A Resurrection: My Cuckquean Journey, Part 1 of 3

Content Note: This article contains discussions of anxiety, depression, eating disorders (including weight and specific behaviours), and emotional abuse.

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Since my interview with Leyna Nguyen from the Consenting Adults Podcast, I have been inundated with wonderful and encouraging messages from listeners and readers.

Many of you have taken interest in my story and relationship – to a humbling degree. To thank you all, I wanted to follow up that interview with a short series answering your most asked questions:

<3 What were my relationships like before James?

<3 What was my relationship like with sex (before and now)?

<3 What did my journey into the cuckquean lifestyle look like?

<3 How did James feel when I confided in him about my cuckquean fantasy?

<3 What experiences have we had since?

So, here it is: my cuckquean journey – part 1.

From Shame to Promise

I was fourteen years old the first time I gave my body to someone – as was he. It was quick and bloody, but also emotionally safe. I felt unashamed, cementing the foundational brickwork of my sexual confidence.

I naturally enjoyed giving pleasure, taking great pride in doing so. I felt totally capable of pleasing myself, and because I was quite satisfied on that front, I didn’t mind extending my skills and generosity to my partner with little need or expectation for reciprocity.

A couple years into that relationship, I slept with another boy my age behind my boyfriend’s back. It hadn’t occurred to me that sleeping with other people was against the rules, and it destroyed him. That was the beginning of our end. 

As I continued to develop, I was sexualized before humanized. It was around this time I started fearing my own body.

Jump to seventeen years of age, where I met the man I’d spend the next five with. Our relationship became transactional – my sexuality was something to hide from others, only to be presented to him as a bargaining tool for attention. This was confusing because sex on my own was effortless and relaxing; with him it felt empty, draining, and sad.

For a long time, I tried to control his love for me by “refining” myself based on emotionally abusive comments he’d make, such as, “I like my girls to be 120lbs with their hair down to her ass.” I would compare myself to the women he flirted with or saw behind my back.

Sad to say, but I did what I was told. I kept my hair long, I skipped class to go to the gym, I tried to avoid junk food, and threw it up when I couldn’t.

You may be wondering why I let it get that far…

For a long time, I thought it was an effort to keep him; proving to myself that I could make him want me and stay. Looking back, I realize it wasn’t him I wanted. You see, even if that relationship was wreaking havoc on my health, it was still a type of escape. Being with him meant freedom from my home life, which was full of love, but also devoid of control.

I deteriorated quickly. One day, after he made a nasty comment about my eating, he overheard me throwing up in the bathroom. Reentering the room, I was greeted by his tear-streaked face and open arms.

In my ill mind, I thought, “finally, he sees what I’m doing for him. I can breathe now.”

Shortly after, I found out he’d been seeing someone else for a while. His final, parting words were: “Get better, and we will see where the future takes us.”

It was the greatest gift he could’ve given me – I was free of him forever.

The next seven months were the hardest of my life. I had no distraction from myself or the lack of control I felt in my own home. I had no one to blame for my sickness anymore. I had to face the truth: I was killing myself slowly.

Luckily, something stronger than my conscious mind pushed me to get help, and I entered an out-patient program for anorexia and bulimia nervosa.

During this time, I ended friendships and habits that were feeding my disease. All I had left was my journal, my thoughts, and my parents’ backyard. So, I wrote. I wrote every day, all day for two months, and on October 22^nd of 2014, I finished a novel.

Two days later, I met James.

During those seven months, I promised myself three things:

<3 I would do everything in my power to get better and remove anything from my life that threatened my healing.

<3 Never again would I let someone make me feel less than.

<3 Only someone very special would be granted access to my heart.

My French King

On our first date, I was open with James – I was on the road to recovery and had zero time for bullshit. He’d recently gotten out of a two-year relationship and had no intention of winding up in another loveless, sexless situation.

Our conversations were honest, and our mantra was “no pressure.” We did, however, learn very quickly that our sexual chemistry was palpable, and we enjoyed each other’s company more than anyone else’s. We weren’t interested in seeing other people and became exclusive immediately.

There’s a quote in John Green’s book, The Fault in Our Stars, that perfectly describes my experience of those early days with James:

I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.

I was ready for the red flags – the reminder that my sexuality wasn’t my own, that a man’s ego was something I had to bear, that I’d have to relinquish control in order to receive love…

It’s been seven years and I’m still waiting for those red flags.

How did he do it?

While I was careful and shy and guarded, he remained certain, and loving, and open. But, more than anything, he let me choose him – he let me choose me. And I chose both, gladly and fully.

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Within the first week of knowing him, he expressed he was a BDSM practitioner. The second week we slept together, and for the first time, someone took care of me as much as I took care of them. For the first time, partnered sex was as good as solo sex.

Two months in, he invited me to France.

I said yes.

I’ve been saying yes ever since.

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My time abroad was magical and solidifying. When that came to an end, we knew we’d be apart for 80 days until his return to Canada. I imagined those 80 days would be torturous… I was wrong.

Even when my baggage came to haunt us, he was there waiting for me to return to myself – to him – and talk it through. He was patient and kind. He offered space for me to explore and exorcise my demons. He met every one of my obstacles, every one of my worries, every ounce of my sadness, with love and understanding.

Then he was back. In Canada. In my bed. And we lived like that for two years – falling deeper in love.

