NaBloPoMo post 28: The Old Maidenhood, part 2
I thought I was so fucking clever, two seconds ago. "Ooo, I could make this post title be the title of that book I wrote as my senior project in college, only with a twist!" Aaaaaand, it's the same damn title I used for a similar subject eleven years ago.
Oh well. Add a "part two", I guess.
When I was creating the Facebook list for the subset of friends I wanted to read these NaBloPoMo entries (and some other stuff), I was a little surprised to see that I added a lot of college friends to it. Later, I realized why.
I miss being the girl that I was as a senior in college. A girl who could've easily written that post. A girl who had a somewhat unusual sexuality, owned it, and was proud enough to crow about it.
Isn't it strange that I'm far more comfortable talking about my various deviancies, even the "creepy" ones, than I am about my plain old vanilla sexuality? There's so much shame hanging around this story that I've not managed to tell it, not even to very close friends.
Okay, not quite true. My recent lovers all know the score, but what I tell them isn't so much a story as a bumbling, nervous babbling with no flow. Tonight I attempt to do better.
When I lost my virginity (hate that phrase, hate everything about phallocentric definitions of sex, but I need to keep with common speech for now), I thought long and hard about whether to tell my brother. He and I had drifted apart, but I clearly remember him firmly declaring I must tell him, some phone call we did in college. Probably around when I was 18 or 19.
When I lost my virginity, I was a few weeks shy of 31.
I didn't call my brother. I'd been married for a few years by then, and I'm sure he assumed my "cherry" had been "popped" long, long before. I decided not to challenge that assumption.
I've talked on this blog since then a little about sex, but I haven't talked about what first intercourse was like for me, or what it is now.
Virginity isn't a thing that is lost, taken or given. It's not an object, it's not a V-card or a cherry or a flower. Not many women have hymens, and even if they do, it's not the hymen that bleeds. Few bleed at all. Pain and blood are both due to nervousness, which causes dryness and muscle tension. Few deflowerers bother with lots of lube and relaxation techniques, because most of 'em are young men who don't know any better.
I'm going to say the words "intercourse" and "piv" (penis in vagina) a lot here, because I have worked up a personal definition of sex that isn't phallocentric. I encourage everyone, even penis-owners, to do the same. To me, sex is an orgasm in the presence of another. So someone watching me on cam over Skype as I rub one out? That's sex. A cock pounding my vag? If I come, that's also sex. Me strapping one on and pounding an ass- oh shit, didn't quite get off, better push his head towards my pussy and command him to lick? That's my Saturday night. Er, and also sex.
So, I didn't have intercourse in high school or college. Being a nerd and a bookworm and introverted set me back a little. I think I was learning social cues that most get in middle school when I was in high school, then the flirty kissy stuff that most get in high school when I was in college, and so forth.
But I had a lot of time to think about it, and a lot of chances to talk about people of all genders about their first experiences. I found it all so fascinating, I took every sexuality class my college offered and wrote a book aimed at 13-15 year old girls as my senior project. I called it The New Maidenhood, and basically wrote the guide I wished I'd been given then, laying out exactly what sexual activity put you at risk for which STDs (I included pregnancy on my charts as just another STD), and some actual advice about things you could do before or besides ye olde in-out.
After thinking it over and finally getting a boyfriend and a handful of experiences, I realized that I had no interest in penetration. I guess that went way back. I first remember masturbating at around age 5 with a crumpled-up sheet, then a stuffed animal, and then a sock.
A sock?!? I hear you exclaiming. Well obviously, it wasn't for penetration. I'd lay on my belly, roll up the sock just so, and rub it against my clit and vulva. The friction got me off quickly and effectively, though it also made me so sore I could only do three or four at a stretch, max.
Fingers rubbed against the clit were okay, but slower and more awkward. I got into my parents' copy of The Joy of Sex and learned that what I was doing had nothing to do with sexual penetration, yet I still had no interest.
Every once in awhile, I'd check it out. Get aroused, slowly slide a finger or very skinny vibrator inside me, assess. It was alright. I didn't feel terribly much, and was a little nauseous.
It's not that lovers never pressured me to give penetration a try, but I dismissed their urgings easily. I've never been convinced to do something before I wanted it, and I'm very grateful I didn't have any sexual assaulters in my bed. They all took my "no thanks" in stride and enjoyed all the oral sex I was happy to give and receive.
God, I really miss that state. Just so perfectly content in my nonpenetrative skin. Maybe if I had been born later, I would've found the asexual community and stayed perfectly content in it. Or maybe not.
Anyways, I was a most unusual "virgin", in that I'd done a lot of cool, crazy, and kinky shit in my external-pleasure-only body. I'd also read a lot of research, both for my book and on my own, and felt I understood more about first intercourse than many people.
I always assumed that, due to that mountain of knowledge, my first time would be better-than-most, and I'd jump straight from the comfortable-in-her-skin person who doesn't care for penetration to a comfortable-in-her-skin person who rather likes it, with very little transition needed inbetween.
If only.
Eight months after crowing about my nonpenetrative sex life, I wrote a long entry whose second half spoke of finally feeling enough curiosity about intercourse to start the long process of stretching out my vaginal muscles comfortably and researching birth control, again.
