Skip to content

Bedtime reading

3 August 2012

I am bad at all this New Age stuff; I have no patience for talk of “chi.” I’m just like “get to the squirting part!”

Advertisements

So, apparently, I’m a bottom

8 July 2012

Alright boys and girls, it’s time to get down to some real shit.

As I will tell anyone who stands still long enough, I am a feminist. I think our society is deeply misogynistic and sexist, and I want women to (and I choose this word purposefully) penetrate all the strata of eliteness and boys’ clubs. Seriously, I’d like to carpet-bomb Wall Street with a bunch of kickass dykes.

Image

Picked as “Hottest queerest woman” by Autostraddle this year.

When watching porn (which is for another post), I didn’t really go for the Femdom stuff. Hell, at that point it was more about mechanics for me. “Oh, that’s what 69 looks like!”

You get the gist.

But I did notice that I don’t particularly love watching women give blowjobs, I hate videos when the women don’t even pretend to come, and after one or two adventures I stayed away from public humiliation and gang bang scenes.

None of this is that surprising; there are plenty of women who enjoy this stuff (and you go, girl!) but coupled with my dominant personality and feminist politics I naturally assumed I’d be a top in bed.

But, apparently, I’m a bottom.

I should have seen this coming. I saw the SATC episode where Miranda’s all “When he orders me around in life, it drives me crazy. But when he orders me around in bed, it really drives me crazy. It’s totally hot!” But there is nothing like sex: life isn’t like it, tv shows aren’t like it, apparently even getting off by myself to porn isn’t like it.

I forget a lot of stuff; I think my bad memory can actually be a great thing for my peace of mind. But I’ll never forget the moment I first realized how instinctive my bottomness seems to be. He was banging away at me, doggy style (he’s an ass man…) and it was probably our 5th time doing it or so. All of a sudden, I got this urge to throw my arms behind my back and cross them, straightjacket style. I didn’t want to have my hands free, and since we were already going at it I was going to have to tell him that with actions, not a reasoned “So, what do you think about restraint?” He took my cue, like a gentleman, and grabbed them, then, for good measure, got a solid fistful of my hair and jerked my head back. I fucking loved it.

Recently I’ve been wanting to try tying my arms to the bedposts. Domination works for him, although apparently being dominated works for me even more, so I’m hoping to get on that hotness soon.

Looks fun, right?

It doesn’t stop there. I’ve found that I actually quite like giving head. He doesn’t let me do it enough because he wants to get to the main act! I wouldn’t mind going down on him more; I want to try being facefucked, but I think I’ll really have to coax that one out of him. My “Let’s see if I like it!” mentality makes for an interesting, if somewhat schizophrenic, sex life.

And then, he came on my face. We had talked about it before. Well, sexted. And I didn’t feel degraded at all! Or maybe I did, and that was hidden under how hot it felt for both of us–maybe feeling degraded was what made it hot.

So what’s a liberal, feminist, graduate degree woman supposed to do with herself? I probably would have had some mental issues with all of this if I hadn’t done all my kinky virgin research first. I didn’t expect to like this shit, but I wasn’t freaked out when I did. FB1 told me a saying that sounds spot on to me: “Everything in the world is about sex. Except sex, which is about power.” And, apparently, nothing turns me on more than handing someone else the power that I demand wielding like a clumsy caveman club every day. Who woulda thunk?

The (First?) Fuck Buddy

20 June 2012

How does a girl go from being a conservative Christian virgin to, well, me? I’m sure there are many routes, but mine took me through Dan-the-man Savage. I found his Savage Love column sometime at the end of college and, let me tell you, my mind was blown. Here was this whole world of fascinating people with fascinating sexual proclivities, people who could also write elegant or funny prose and use grammar correctly. There was the guy into wearing adult diapers, the feminist concerned by her own rape fantasies, and the cuckold fetish couple who thanked Dan for showing them the way. I was hooked.

I mean, I’m sure I could have found a better image. But a 30-second Google search was all I wanted to do to find this, thank you very much.

Nothing happened right away, but years of reading his column and others that it led me to wormed their way into my consciousness. I became a sexual rationalist, instead of a sexual moralist; my views on fucking changed a long time before the actual fucking commenced. The problem was, I was a little yellow. It’s easy to intellectualize and theorize about one’s changing views. I prided myself from my transformation from a prude (at least in the eyes of my friends) to a liberated woman (at least in the eyes of my friends) because I was “up for” all sorts of things, in theory. The car still hadn’t been test-driven, though.

