Archive for category penetration
Staying with a friend this weekend, I noticed the saddle vibrator set up in the corner.
“I’ve never played with a Sybian before,” I said. “Would you mind if I took that one for a ride?”
My gracious host agreed, and I eagerly pulled a condom over the dildo attachment. Using nitrile gloves, I fashioned barriers for the places my vulva would rub against the vibrator. Without ceremony or prelude, I lubed the dildo and settled myself onto the erection sprouting from the black half-moon.
Upon entering a sex shop, I usually head right to the glass and metal dildo displays. After running a fingertip along the length, I like to pick one up to feel the weight in my hand, imagining how it would feel inside me.
Drawn to sleekness and heft, I bought Betty Dodson’s Vaginal Barbell. This particular instrument has played a significant role in my ever-widening sexual universe.
The ways I experience sex have grown from a specifically-administered regimen that guaranteed orgasm to an array of options. After homo and hetero encounters expanded my solosex reality, I added varied sensations, powerplay and pain, anal stim, group sex, shared and witnessed masturbation.
But the most symbolic development to date is the latest: learning to orgasm with my legs open.
“There’s no way I would have fucked you in the ass before I was good and ready. Even though you were begging me for it.”
To say my pussy was broken this summer might be slightly overdramatic. It wasn’t actually broken. But it felt like it was.
Rachel was solemn as her face hovered between my knees.
“I see it in there, really deep.”
“What should we do?” I asked, knitting my eyebrows together.
My worry was a charade. Though we clung to the pretense, there was definitely not a small insect burrowed deep in my vagina. Rachel was prodding my folds and depths out of necessity, we told ourselves gravely. She was saving me from an imaginary skin condition caused by a nonexistent bug that she eventually “found” nestled halfway to my cervix. We pretended we weren’t pretending. We were ten.
I like to make a lot of noise when I have orgasms. It turns me on, the sounds of sex, not only grunts and moans and bossy directives, but especially the wet sloppy sounds that come from my pussy when I’m hot and wet and bothered. When circumstances require that I bite the inside of my cheek and keep quiet instead of making my usual racket, I will. But I always prefer to be loud.
When I’m making noise, words are related to ordering someone around, whether in my fantasy when I’m masturbating or to a lover when I’m having sex with someone else. “Lick me, eat it, get your face down in there, fuck me, that’s right, fuck me, get your hand in there, stick your finger in my ass.” The string of orders spews out of me, as I clutch a face against my engorged pussy lips (or imagine myself doing so when I’m in solo-orgasm-land), or squeeze my vaginal muscles around a finger or a fist or a dildo penetrating me.
The other night, I found myself telling her to suck my little cock. “That’s right, pretend that clit is a little penis. Suck it, just like I know you can. Give me a blow job. Suck it. Suck it like you sucked off those boys in junior high. Make me come in your mouth.” I thrust my hips against her mouth, my fingers pulling my labia apart, my swollen little nub protruding towards her tongue and lips.
Her sex organs are on display. Not her primary one, her clitoris, but her hands. Oh, yes, those hands are definitely sex organs. She describes them that way, and I enthusiastically agree.
When our friends catch me staring at her fingers, they give each other knowing looks. Lucky for me, Taryn is a musician, so I often get away with looking. The strong, nimble digits of her left hand expertly work the neck of a guitar or banjo as her right hand plucks and strums. When she plays slide, making the strings wail, my throat remembers the sounds she draws from me with those same dancing fingers.
Language can be a fantastic mess. Euphemisms need not apply. Best be simple, straightforward. As Betty Dodson repeatedly reminds us, don’t say “down there.” Be specific. Gather language to describe what you are talking about. The lesson doesn’t end by describing genitals with precision; it applies when talking about activity, too.
That’s the conclusion that comes out of this study from The Kinsey Institute at Indiana University. Doctors, health care workers, researchers, educators “need to use behaviour-specific terminology in sexual history taking, sex research, sexual health promotion and sex education.”
What does “having sex” mean, anyway? Unsurprisingly, the answer depends on who’s asked. There was little difference in answers from men and women, and the respondents were mostly straight. In the media coverage of the study I saw, there was no mention of self-identified transgendered respondents. Very young and very old men excluded the most activities as “not sex.” Oral, anal, manual, just the tip, no orgasm = not sex to many of those guys.
My friend – let’s call her Apple – left me a voicemail message over the weekend. Pure transcription:
Fri March 12 @5:46pm
“Hey, Dee. It’s Apple. You know, sometimes I have totally f*cked up thoughts and experiences that I should never share with anyone. Which is why I’m calling. Because when I have these thoughts and experiences, I feel that I can call and share them with you. Because I know you won’t judge me. And more often than not, your mind has morphed in the same totally strange same f*cked up area that mine has.
So here we go.
There I am getting my pap today. My OB/GYN is female.
I’m hanging out and she puts her fingers inside of me. And I’m not saying I became aroused, by any means, I’m just saying it’s been awhile since that happened.
And the thought crossed my mind, “Wow, that’s really pleasant.”
Then I started laughing up on the table. And they’re like, “What?” and I’m all, “Oh nothing.”
I cracked myself up because I realized that I found some part of a pap smear to be . . . pleasant.
Alright, there you go. I got it out. I got it out in the world. I just needed to do that, and I’m happy that you were there for me.
I’ll talk to you later, Dee. Bye.”