But nearly three more years would pass before I finally did it.
November 1, 2006. Eight years ago. Coyote was my first, of course. He'd been waiting patiently all those years. He would've still been completely inexperienced in intercourse himself if we weren't polyamorous. But his first piv partner was a dead fish in the sack, and he only had a few brief encounters. He was happy this was happening, but blessedly not overeager and filled me with reassurances that if I turned out not to like it, we could go back to how things were. No harm, no foul, and he wouldn't feel that his sex life was incomplete because that's how we've always had sex.
I had to make four attempts on four separate occasions before I could get it to work. Despite all the foreplay we always did, my vaginal muscles were so tight and, um. Coyote's not a tripod, but he's definitely on the big side, okay? There would be this stretching sensation that almost felt like tearing, and the pain would make me stop and retreat and curl up in defeat while Saint Coyote soothed me.
Finally, I was relaxed enough, I was squatting over his cock in a candlelit room with a specially-made playlist playing on my iTunes, and finally, finally! The stretching sensation was uncomfortable, but didn't quite get to the tearing feeling. Even though I was on top, I still felt pinned: there's just so much of him to take in, and he's much firmer than the silicone toys I owned. A few minutes of gentle rocking and he came. I didn't, but that entire encounter counts as sex because of course he got me off a few times before the piv.
I remember being elated and giggly, so relieved that it worked at last. My thigh-muscles were all shuddery and I was high for the whole night.
I tried it out at least ten more times with Coyote, over the next few months. But there was always at least a pinch of pain and/or stretching that lasted like thirty seconds after he first began penetrating me. Didn't matter how much foreplay we did, how aroused I was, it was always there- and its presence was so distracting, I couldn't manage to come during the intercourse.
I tried other partners, and that initial pinch varied. Sometimes mild, sometimes absent, sometimes agonizing. I became so frustrated with it, with associating something so many others adore with pain, that Peter had very specific instructions when I went on vacation with him in the early summer of 2008. First, make me come by tongue or external-only fingering. Then, very gently push one finger inside, a second one only when I ask. Only after that, put the condom on and fuck me, very slowly at first. That ritual would work, the pinch would still happen but it'd be associated with his fingers and not his dick.
Long before, I think in February of 2007, I'd stopped trying piv with Coyote. I dreaded the pinch with him more and more every time, and of course focusing on it made it worse. The last time was excruciating, and probably the closest thing to date rape I'll ever experience. It was emotionally ravaging, to hold back tears while the love of your life is splitting you in two. He's not trying to be cruel, but there it is.
A thorough rereading of the Kama Sutra finally gave me a concept of the problem. No failure on either of our parts, just a mismatch. My vagina is medium length and narrow. Coyote's penis is long and thick. It will always hurt, because it's always one size too big.
But true to his word, Coyote shrugged and we went back to our old sexual ways without issue. He had a girlfriend a year or two later. There were many things about that relationship I disliked, but one very good thing was that I felt relieved. He had someone to have intercourse with, so I didn't have my anxiety-voices whispering that I was denying him the One Thing That All Men Want, Really. (Shut up, stupid voice. People are individuals, and they each have different sexual needs and desires.)
After Coyote broke up with his girlfriend, I had a boyfriend for a little while. He crowed about his sexual prowess, but he was awful at foreplay, really terrible. Surprisingly good with his cock, though, and he was my first lover with the stamina to enable me to relax after the (usually minor, with him) pinch and actually orgasm. Because of his awful foreplay, they were usually teeny tiny mini-orgasms, but there were a few nice romps where I got to come hard and lots, just like I have so often with partners skilled in nonpenetrative arts.
I broke up with him, but got back together for two or three rolls around the bed. They were all deeply unsatisfying, emotionally and physically. A few weeks after the last one, I remember him kissing me and trying hard to convince me to come home with him, but my pussy felt . . . closed. Boarded over. Giant "DO NOT ENTER!" sign sprayed hastily over the boards. I couldn't fathom that, but I listened to my body and didn't go to his bed- not that night, not ever again. Eventually I realized that was my pussy finally kicking some sense into my heart and mind. I'd gotten all the good I could get out of that relationship, high time to move on.
So three years later, Tiger came bouncing into my life. He's young and somewhat inexperienced, but an eager learner. And much more importantly, he's wired like me and Coyote: we get off by pushing our lovers to new heights of pleasure. As important as my orgasms are to me, they won't mean much if the person I'm with isn't having a great time, too.
Tiger and I came together cautiously, slowly and deliberately. He didn't even want his dick touched until he'd perfected the ways his fingers and tongue could please me. Intercourse took us quite awhile because we were both so nervous and eager to please. We might as well have been 13-year-olds fumbling in the dark of their parents' basement. Now, though, it's smooth and fun. I want to be fucked a few times a month, and I want to fuck him with a strap-on at least once a month.
The shame I have on this subject is twofold. First, it took me about seven years to go from "hey yeah, I can do this thing!" to "fucking is fun and I get off every time!". That seems like a lot, even including all my inborn caution and insecurities. Second, I'm fucking my boyfriend and not my husband. There's strain there.
