When I was seven years old, I asked a girl who was a family friend to spank me. I unscrewed an elongated wooden block off my Ikea bookshelf and handed it to her. I did not know the word “kinky.” I had not yet kissed a boy, though it wouldn’t be long before I did a year later at age 8. I knew enough to choose this particular family friend because her dad spanked her, so I figured she would get to take her revenge out on me, so we would both get our needs met. Long before I ever trademarked the term, this was already the reasoning of a Sexual Intuitive.
She took the slightly rounded pine offering (I’m not a total masochist) and looked at me, bemused. I stared her down emphatically. I was older, and knew how to dominate. In fact, I was doing what in BDSM terms is called “Topping from the Bottom,” when you are in a Submissive position but still ordering around the person supposed to be Dominating you, but I didn’t know that yet either.
I lay facedown on my twin bed, and waited. I could hear our respective Russian families whooping it up downstairs, drunk and oblivious to the hedonism going on under the same roof. Amateurs. Anticipation built inside me like a shaken up can of Coke, had I been allowed to drink it. I waited. I glanced behind me. My friend raised the block and hit me on the butt, gingerly.
“Harder,” I instructed.
She raised the plank and tried to muster some anger, or at least courage. She set it down on my ass and left it there.
“I… can’t,” she said.
It was the first and last time I ever read a sexual situation wrong, but to my credit I was only seven. And I don’t think she’s mad at me, because we’re still Facebook friends. It would be decades before I figured out what it was I was blessed with and how I was going to use it for anything more than picking people to fool around with. (But first, I had to get out of Orthodox Jewish day school.)
I was halfway through the high school for gifted girls when I methodically set about losing my accursed virginity. I had chosen this school over a scholarship at a Catholic girls’ school because it was mercifully atheist. Here I was being taught to worship the dual deities of intellect and hard work, and yet my flesh was crawling with the desire for good old-fashioned Judeo-Christian sin.
I had skipped a grade at school and was a year or two younger than everyone in eleventh grade, but I still felt a massive internal drive to consummate. The body had only recently become even remotely adult, but the spirit had clearly been willing. Once I got going, there was no stopping me – I “dated” my first love Bryn, then his friend John (who impregnated another girl shortly thereafter, back before Teen Mom made it cool) then Tom, Dick and Harry* (*not their real names.) Thank G-d for condoms.
Even then, I wondered why there wasn’t a word for a promiscuous boy. Calling a boy “Casanova,” “Don Juan,” or even “James Bond” didn’t seem as insulting. Imagine a woman behaving like that – she’d be castigated. Despite society’s loaded dice, I figured I’d better cast my sexual net farther offshore. If I kept to just our brother boys’ school, my exes were going to be able to start their own after-school club, right after chess.
Last I heard, my first love Bryn had taken too many magic mushrooms and headed up North to Queensland, to live happily ever after in a transcendental haze. Years later, I changed his name in my book, even though as I was writing it I had a strong feeling he was no longer alive. A few months ago, a random Facebook post and subsequent reconnect confirmed that he had died in an unexplained solo car accident about six years before, just as I was writing the book. That Sexual Intuitive gift was already there, but that whole pesky monogamy thing kind of slowed me down…
I met my future ex-husband in New York City when I was 23 and he was 37, and we had a great relationship. For at least a decade our sexual proclivities dovetailed perfectly but while it is unlike me, I shan’t kiss and tell. All was ostensibly at least well, and often better, until what I would term “the awakening” or “AwakeningGate.” There can be an escalation of body awareness, arousal and desire that happens to women in their mid to late thirties. Don’t panic if it didn’t happened to you, I can help! (In my case, this was also aided by the guy I met one Halloween who metaphysically cracked me open with his energy rod, but that’s another story.)
Since that time almost three years ago, I have come to understand that while my untrammeled sexual powers are a ton of fun, they must also be treated with respect. And sometimes sadly for this ethical slut, that means not being able to fuck whom I want, even when they want it too. The superpowers I have developed come with a great deal of responsibility. It is an honor to be present at people’s unfolding, and in order to do this the price I pay (if you can call it that) is to live in alignment with my authentic self.
Do you want to know what the Super Powers are? Well, okay then. I have not had one disappointing sexual encounter since my separation as I have an uncanny knack of choosing people I am incredibly, insanely compatible with, at least in the sack. I am not just highly orgasmic; I can come from kissing someone, I can come without touching myself, also called “thinking yourself off.” In fact, once someone is “in my head,” I can come simply from reading a text. Which puts a whole new spin on not texting and driving.
As a Sexual Intuitive, I read people with compassion, humor and empathy to help bring out what may be hidden in a secret, dusty room inside their hearts. I have long had a gift to see what someone is “into”, “not into”, where to get those needs met and with whom. All ya gotta do is ask…
Many years and a continent ago, a kid from our brother boys’ high school came up to me at the local train station. Apropos of nothing, he said, “Why are you such a slut?”