I do not laugh.

"Oh come on Callie, we both know you like pain"

I know what happens next. There are 7 or so of us standing in a circle chatting.  The coach that's supposed to whisk us off to a brewery tour hasn't appeared, and September is treating us to one of the UK's rare perfect days. I haven't worn a t-shirt in weeks, and I can feel my arms burning in the sun.

What happens next is that I laugh, giving the group permission to titter awkwardly at the idea of quiet, socially inept, Mormon-raised me, in some kind of tryst with the speaker, John, a suave older man who's just wrapping up his PhD, discovering pleasure and guilt in some long-repressed desire to be dominated and hurt.

There's social currency here.  For both of us. I have the chance to reject any idea that I might be a 'prude', to demonstrate that I am 'game' and 'modern' to a group of people whom I will ostensibly spend a good chunk of the next three years with. John gets to make a joke that asserts his sexual identity and prowess.  I get to be 'fun;' he gets to be funny. I acquiesce. Become the 'other' in a narrative I never asked to join.  What happens when I laugh is that I give the tacit, expected, permission for a statement about my body, my sexuality, my interests to become the butt of an uncomfortable joke. What happens next is that I laugh, and all of us standing in the September sun waiting for the coach to arrive, move from that moment to the next.  I laugh, and the conversation can then drift away from the joke and it's underlying narrative about power and desire and agency and control. That underlying expectation of availability. Of interest. Of submission.  I laugh and the very idea of my sexual interests become part and parcel to someone else's story. My sexuality becomes an object of amusement in order to boost someone else’s sexual self esteem, and build their sexual narrative.

I know what happens next. But I do not laugh.  I simply stare, with the breeze coming off the lake and rifling its fingers through my forever-stray hair.

Yes.  Sexuality is funny. And charming, and awkward, and wonderful, and sometimes dark, and goofy and seductive and overwhelming and fulfilling.  Yes, sometimes sex jokes are the best jokes. But this is not a social currency I am currently willing to trade, my dignity for your pride. We walk in the same social circles, John and I, but we are not those sorts of friends. Where I trust beyond the shadow of a doubt that the human inside me is visible and real and valued. Where we laugh at escapades and share secrets. Where jokes about sex or desire or love are used to wonder at the improbable nature of it all, leaving neither person exposed, alone or used.

Yes. Sexuality is funny. Everything is wonderfully funny. But I never offered my interests up to a sacrificial altar so someone else could use a joke to prop their own internal story into view. I never offered my desires up as a stepping stool.

So I did not laugh. I did not let the conversation drift away from that joke or that narrative.  I let us stand, suddenly silent, suddenly awkward.

"Oh come on" says John, his smile tightening just a bit, "you know what I mean."

I live in a world where what I desire extends beyond what is desired of me. I am not an character actor, flitting from the story of one protagonist to the next. I am my own. Whole and complete. Whether or not any of these people now fidgeting in the sun see me as 'fun' or as a 'prude' is not important. Your joke is not worth my discomfort.

"Nope." I say. Staring back. My gaze unflinching as steel. The shining golden sun ripping through the leaves at the edge of the parking lot, making them as red-gold as my hair, as dappled as my freckles.  And so we stand. Silently, uncomfortably. Because I do not give my permission. I refuse to laugh.