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.