One of my rationalist sexual positions was that at this point I wanted to have sex and get the hang of it, not have sex and fall in love. Enter the Fuck Buddy, affectionately known hereafter as FB1 (Hey, I’m an optimist). I was hanging out with a friend, we were drunk, he propositioned me, and I felt like he was a good candidate. We made out, got undressed, fantasized out loud, he went down on me, and we mutually masturbated. It was an absolute blast. I told him why we didn’t do everything, and he was surprisingly fine with it. All he said was “Oh, really? Well that explains some of your…reluctance.” I had been all conditioned to expect one of two reactions when a guy-of-the-world was confronted by a virgin: extreme terror or extreme fetishization. Not “shrug.”

(This would probably be a good place to expound on the complications of “virginity,” but, in a rare moment of self-control, I’ll save it for another time.)

Apparently it was a faux pas to sneak away at 3am, but, hey, that’s the kind of girl I am. I rode the subway home exhilarated–I’d found my one! And in this case “one” means no-strings-attached booty call, not Prince Charming.

I’ll give you the details on our first time in another post, but can I stop here to give the Friends-With-Benefits situation a ringing endorsement? Once he knew what I wanted–it was pretty clear what he wanted–we started having fun and have been, off-and-on, for seven months. We like each other immensely but don’t like like each other. We are mutually attracted but not overwhelmingly so. He’s polite but not cloying, I’m detached but not rude (I think). We get along enough to enjoy seeing each other even without the sex–although we both would rather do it every time. I’d rather do it twice every time.

Don’t believe the movies! It can just be like this: good sex, with no eventual realization of “true” feelings.

Having my first sexual experiences with a friend+ has been ideal. I mean, I see the appeal of fumbling around in a car at 15 with your “first true love,” but that shit’s not for me. And, disclaimer, my set-up is not for everyone. But it’s for me. Many of the sexual experiences I want to write about have happened with my lovely FB1. He’s been a good-looking, horny, safe companion for my explorations, and woo-ee have I enjoyed it.

The Gyno. Blood like whoa

3 May 2012

Once I had figured out that I had a willing partner (more on that later) and lots of pent-up sexual frustration, I decided to be an adult and go to the gyno. For the first time in my life. When I was 25. Insane, right? Whenever I’d wonder aloud to my mother, “Don’t you think I should go by now?” She’d reply, “Well, there’s no need to go until you’re going to get married.” The clear fact that I wasn’t anywhere near that blissful state made no impression on her, or perhaps she was just in denial. She had gotten married at 22, so went to the gynecologist when she was engaged and 21 years old. The fundamentalist life can be very easy in a certain, perverse, ignorance-is-bliss kind of way.

So I went to a gyno recommended by my friend (it was that or stick my finger in the White Pages) who was described to me as “touchy-feely” and “new agey.” Since I hadn’t even looked at my own anatomy a whole lot, and still at this point in my life–25, remember?–was using pads instead of tampons, I wanted as soft a transition as possible. So I set up the appointment, freaked out a little, and went.

Turns out, the wonderful Dr. New Age had switched offices since my friend last went, and was now affiliated with a university medical center. The office didn’t seem all that touchy-feely to me, but maybe the standards for friendliness are much lower in the medical profession. Anyway, I made sure everyone knew that it was my first time. Like, the receptionist, the nurse practitioner, the woman who took my blood pressure…

Dr. New Age was nice, if rushed, and not New Agey, in the least, although she was refreshingly direct and supportive. When she asked why I had come in I told her that I had just recently become sexually active, and she replied “Congratulations!” “Yes,” I thought, “Congratulations! I’m awesome.” (I conveniently ignored the fact that 13-year-olds all over the world have been happily humping away for centuries. Hey, late bloomer.)

And then she stuck the speculum in.

Ho-ly fuck.

Fuck.

FUCK!!!

I have never been in such pain, ever, in my entire life. Her “soft belly” whatever-the-hell breathing she told me to do was not helpful, and we were way beyond the point of New Age crap. FUCK! She was reassuringly calm, but then when she stuck her hands in me to tap around my ovaries, and pulled them out again they were covered in blood. Like, it was dripping from her glove.

