What Shuts You Down & What Turns You On

Heads-up: We're about to get real now. The socially acceptable and polite description- This is about mapping your own body's truth—what makes it close down, what makes it open up. Then there is the Jenni style- We're talking about what makes the guys throb and the ladies panties wet- and makes them limp and what makesthat vag want to bite something off. No bullshit, just real talk about how desire actually works when you've got a history of hurt or shame..

We're all fucking experts at pretending we're satisfied. We curate the perfect life. The respectable job. The relationships that look so fucking good in the daylight. We call it "fine" when we really mean "I've stopped expecting anything more than this."

But most of us are walking around with this feral hunger in our guts that we never dare name. It's not a crisis. It's your desire knocking. And you've had it locked in the basement so fucking long, it's started clawing at the walls to get out.

Desire isn't the thing that disrupts your life. It is your life, trying to get your attention.

The problem is, your nervous system can't tell the difference between actual danger and remembered danger. Between a threat right now and a threat from when you were seventeen. Between someone who might hurt you and someone who just looks a little like the motherfucker who did hurt you a long time ago.

So you shut down. You go numb. You pull away. You perform your way through sex when your body checked out ten minutes ago. And then you wonder why you can't feel anything.

What Makes You Limp

Let's get specific. Not what should shut you down. Not what shuts other people down. What shuts you down.

No "this is stupid." No "I shouldn't feel this way." No "this doesn't matter." If it shuts you down, it fucking matters. That's all that matters.

It's the shit that makes your skin crawl, makes your cringe to hear their voice...

...Makes your body shut down like a closed fist

....Makes you want to leave your own damn body

Maybe it's certain stupid pet names. Maybe it's being told what to do when you're not in that headspace. Maybe it's jokes at the wrong fucking time. Maybe it's silence when you need reassurance. Maybe it's "I love you" when you're not there yet. Maybe it's dirty talk that feels like a performance instead of a connection.

Maybe it's being touched in a certain place before you're ready. Maybe it's too much pressure when you need light. Maybe it's too light when you need firm. Maybe it's being grabbed instead of asked. Maybe it's someone's hands moving too fast, too slow, too predictably.

Maybe it's being watched too intensely. Maybe it's not being watched at all. Maybe it's a certain expression—judgment, boredom, performance. Maybe it's that feeling of being evaluated instead of met.

Maybe it's when you feel pressured. Rushed. Like there's some expectation you have to meet.
Maybe it's when you don't have an exit. When you feel trapped—physically, emotionally, situationally.
Maybe it's when you've had a fight and nothing's resolved, but someone still wants to be close.
Maybe it's when you're performing. When you know you're supposed to feel something and you're trying to manufacture it.
Maybe it's when you're not being heard. When you said what you needed and it got ignored anyway.

Here's something they don't tell you in porn or rom-coms or all those stupid sex tips articles: opening and shutting down have a sequence. An order. A rhythm. You can't fucking skip steps.

For most of us, it goes like this:
Safety → Presence → Sensation → Desire → Action

You can't skip steps. If you're not into it, you can't be present. If you're not present, you can't feel sensation. If you're not feeling sensation, desire doesn't show up. And if desire's not there, action is just another fucking performance.

Most of us try to start at the end. We try to want something before we feel safe. We try to perform our way into presence. We try to act our way into desire.

And the other person can tell. They can feel it. The atmosphere changes, the touches burn, it's not pretty. It doesn't work. It never fucking works.

This one's harder. But it's fucking important

Sometimes a touch, a word, a smell, a situation—it triggers something. A memory you didn't know you had. A feeling from a long time ago. A moment when something happened that shouldn't have.

You don't have to dig up every fucked-up memory today. Just notice: are there things that shut you down and you don't know why? That's information too. Write that down.

Now for the good part. The part we don't spend nearly enough time on.

What turns you on? What makes your body exhale? What makes you want to stay, want to be touched, want to be fucking seen?

The words that can make you just fucking melt, that make your body soften like it's been waiting.
Maybe it's vulnerability. Maybe it's being asked what you actually want. Maybe it's hearing your own name said soft. Maybe it's dirty talk that lands just right. Maybe it's silence. Maybe it's "I've got you." Maybe it's "you can let go...."

The touches that sends shivers down your spine, makes your vagina tingle, and takes your breath away.
Maybe it's a heavy hand on your lower back. A kiss on the side of your neck. Fingers tangled in your hair. A full-body press when you need to feel held. Light tracing when you need to feel worshipped. Firm pressure when you need to feel contained. But let's not stop there- the firm grips on your cheeks, the sound of the hand making contact....

Lets not forget the extra hot shit beneath all of that.
Maybe it's being seen. Really seen. Like someone's actually looking at you, not through you to what they want you to be.
Maybe it's being watched with desire. The kind of look that says "I want you" without needing to say a word.
Maybe it's being ignored in exactly the right way—the freedom of not being observed at all.
Maybe it's catching someone's eye across the room and you both just know.....

Maybe it's when you feel chosen. Pursued. Like someone actually wants to be there with you, not just getting what they need and leaving.
Maybe it's when you have space. When there's no pressure, no timeline, no expectation that you have to perform a certain way.
Maybe it's after a good conversation. When you've connected and you feel closer instead of further apart.
Maybe it's when you've been heard. When you said what you needed and someone actually fucking listened.
Maybe it's when you feel safe enough to be weird. To be yourself. To not perform for anyone.

