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A compilation of sex smiles.
Also a sucker for narrative, eye contact, well-composed orgies, and notable thrusts.
Gay, lesbian, straight. As long as there's something smiley or joy-filled about it :). Enjoy!
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2 years ago with 342 notes

Some thoughts on consent.

Trigger warning: this post contains descriptions of rape and sexual assault.

I started this Tumblr because–surprise!–I dig seeing smiles in porn. Loving smiles, joy-filled smiles, mischievous and goofy and orgasmic smiles. Smiles that seduce, smiles that suggest, smiles that erupt or emerge or sneak or sprout. Any smiles in porn, really. Because I mean, fuck yeah sex smiles, am I right?

And honestly, often I find myself paying more attention to a nice smile in porn than to the usual “moving parts.” Don’t get me wrong, moving parts are great and all, but they’re also everywhere and usually indistinguishable and eventually… I don’t know… kind of boring if you ask me. Or at least predictable. While smiles on the other hand are uniquely revealing. They tell us something about the people they belong to. They tell us something about being human.

Because the best smiles–the best sex smiles–are stories. Stories about pleasure, stories about intimacy and connection, stories about release and relation and relief. And as long as they’re authentic and uncoerced, smiles during sex are also stories about something that too many people today are somehow still confused about. They’re stories about consent.

Now, as a white cisgender male in a world mostly made by and for white cisgender males, I’ve benefited from a lot of privilege in my life. And I’ve had to really take a critical look at that privilege to understand how it’s both helped me and limited me: how it’s ensured certain advantages for me while also blinding me to the real, daily, ongoing, embodied and exhausting and visceral struggles of others. 

And that’s been an ongoing process for me too. I didn’t get a pass when I came out as bi, and I didn’t get a pass when I started giving guys blowjobs and letting them fuck me. If anything, the fact that I now identify as queer but relatively easily “pass” as straight means that I need to be that much more critical and self-aware when it comes to thinking about my privilege and learning about how folks who are less fortunate than me are marginalized and oppressed. Frankly, attending meaningfully to that shit is the least I can do.

And as part of that process, over the past few years, I’ve learned a lot about consent. Some of that I learned by taking classes on feminism and gender, some of it I learned by listening to friends, some of it I learned by reading articles about rape culture and sexual assault online. But to completely honest, most of it I learned in a way that I wish I hadn’t had to: I learned it by being raped.

The first time I was raped was on a camping trip in the Rockies with a guy I met on Growlr in 2014, a week after moving to Colorado. I know, I know–two guys meet on a hookup app and make plans to go camping together. What did I expect? Well, of course I expected to have sex. But I expected to have a particular kind of sex. Specifically, I expected us to use condoms and lube. Which is why I brought with me–you guessed it–condoms and lube!

What I didn’t expect was to get as drunk as I did and retire into the tent ready to pass out. What I didn’t expect was for this guy–who I’d already hung out with a couple times and who I’d told that I was trying to take things slow–to climb into the tent and start just going to town on me without either a condom or lube. What I didn’t expect was for him to do the same thing again the next morning, and for me–now sober and hungover and feeling this gross unspoken obligation to satisfy some vague masc4masc gay-bear contract and just-let-it-happen-because-it’s-too-late-to-say-no-and-we’re-out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-and-he-owns-a-gun-so-it’s-too-risky-to-make-him-mad-anyway–what I didn’t expect was to be silently crying and staring out past the flapping tent door at the beautiful mountain lake view while it happened.

In the days after that camping trip, I was really anxious and confused. I knew I was upset, but I had trouble processing why I was upset and if I had any right to be. I had trouble understanding what exactly had happened and what I was allowed to call it. Could I call it rape if gay cultural norms made it “obvious” to all parties involved that sex was to be expected? Could I call it rape if I hadn’t said no, hadn’t struggled or tried to get away? Wasn’t it my fault for not communicating early on and more clearly how I wanted things to go down? I found myself just wandering the house I was staying in, anxious and stressed and asking myself these questions in circles and every once in a while just bursting into tears, not knowing at all what to do with myself.

It wasn’t until I talked about what had happened with a friend of mine who’d used to work at a rape crisis center that I actually felt somewhat comfortable understanding my experience as rape. There were a lot of complex factors that went into it, and it clearly didn’t fit the mold of the traditional narrative that most people have in their minds when they hear the word “rape”–but the fact was that I did not want to have sex at that moment, did not want to have sex in that unprotected, aggressive, painful way, and I was too drunk, isolated, and threatened to feel confident and safe stopping it. It was that guy’s basic, most fundamental responsibility in that moment to make sure I wanted him to fuck me and that I was enjoying myself. And he didn’t do that.

Fast forward through a couple boyfriends and just as many break-ups. Over the past several months, I’ve had two other experiences that have really made me think about consent. First was this awkward guy I went on a date with. We went back to my place afterwards to watch Baskets (great show by the way), and I told him he was welcome to sleep over, but that all I really wanted to do was keep our clothes on and cuddle–nothing more than that. He seemed sweet in an awkward uncomfortable kind of way, so I trusted him. And I figured that if I just came right out and drew the boundary, he’d respect it.

But he didn’t. That night he was fine, but the next morning I woke up to him stroking me over my boxers, jerking himself off, grinding up against me with his cock out, breathing heavily. It was awful. I was tired, confused, grossed out–but for some reason I found myself paralyzed, completely unable to speak up and say, “Please stop.” (Don’t worry, I’m in talks with my therapist about why saying no in those situations is so hard for me :).)  At any rate, I just lied there and hoped he would eventually give up and stop. And at the same time I just judged myself relentlessly for not speaking up, spiraling through all these different kinds of shame at once and absolutely hating it. It was very unpleasant to say the least.