Friends, obviously my family didn’t prepare me for this. Is the first time (please, dear God, let it be only the first time) this painful for everyone? I got my first Gardasil shot (another thing my lovely parents didn’t do for me–they stupidly, stupidly assumed that their daughter wouldn’t have sex AND would marry someone who hadn’t AND wouldn’t remarry, and so decided to gamble my risk of contracting cancer from sexually transmitted HPV on their version of Christian beliefs…but I’m rambling) and then pulled up my underwear and left, positively dripping blood. There was a pool of it in my underwear when I checked hours later. I still had blood spotting the next day! Goddamn, it was a lot of blood.

Needless to say, this did not ease my mind about the “First Time,” which was going to be in a few days.

You guys! Masturbating!

5 April 2012

I’m afraid to admit it because I still want my sister (Hi!) to try it, but masturbating was definitely the first step. At my Christian college (I. know.), masturbating was considered res non grata. Boys talked about “struggling” with it, especially in relation to porn, and my boyfriend was a “catch” because he almost never did. He was a self-control pro.

But sometime around senior year, feelings started to stir. Specifically, feelings in my vagina. It would get all throbby and warm and I wanted to touch it but the idea repulsed me. Religious women often aren’t really taught about their bodies very well–I didn’t even know what mine looked like, and was less than thrilled at the thought of touching the mystery under the hair. Solution? Over underwear! (Forgive the rhyming, I studied literature.) My roommate and I would get all turned on watching our version of porn: explicit movie sex scenes. (Anyone seen the extended edition of the one from The Notebook? I have that shit memorized.)

I, like a normal human being, realized “Wow, this is fun!” and had my first official orgasm with myself. My longterm boyfriend and I slowly incorporated over-clothes touching (the farthest we ever went), and learned how delightful it can be to pleasure someone else. It was innocent and loving, and so much fun. And, apparently, what y’all had been doing since you were 13.

I didn’t have any other sexual experience for a few years after that–let’s round to 3–but I got pretty damn good at giving myself orgasms.

I don’t know about your sexual libido, but I think mine is on the high end for women: I like masturbating once a day. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but it works out to about that. Can I get a “Hell, yeah!”?

Context

3 April 2012

Hi ya’ll, The Kinky Virgin here.

I know that anonymity is for cowards, which is why I’m employing it. Hopefully after reading this entry you won’t hold that against me.

I was raised in lovely, sunny, conservative, suburban Orange County by two fundamentalist Christians.

My parents are obviously not hicks–my mom did a year of a Master’s and my dad got his law degree; they are successful, middle-class parents with a great 30-year marriage and a California ranch house. They read the papers, enjoy museums and theater (okay, musicals, but close), and talk about politics and religion constantly. They also put a Proposition 8 sign in their lawn, believe in the infallibility of the Bible, don’t drink, don’t swear, and were virgins when they got married. These people exist. They are “Evangelicals.”

I grew up with the whole kit and caboodle. I went to Sunday school and youth group, where I was told all about the “slippery slope” of too-passionate kissing. When I was 14, I went to a purity conference (women only–obviously) where we heard horror stories and talked about how sex-obsessed all men were and how vigilant we had to be lest we blink and they stick in it. We ended the weekend by writing a letter to our future husband, telling him how we’d made a promise to remain virgins until marriage as freshmen women, and wasn’t he lucky we’d kept it! We then placed this letter in a box and covered it with wedding wrapping paper. We also got a discount to buy “purity rings,” to wear on our left hand ring finger as constant reminders. I stupidly got a single pearl ring, and dealt with engagement questions for the rest of high school.

I’ll just give you a second to let all that sink in.

Now. How did I get here? “Here” means a woman with a fuck buddy and a vibrator. “Here” means a woman who watches porn and enjoys masturbating and likes her sex a little rough. “Here” means a woman on birth control who just discovered the joys of explicit sexting and is kink-friendly. “Here” also means a woman who is close to the aforementioned parents, and goes to church regularly. “Here” is complicated.

I’m writing this because my close friends have suggested it as 1) a sort of therapeutic working out, and 2) a voyeuristic opportunity for people who don’t come from bat-shit conservative backgrounds and who learned all this stuff from their awesome liberal parents. It’s also my place to share my enthusiasm for things that it seems that everyone else discovered 50 years ago.