Maybe you need to be touched. Maybe you need space. Maybe you need to move. Maybe you need to be still. Maybe you need to be held. Maybe you need to be left the fuck alone. Maybe you want to be asked. Maybe you want to be told.

Your body knows. It's been waiting for you to fucking ask.

I remember the last time someone asked me. We were standing by the old table in my old apartment.

They just looked at me and said "can I kiss you?"

Just that look, that question. That's not shy. That's not nervous.

That's I want you and I need your yes first.

Hottest fucking thing ever.

Said more than any kiss.

✦ ⚸ ♀ 🜂 ∞ ✧ ♡ ✧ ∞ 🜂 ♀ ⚸ ✦

— JstJenni

Let's be real about something.

Your body doesn't give a fuck about your intentions.

You can want to want something. You can be so fucking tired of being cold, of being numb, of performing your way through someone else's pleasure while yours hides in a corner somewhere. You can have done the work, read the books, said the right things to yourself in the mirror.

And still.

Someone touches you a certain way and you go flat. Someone says a word that shouldn't matter and suddenly you're miles away. Someone looks at you like that and something inside you just... locks up.

That's not your fault.

That's your nervous system doing its job. Its only job. Keeping you from dying.

The problem is, it can't tell the difference between right now and back then. Between someone who might actually hurt you and someone who just has the same fucking cologne as the person who did. Between a real threat and a memory so old you forgot you were even carrying it.

So it shuts you down. Covers you in cotton. Puts a pane of glass between you and your own skin.

Not because you're broken. Because you survived. And survival doesn't have manners.

The

The real turn-on? It's not safety.

Safety is a word people use when they don't want to say the scarier thing.

The scarier thing is this: you want to feel something you're not sure you can survive feeling. You want to be taken somewhere you haven't let yourself go since before. You want to be undone — but only by hands you trust to put you back together.

That's not safety. That's risk you chose.

And that's the whole fucking difference.

Think about it.

When you're actually turned on — not performing, not going along with it, not hoping it'll kick in later — what's happening?

Your heart's beating faster. Your breathing changes. Your muscles tense and soften in ways you're not controlling. You're not relaxed. You're alive. Alert. A little wild.

That's not a safe feeling. That's a hunting feeling. Prey and predator at the same time.

The lie we've been told is that good desire is calm and cozy and candlelit. And sometimes it is. But sometimes? Sometimes good desire is someone's teeth on your neck and your back against the wall and a voice in your ear saying "you're not going anywhere" while every cell in your body screams good, good, I don't want to.

The difference between that being hot and that being terrifying?

You choose it.

So let's stop saying "safety."

Let's say what we actually mean.

You need to know, deep in your marrow, that the person you're with will stop when you say stop. Not because they're gentle. Because they listen. Because your no matters more than their yes. Because they'd rather eat glass than cross the line you drew.

That's not safety. That's trust.

And trust is fucking hot.

Trust is what lets you do things that look dangerous from the outside. Trust is what lets you close your eyes. Let someone move you. Let someone hold you down. Let someone tell you what to do.

Because you know — you know — that underneath all the growling and the grip and the "mine," there's someone who will hold you after. Someone who will remember your soft spots. Someone who will put you back together exactly how you like.

The shut-downs?

They're not your enemy. They're your guard dogs.

They've been protecting you for a long time. Maybe too long. Maybe they don't know the danger left the room years ago. Maybe they're barking at shadows.

You don't have to fight them. You don't have to push through them. You just have to learn the difference between a real threat and an old echo.

And that takes time. And slowness. And someone who doesn't get fucking offended when your body says "not yet" or "not that way" or "I need you to look at me first."

The right person won't be threatened by your shut-downs. They'll be grateful for the map. And they'll be curious about your open-ups—because those are the places they get to meet the real you.

The real question

Isn't "how do I feel safe?"

It's: who do I trust enough to be unsafe with?

Because that's where the good stuff lives. That's where the feral comes out. That's where you find out what you actually want, not what you're supposed to want.

Maybe it's being ignored in exactly the right way. The freedom of not being watched.

Maybe it's being watched too much. The heat of someone's eyes while you pretend not to notice.

Maybe it's a hand on your throat that you asked for three conversations ago, so now it doesn't need to be asked again.

Maybe it's someone who sees the wild in you and meets it instead of calming it down.

Maybe it's the word "mine" said like a threat and a promise at the same time.

Maybe it's teeth.

Maybe it's a growl. An actual growl.

Maybe it's the moment you stop performing and they still want you. Maybe more.

Stop. Breathe. And ask yourself: what do I actually want right now?

Not what would be safe. Not what would be appropriate. Not what would make me a good partner or a good survivor or a good whatever.

What do you actually want?

Maybe it's to be touched. Maybe it's to be left alone. Maybe it's to move. Maybe it's to be still. Maybe it's to be held so tight you can't tell where you end and they begin. Maybe it's to bite something. Maybe it's to cry. Maybe it's to laugh. Maybe it's to say "harder" and mean it.

Your body knows. It's been waiting for you to fucking ask. Not in a journal. Not in a workbook. Just in the quiet of your own chest, your own throat, your own hungry blood.

That's the difference between surviving your body and living in it.

One is protection. The other is choice.

And you get to have both.

xoxo- jstjenni

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