When I first began thinking about having a blog like this, I was frustrated at how little frank writing I could find about sex. There’s a lot of erotica, in varying degrees of believability and honesty; there are some small communities that try to answer questions about sex and the female body, usually from a medical/gynaecological dry-as-dust viewpoint; and then there is the occasional site like All About My Vagina which is a wonderful mixture of personal reflection, startlingly honest and detailed descriptions about anything you could possibly imagine having to do with the care and possession of a vagina, and loads of useful, sex-positive, non-judgemental advice. I decided to take that as a model, and consciously try not to avoid talking about all the things that make me squirm.

 I also think that the more context there is available for people, the less likely they are to think that they are somehow secret freaks of nature. Maybe nobody else has the exact same experiences I do, but parts of it have got to be familiar, and it’s much more likely that there are hundreds of other women who are going through life trying to puzzle out their bodies and minds and wondering what they did to be saddled with such a convoluted path when everyone else’s life is so seemingly straight-forward.

So, in the spirit of this honesty, I should confess that in ‘real life’ or at any rate, in person, I find it really hard to talk openly about sex. And to make matters worse, it’s hardest to talk to the people I’m actually having sex with, because they are the ones I try to talk to about what is going on with me emotionally. That seems to take up all my ability to be open. Which is why none of them really know that I have an extremely abmbiguous reaction when it comes to penetration.  

It’s not as simple as saying “I don’t like it.” Yes, it’s almost always painful, even after a fair amount of foreplay, even if we’re talking about fingers and nothing bigger. And no, I don’t come solely from it. And it always leaves me feeling overwhelmed, shaken up mentally; I often find myself weeping a little bit afterwards, but not because I’m sad or hurt, — it’s another facet of the release. 

And yet, there are times when I crave it. I don’t generally masturbate using any kind of penetration at all; on the rare occassions I want it, the hassle of coordinating equipment and opportunity is often enough of a deterrent. But, when it comes to sex with other people, no penetration just doesn’t work either, and soon I can feel the space inside opening out, my hips lifting, my body beginning to hunger, pleading silently, insistent. Whatever we’ve used,  fingers of varying sizes, each additional finger, vibes, dildoes, a strap-on, there is a moment of pain and panic at the entrance, piercing right through the arousal; a moment I fear in anticipation and need to adjust to each and every time.  It’s always been like this, from the first time I tentatively inserted a little finger, to the last marathon sex night. 

What I crave is the feeling of fullness, of being reached so deeply, so far inside. The pain is very brief, over almost before I know it, but each movement pushes me out of the pooling heat, lazy arousal converting to something more dangerous, tension building scarily, threatening to spiral out of control. I can be insatiable, wanting more and more and more, once there is something inside to grip, hold, something pushing me, and to push back against, twisting and writhing like a fish. I can also be aggressive, scratching, biting, pulling, wanting to leave welts and scars, to feel her skin break and body jerk against mine.  I tend to repress that aggression, but it’s been coming out more and more.

At the end it’s unbearable. I have to stop, ask her to hold still, shift focus to my clitoris, anything — as if I’ve been wound so tight that I will break if she tries to wind me even one turn, one thrust, more. Afterwards I sob some of the residual tension out of my body physically in little jerking breaths, pressed up against her, laughing, crying, shaking all over, held together by the feel of her arms around me, her hands tracing patterns on my back, ready to go again.       

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~ by mortarandpestle on October 21, 2007.

4 Responses to “”

  1. Talking about sex openly and honestly with my sexual partners has proven to be an invaluable way of increasing our sexual pleasure and connectedness ten-fold. I find the discussion beforehand to be equal parts arousing and informative, that our bodies move smoother during sex because we’re now on the same page, and the pillow talk afterward about what worked, how things felt, where the intense moments were and what were the spots things could have been better to be not only something good to chat about while laying in each other’s arms, laughing, shaking, sweating and exhausted… but also a great way to feel that our time together has come full circle, that there was closure. Seriously, these discussions I feel, whether they are apart of casual encounters or long term relationships act as a great way to process your own sexuality and identity, but also your interactions with other people. Sure they were weird at first, but they’ve enhanced my sex life and helped to solidify my gender expression.

    I hope you can find your voice soon, as well. Your processing in the entries I’ve read has been particularly insightful and self reflective… I think these types of conversations with partners would be enjoyable and valuable to you.

  2. My comments keep disappearing. It makes me sad.

  3. I think I’ve fixed the disappearing comments, but in any case, they always show up in my email even if they don’t get posted here immediately, so don’t be sad.

  4. dylan: Thank you for your insightful comment. I’ve been holding off on replying to it, mainly because it described exactly the kind of discussion I wish I could have, and am continually frustrated at not being able to, leaving me prone to a bout of what-is-wrong-with-me syndrome. I really enjoy the fact that I can write about sex, relatively unself-consciously; that’s my outlet for now, I guess.

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