{"id":5535,"date":"2021-06-01T02:45:43","date_gmt":"2021-06-01T02:45:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/bettybutch.com\/?p=5535"},"modified":"2023-07-20T20:15:16","modified_gmt":"2023-07-20T20:15:16","slug":"sex-sex-blogging-and-surviving-in-an-apocalypse-i-cant-control","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bettybutch.com\/index.php\/2021\/06\/01\/sex-sex-blogging-and-surviving-in-an-apocalypse-i-cant-control\/","title":{"rendered":"Sex, Sex Blogging, and Surviving in a Never-Ending Apocalypse I Can’t Control"},"content":{"rendered":"

(Content Warning:<\/strong> depression, chronic illness, sex negativity, current events, pet illness\/death.)<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

2020 was one of the hardest years of my life.<\/p>\n

The world was literally on fire. Florida unsurprisingly became an epicenter in the plague. The openly racist<\/a> Orlando police attacked protestors<\/a> and deployed military gear to intimidate civilians<\/a>. I moved, which was a long and miserable process due to financial struggles and the pandemic\u2019s impact. My aging dog had numerous health scares and we had to adapt to his changing needs. Several unspeakably terrible things happened to my partner Buster. The presidential election screeched by like an I-4 pileup in slow motion.<\/p>\n

I also spent a lot of the year sick and struggling. In the early months I had the worst flu of my life (potentially \u2013 likely? \u2013 Covid.) Painful, debilitating IBS flare ups started in the summer and haven\u2019t stopped. My depression and anxiety spiraled out of control, wrecking havoc on my capacity to function. Quarantine did a number on my relationship with my body. My autistic burnouts<\/a> were incredibly sudden and stretched on for weeks.<\/p>\n

I spent 2020 being much luckier than most, and I still barely made it out.<\/p>\n

And 2021? Is not going much better.<\/p>\n

reviewing sex toys in tumultuous times<\/em><\/h4>\n

One of the less dramatic \u2013 but no less taxing \u2013 struggles of 2020 was navigating my job as a sex writer. In March of last year, a writer I respect complained about the callousness of bloggers posting sex toy reviews during a global health crisis. In hindsight I recognize that their anger was misdirected\u2026 but I couldn\u2019t shake the guilt and shame I felt. I went on hiatus for months.<\/p>\n

I believe that sex toy reviews are sex education. They tackle sex stigma, empower readers to think about their pleasure needs and preferences, and give a platform to marginalized voices in an industry that\u2019s still very far up its own outdated ass<\/a>. When someone reads a sex toy review, they\u2019re exposed to new language and ideas about what sex can be. They\u2019re exposed to sex positive pushback against the sex toy industry\u2019s shame-based marketing hype, sex toy gendering, and racial fetishizing. These things are no less valuable in trying times.<\/p>\n

Even when there\u2019s not a crisis pressing enough for even white Americans to care about (there\u2019s rarely such admonishments during social uprisings or natural disasters), sex toy reviews are often disparaged as being the lesser, frivolous part of sex writing. But that sentiment often comes from people who either don\u2019t actually read reviews, or who take for granted how revolutionary it is to read about pleasure from perspectives like mine: queer, trans, fat, and disabled. These perspectives and experiences are routinely left out of our culture\u2019s limited conversations surrounding sex.<\/p>\n

Further, this is my job<\/em>. Sex toy reviews are many people\u2019s sole or secondary source of income. Under capitalism, having to measure your work\u2019s perceived value versus the weight of current events is a no-win situation. My bills don\u2019t wait for permission from my own incapacitating impostor syndrome\u2026 or permission from my Twitter timeline.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m frustrated at how long it took me to recognize this. I hope it\u2019s a lesson I won\u2019t forget, because the world isn\u2019t getting any better. This is my career as well as my creative anchor. It\u2019s core to my survival.<\/p>\n

continuously declining interest in sex<\/em><\/h4>\n

Unfortunately, misplaced guilt hasn\u2019t been my only obstacle to sex writing in this pandemic.<\/p>\n

