Content note: details of my sex life. If you don’t want to read that, especially if you are, say, related to me– please skip this one.
This post is in direct homage to Jaclyn Friedman’s My Sluthood, Myself. Please go read that, then come back. That discusses more nuanced emotional stuff that is pretty relevant to the “and how the hell did that end up happening?” of this post, but I don’t feel like going into that here. Except to say the DDP authors are a pretty excellent posse.
So. Gloves and sluttery.
I mostly didn’t feel the need to, because I wasn’t sleeping with random people (yes, that’s a touch of residual sex-negativity on my part), and I thought I’d be seen as weird, and I thought it’d be awkward to ask people to use them, etc.
Spoiler alert: I slept with some truly random people (where did I find them?), we used gloves (why?/how do you get somebody to do that?), and I found it to be not at all a big deal, except for the part where it was really hot.