Take note: when someone draws a boundary like that, they’re drawing it for a reason. Pay attention to it. Honor it. Don’t assume it goes away at some point. And for fuck’s sake, don’t start touching a person’s genitals when they’re sleeping. Sleeping people can’t consent. That’s sexual assault. Don’t do it.

The other experience I had–pretty recently–was with this guy who was in town on business. We’d been chatting for weeks leading up to his visit. He found me attractive, I thought he was handsome, and the idea of just relaxing in his hotel room in the evenings while he was in town was really appealing to me. I told him in no uncertain terms, though, that–at least at first–I really just wanted to hang out, cuddle, and watch TV. I told him I’d probably be comfortable kissing at some point, but not more than that. I told him that I was in a weird place post-breakup and was just looking to have a nice, laid-back time. I even told him all about the last date I had gone on, with the guy who started touching my crotch while I was asleep. I figured if I was just more explicit and direct about my expectations, that would be enough.

But, once again–it wasn’t. The first evening we were together, upon meeting me he immediately kissed me without asking (which, you know, whatever, eye roll, fine). Then we were drinking and both just in our boxers, which was also fine. Then he was putting his mouth on my boxers, and that was fine, but I stopped him and said, “Hey, just so you know, I’m fine with this, but I’d like my boxers to stay on for now.” You know–clear, straightforward communication. How could he possibly misinterpret that?

A couple minutes later, he tears off my boxers and starts sucking me off. He just can’t control himself I guess. And I sigh inwardly and roll my eyes and resign myself to yet another round of me feeling paralyzed and unable to make it all stop. It keeps going, we end up in the shower, and he fucks me. And while he fucks me I’m just resting my head against the acrylic wall, feeling mostly nothing, except for that old self-judgment and self-hatred for letting it all happen again. What’s wrong with me? Something must be wrong with me.

The next morning I woke up early and told him I wanted to leave. He was really sad and didn’t understand. I tried talking to him about it. I tried explaining that I felt really weird about what had happened the night before; that I was really confused and sad, that I’d thought being upfront and clear about my boundaries would be enough–hell, that coming right out and telling him that I’d had some shitty experiences with guys not respecting my boundaries in the past would be enough.

His response? In careful, measured words, he replied–and I’m serious–“Well, my first suggestion would be not to drink alcohol with guys in hotel rooms, because what do you expect is going to happen?”

Wow. It was my first time experiencing victim-blaming aimed squarely at me. Right to my face. Apparently it was my fault for drinking. It didn’t matter that I’d communicated clearly numerous times what I wanted and didn’t want to happen. I drank, he drank, he couldn’t control himself, so of course he fucked me. What did I expect was going to happen?

It’s really late as I write this and I’m tired. Physically tired, but also just emotionally and mentally exhausted by how completely baffling it is that anyone would take advantage of another person’s body like that. That anyone would feel so fundamentally entitled to sex that they would just take it from another person without asking. Without first making sure that it’s going to be a fun, joy-filled, enthusiastically consented-to experience for everyone involved. How hard is that to understand? How hard is that to just want?

So yeah, I’m tired. But honestly, I can only barely start to understand how tired women are. How very very exhausted women must be from having to live daily in a world full of men who can’t be bothered to think critically and intentionally about consent, to begin to understand that women are people and that people have a right to enjoy their bodies and their lives in safety and peace. To live life always on your guard like that, always mindful of your surroundings, always ready to put your head down and ignore catcalls, pepper spray in hand in case some creep decides you’re one of his targets for the night.

And that’s to say nothing of all the rape that goes on between gay men, and the rape of men by women–which are further complicated by cultural scripts around homosexuality and heteronormalcy and masculinity. Fuck.

Anyway. Between these recent experiences of mine–which have really turned me off to sex for now, frankly–and all the stories in the news about Cosby and Trump and their entitled-to-sex bullshit, I guess I’ve just been thinking about consent a lot lately. And really, more people ought to. Everybody ought to. Especially while they’re watching porn. Because it’s really easy for porn to objectify the people who are in it, to reduce them to little more than moving parts on a screen intended to get your endorphins flowing. And that’s dangerous. It’s a big reason why I started this blog.

So please, look for smiles in your porn. And most importantly, look for smiles when you have sex. Put on the brakes. Take a look at the other person’s face. Ask them to face you. Communicate with them. Invite them to share how they’re feeling, what they’re thinking, to express what it is they want and don’t want to do. Because sex isn’t a one-way thing; it isn’t just a way for one person to get off while another person just happens to be there. Sex is about pleasure, about connection. It’s one of the most potent and immediate forms of intimacy humans are capable of. And it’s supposed to be fun and full of joy.

And yeah, those things look different for everyone.

But authentic, mutual communication is at the heart of every healthy sexual interaction, regardless of what it looks like.

And I honestly believe that smiles are a good place to start.

This post has 342 notes

  1. weebax said: Thank you for posting this. It made me think about what I experienced and my own past behaviour
  2. eyeroll-at-you reblogged this from fuckyeahsexsmiles
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  5. guysigetoffon reblogged this from fuckyeahsexsmiles and added:
    i normally don’t share things like this but Ive had the same issues. ive actually been raped 3 times and one was a bf....
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