Sex has been as as topically interesting to me as ever. But on a personal level, sex had never been lower on my priorities list. Despite spending significantly more time at home, last year I started having sex less often\u2026 if at all. Kinky weekend sex<\/a> was replaced with video games and binge-watching tv shows. Stress-relieving sex at bedtime transitioned to falling asleep watching Youtube. I let my Filthy Figments<\/a> subscription lapse. I scrolled past smutty fanfiction and Twitter nudes, uninterested. I stopped masturbating.<\/p>\n

Initially, my disengagement from sex was because of pandemic stress and the RV I called home falling into dangerous disrepair. My partner started working from home, and we found ourselves arguing constantly \u2013 as most people would when stuck in 8 feet of space with a low ceiling. My A\/C didn\u2019t work, my shower and bed were literally collapsing beneath me, and the government was letting a plague spread unchecked outside.<\/p>\n

When we moved out in the summer, we were functionally homeless for a bit. I wasn\u2019t especially sexually inspired by sleeping on a blowup mattress in a relative\u2019s kitchen or in a motel we technically couldn\u2019t afford. Work-wise, I was often without internet access. When I was able to get online, I spent that time frantically scrolling through news about the pandemic and Black Lives Matter protests.<\/p>\n

Getting the keys to our new place was life saving. But 2020 kept on 2020ing.<\/p>\n

In our new apartment, I was able to start taking on toys for review again. I was paid for some consulting work I did earlier in the year, and with that money I partially furnished our bedroom. I had cold A\/C, internet access, and an actual bed\u2026 And, for awhile, the novelty of it all buoyed my interest in sex.<\/p>\n

But the pandemic raged on. The election gained momentum and my existential dread grew worse. We were still stuck inside, our dog was losing mobility and having terrifying seizures, and the world hadn\u2019t stopped burning. Animal Crossing<\/a> and Stardew Valley<\/a> were replaced with Pokemon Shield<\/a>, Netflix binges became Among Us streams<\/a>, and I still wasn\u2019t looking at porn or masturbating. Our sex life petered out again.<\/p>\n

Sex is just one potential component of a relationship, and it\u2019s okay \u2013 and normal<\/em> \u2013 if it\u2019s not present in yours for whatever reason. But in my own relationship, sex is normally a prominent element. Its absence was a choice, but it also\u2026 wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

no such thing as a work\/crisis balance<\/em><\/h4>\n

Because I was no longer regularly masturbating or having sex, I couldn\u2019t finish sex toy reviews<\/a>. I pride myself on being thorough, and a handful of testing sessions at random intervals is just not enough experience for me to speak from. I still have dozens of pieces partially written, waiting for another test session or three to finish forming my opinion.<\/p>\n

Most of what I managed to publish in the last half of 2020 were guides and opinion pieces. I wrote about anal pleasure<\/a>, giving sex toys as gifts<\/a>, sex toy storage<\/a>, ways sex toy shops are failing marginalized customers<\/a>\u2026 It was easier to write from prior experience rather than present explorations. But even with non-review writing, I struggled more than usual.<\/p>\n

(It didn\u2019t help that for several weeks, I was the target of an online hate mob<\/a>. I endured hundreds of harassing messages, many of which contained intentionally triggering content. My mental health suffered. My work suffered. I suffered, in ways I\u2019m still not ready to articulate.)<\/p>\n

To compensate for my slow pace, I started working ridiculous hours. I\u2019d work through my partner\u2019s shifts and keep working after. I\u2019d have my laptop or phone at me at all times, trying to write even when I was watching tv or eating dinner with Buster. But it didn\u2019t help me catch up. It just kept me exhausted at all times, and frustrated at my lack of progress.<\/p>\n

In hindsight, all I was doing was wasting weeks<\/em> tearing up my own work and burying it in overflowing WIP folders.<\/p>\n

At some point in the depression blur that was fall and winter, I was sent a box of cookies by some very kind colleagues\/pals. I decided I\u2019d save them as a reward for getting one of my many big projects polished and posted. If I could just do that, I wouldn\u2019t feel like I\u2019d wasted a year of my life drowning.<\/p>\n

The cookies are still sitting, unopened, in my fridge. It\u2019s now May of 2021.<\/p>\n

happy new year! it got worse<\/em><\/h4>\n

Like 2020, 2021 has crept along like the black mold on my RV ceiling: slowly, ominously, and wholly out of my control.<\/p>\n

