone. I know that I have written in here before about my relationship woes, that I’ve waxed maudlin in here on more than one occasion about the fact that, oh woe is me, I haven’t got a man. Most of the time, you know, I don’t really even miss the absence of a man in my life, because, well, frankly, at this point in my life, if I want an orgasm, I’m perfectly capable of providing one for myself, and if I want a penis-shaped aid to add to the experience, well hell, I’ve got a drawer full of the fuckers.

But what I have been missing, what has been missing in my relationships so far (paltry in number as they have been) is that slut role that I have been longing to play. In my everyday life, I am anything but submissive. I am, in fact, seen as rather dominant, rather forward, rather…shall I say….bitchy. I know what I want, and for the most part I know exactly how to get it.

I long, though, to submit. To be controlled. To be taken, to be had, to be totally under another’s control. I want to be someone’s slut, to be told those words, to have them breathed, hissed, growled in my ear. I want to be spread wide, to be completely vulnerable, to be taken without mercy. I want to be spanked, slapped, to have someone put their hand around my throat while they use my body for their own pleasure. I want to be someone’s personal sex toy.

The proviso to this, though, is that I think for me this would require a great deal of trust. There is a difference, I believe, between hurting and harming. I think there is a difference between hurting someone during sex — by using a flogger on them, for example — and actually doing harm to someone. I want a man who will treat me like a slut in the bedroom and a queen everywhere else. In short, I want a man who will understand, accept, and absolutely adore both sides of my personality.

Sometimes I wish that I felt the freedom to let my “other side” out. And then there are times when I think to myself that I like having this little secret to keep from the world.