What was most surprising was the strength of our friendship. He witnessed me and I witnessed him, and it was like being a kid again in the sense that nothing felt wrong or bad or painful anymore – not between us. I still struggled with myself, but wherever he was or whatever we did together, was easy…

*

We decided to move to France after two years of living in Toronto. I was ecstatic. Traveling had been a lifelong dream, and I was both financially independent and in love!

I knew I had reached my limit of growth in my home country; if I wanted to find out who I was, I needed a new perspective, distance. So, two years into remission I got on a plane. When I landed in France, I was elated and terrified.

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Our first trip outside of France was to Portugal with a friend. We drank sangria by the Douro River, bought sunglasses from street vendors, and ate octopus salad. During one particularly splendid (and tipsy) evening, I’d discovered our friend had never seen exotic dancers, and felt it my duty to check that box for him.

A Stripper Saved My Life

After paying a €10 entrance fee, the three of us claimed a white leather couch in front of a corner stage. The fluorescent lights screamed as we ordered cocktails and awaited the first dancer. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a body in a tight, pink outfit. It was too small for her fit torso – purposely placed to give just enough away, leaving the rest to the imagination.

Her dark hair cascaded down her back, her spike-heels flexed muscles I never knew existed. Her petite frame and confident attitude sent a shockwave through me, and from somewhere deep in my memory, I heard the words: I like my girls to be 120lbs and hair down to their ass.

Like a fever, a wave of violent thoughts came over me. Everything I ever felt about my own body crept dangerously into my mind. I needed to run. I suddenly couldn’t bare the idea of James watching such perfection when he would return home with me. Then, the lights dimmed. The music loudened. The show began.

I held my breath, chest tightening with dread, trying to remember past affirmations I used to calm me. Right as I was about to make my inevitable escape, a woman stepped under the spotlight.

Her skirt, tight; her emerald halter, drapey. Curved edges revealed to the crowd as she swayed to something slow. Her warm energy demanded the room, and my attention. Her confidence, less blatant; seducing us with her faux timidity.

She was smooth.

Her hips slinked from side-to-side as her clothes gracefully slid to the floor.

And there it was. All that femininity, bare and in front of me, in front of James. The love of my life. A human being that I locked inside my heart, swearing to keep a safe distance from anyone.

But something happened.

Something clicked, or snapped, or broke, or came together. Every insecurity I had felt watching the lady in pink, and every insecurity I had ever felt with my ex, dropped. It hit the floor so hard – with such brute force and finality – it disintegrated on impact. The fever fled from my body – no, was forced out by some internal recovery of self.

Everything I’d been taught about my body, about who I should love, and how I needed to be in bed, vanished.

Everything I had been sexually, mentally, since I was that 14-year-old girl opening her legs on a couch to some eager young man, to the bulimic woman in a toxic relationship, to me, there, now. 360. A moment. A second. A woman. Her body. Her curves. Her unapologetic attitude. Her country. That fire. I saw it. The one I once had burning in me. It all came bubbling to the surface. The adrenaline. The rush. The knowing. The understanding that the lady in pink, although beautiful in her own way, is not perfection. Perfection is not a human condition.

I repeat: Perfection is not a human condition.

Sex and Love

Sex and love are not intrinsically connected.

That night, I experienced my own sexuality separate from the man I love. Femininity. Curiosity. Creativity. Seduction. As if falling from the sky, a freedom I could never have fathomed, landed in my lap. I looked at James. He hadn’t noticed the shift in me then, but he would in the weeks to come.

Me. I became me. Something separate from everyone and everything.

For the first time I was both in love and simultaneously occupying my own space in the world. Seeing a beautiful, curvy, naked woman in front of me, moving in her own peace without photoshop or enhancement – natural, flawlessly imperfect – awakened me to the fact that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder.

In my life, I am the beholder. She was beautiful. And I wanted to experience that beauty over and over and over again.

I sat there in disbelief with myself. So afraid James would be dripping with desire, when in fact…I was.

I saw myself with new eyes. I saw my relationship under a new gaze. I understood that the messages I let into my life smothered my yearning with jealousy, insecurity, uncertainty. I was never allowed to grasp at my own desires because my fears and comparisons repressed what was then naturally becoming me.

As I wrote this for the first time back in 2017, I was the most certain I’d ever been. I became whole. The lost pieces found their way.

I wanted her.

I loved him.

Sex and love are two independent parts to one big and awesome pleasure-centered life, and both can be fulfilled simultaneously – whether together or apart.

Self-Discovery is Freedom

This epiphany was a long time coming, friends. I made the choice to love myself and accept who I am. This radical shift allowed me to commit to a relationship that brings out the best in me, aka the true me. I hold my desire close to me – it is precious. I love my lust. I want to experience all things sensual. I am a writer, a lover, a female in search of pleasure.

If I could tell my younger self one thing it would be this: your worth is not determined by society, nor the people you let into your heart or bed – remember this and let pleasure be your compass.

A stripper saved my life, you see.

She was effervescent. She burned bright.

As do I.

As do you.

As do we all.

She offered the equation that broke the barrier: a clash of insecurity, desire, and the will to be myself regardless of the consequences.

Through her, I heard the call of the Quean, and I answered. That’s what life is essentially:

Calling for the Quean to come out of each of us. Our Quean is forever growing and forever changing. They are beautiful, and the world needs them.

Until part 2,

Be you, friends – and fuck well!

Quean Mo xx

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P.S. Tell me, at what point in your life did you learn to accept yourself? Where do you continue to struggle? Share your story in the comments below, or DM me here.