The transition to Biden (a marginally better alternative to Trump) was fraught with uncertainty and tension. Right wing terrorists attacked the capital. Covid deaths climbed to half a million people in the US alone. Preexisting problems grew ever-more magnified: police brutality, transphobic legislation, government apathy towards poverty and homelessness, genocide. We got a handle on my dog\u2019s condition. Vaccines became available, but there was a lot of anguish and uncertainty about availability and access (especially in Florida.)<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve spent a lot of 20201 completely unmoored. Autism and depression (or maybe autistic catatonia) have always made time seem hazy to me. But combined with the constant, pressing weight of the pandemic, my dog\u2019s health issues, and numerous personal struggles? I\u2019ve lost track of hours, days, and sometimes entire weeks. My IBS has become legitimately debilitating.<\/p>\n

Here and there, I\u2019ve had bubbles of clarity. Good days where I\u2019m close to my full self, present in this body that is so often disoriented and in pain. I\u2019ve played with our feral rescue, I\u2019ve written interesting content I\u2019m proud of<\/a>, I\u2019ve left hickeys on my partner and put my feet in the sand. Surviving, not thriving \u2013 but who\u2019s thriving these days besides billionaires?<\/p>\n

I started masturbating again, sometimes. Watching porn, reading Filthy Figments<\/a>, writing erotica for my partner\u2019s eyes only. We bought an Eternity collar, and it went on Buster\u2019s neck without ceremony or celebration, just quiet acknowledgment of things that have always been present. I\u2019ve been testing toys, writing about BDSM<\/a>, and I even filmed some educational content for SheVibe<\/a> and Peepshow Toys<\/a>.<\/p>\n

The world was still in constant crisis. But sometimes, I felt okay.<\/p>\n

In April and May, we got fully vaccinated. In slow unfurling of time between shots, we learned my dog was dying, and then he did.<\/p>\n

This past year (and a half) has been the worst in a long line of worsts. But losing Marcus, especially when we were finally confident we could manage his health… After over a year of raw mourning for all the human suffering around me, the pain is too fucking much.\u00a0I didn\u2019t know my heart was capable of holding so much agony without ceasing to beat. Sometimes, when the absence of him seizes me, I hold my hand to my chest and feel that I\u2019m still alive despite the impossibility of it.<\/p>\n

where do we go from here?<\/em><\/h4>\n

I taught myself the importance of my job last year. But I think I have to learn it again. The pain I feel seems so consuming that it\u2019s difficult to see the importance of my work and my words. It\u2019s difficult to give myself permission to put my energy into literally anything besides staring at bad news and touching the edges of the wound in my chest. To feel present in my body when disassociating is all my body wants to do, twice over.<\/p>\n

This blog isn\u2019t just something for other people, or to pay my bills<\/a>. It\u2019s for me, too. It gives me a reason \u2013 and a way \u2013 to keep fighting struggles both personal and external. My work is my platform. I want and need to use it.<\/p>\n

Likewise, I have to learn how to make room for sex in my life again. Part of that lesson is continuing to appreciate the things that fill the space that sex\u2019s absence creates. Final Fantasy VII<\/a>, showering together, watching video essays<\/a>, painting, teaching our cat to stop being a dumpster gremlin, silicone poppers<\/a>, going outside. These aren\u2019t distractions from shared pleasure and intimacy, they are<\/em> shared pleasure and intimacy. I\u2019m grateful for them, and will continue to make time to enjoy them even as I reconnect with sex and masturbation.<\/p>\n

At the end of July, we\u2019ll have been living in this apartment \u2013 this wonderful, comfortable apartment, with great A\/C and my own work desk and my dog\u2019s empty bed in the front closet \u2013 an entire year. I\u2019m going to spend the rest of 2021 giving myself permission to be at home. At home in this apartment, in my work, and in my own body.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s going to keep hurting. But that\u2019s something I have to give myself permission to do too.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

This post includes affiliate links. While using these links to make a purchase comes at no extra cost to you, it helps keep my website running.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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