There's a slight physical difference between my lovers' penises, though they both fit the same size condom. Tiger's is slightly narrower, an inch shorter, and curved to very nicely hit my g-spot whilst in missionary. So even when the pinch is bad, I just grump at it internally and do everything I can to hurry past it 'cause I'm so eager for the yummy orgasms that are minutes away.
I'm still terrified of the pinch with Coyote. A friend told me it might feel better in different positions than the two basic ones I've tried with him, but I don't have much hope. I did attempt piv with Coyote a few years ago, and nope. Failed again, even with a dildo stretching me out a half-second beforehand. I really think it's a mechanical failure and there's not much I can do. Except for trying it while on some form of muscle relaxant, and even then, I'm not hopeful.
I hate that I'm not having all the wonderful forms of sex that Coyote's into. I hate that I'm causing a minor jealousy that I'm terrified to attempt to quell. I feel caught. Maybe things will be better if I can get my anxiety under control- something I've been contemplating medicating for quite some time now. Maybe I can see a sex therapist and find a toy or relaxation method or something that can eliminate the pinch altogether. I dunno. (Yes, it may be a minor form of vaginismus. Or I may just be a giant wuss about pain, and this pinch is commonplace but shrugged off by most who experience it.)
I wish Coyote was the sort of dude who liked MFM threesomes, or any form of overlapping sex. Like, Tiger fucks me right before Coyote comes home, then Coyote can fuck an already blissed-out, super-relaxed me and maybe the pinch will be minimal or nonexistent. But I don't think Coyote would go for it, and a sex therapist may be my best bet.
Well, glancing up at the length of this, I'm not sure I succeeded in telling this story with any flow. But it's less jumbled and rambly than it was in spoken form, and that's a start. I'll have plenty of time to condense it.
Oh well. Add a "part two", I guess.
When I was creating the Facebook list for the subset of friends I wanted to read these NaBloPoMo entries (and some other stuff), I was a little surprised to see that I added a lot of college friends to it. Later, I realized why.
I miss being the girl that I was as a senior in college. A girl who could've easily written that post. A girl who had a somewhat unusual sexuality, owned it, and was proud enough to crow about it.
Isn't it strange that I'm far more comfortable talking about my various deviancies, even the "creepy" ones, than I am about my plain old vanilla sexuality? There's so much shame hanging around this story that I've not managed to tell it, not even to very close friends.
Okay, not quite true. My recent lovers all know the score, but what I tell them isn't so much a story as a bumbling, nervous babbling with no flow. Tonight I attempt to do better.
When I lost my virginity (hate that phrase, hate everything about phallocentric definitions of sex, but I need to keep with common speech for now), I thought long and hard about whether to tell my brother. He and I had drifted apart, but I clearly remember him firmly declaring I must tell him, some phone call we did in college. Probably around when I was 18 or 19.
When I lost my virginity, I was a few weeks shy of 31.
I didn't call my brother. I'd been married for a few years by then, and I'm sure he assumed my "cherry" had been "popped" long, long before. I decided not to challenge that assumption.
I've talked on this blog since then a little about sex, but I haven't talked about what first intercourse was like for me, or what it is now.
Virginity isn't a thing that is lost, taken or given. It's not an object, it's not a V-card or a cherry or a flower. Not many women have hymens, and even if they do, it's not the hymen that bleeds. Few bleed at all. Pain and blood are both due to nervousness, which causes dryness and muscle tension. Few deflowerers bother with lots of lube and relaxation techniques, because most of 'em are young men who don't know any better.
I'm going to say the words "intercourse" and "piv" (penis in vagina) a lot here, because I have worked up a personal definition of sex that isn't phallocentric. I encourage everyone, even penis-owners, to do the same. To me, sex is an orgasm in the presence of another. So someone watching me on cam over Skype as I rub one out? That's sex. A cock pounding my vag? If I come, that's also sex. Me strapping one on and pounding an ass- oh shit, didn't quite get off, better push his head towards my pussy and command him to lick? That's my Saturday night. Er, and also sex.
So, I didn't have intercourse in high school or college. Being a nerd and a bookworm and introverted set me back a little. I think I was learning social cues that most get in middle school when I was in high school, then the flirty kissy stuff that most get in high school when I was in college, and so forth.
But I had a lot of time to think about it, and a lot of chances to talk about people of all genders about their first experiences. I found it all so fascinating, I took every sexuality class my college offered and wrote a book aimed at 13-15 year old girls as my senior project. I called it The New Maidenhood, and basically wrote the guide I wished I'd been given then, laying out exactly what sexual activity put you at risk for which STDs (I included pregnancy on my charts as just another STD), and some actual advice about things you could do before or besides ye olde in-out.
After thinking it over and finally getting a boyfriend and a handful of experiences, I realized that I had no interest in penetration. I guess that went way back. I first remember masturbating at around age 5 with a crumpled-up sheet, then a stuffed animal, and then a sock.
A sock?!? I hear you exclaiming. Well obviously, it wasn't for penetration. I'd lay on my belly, roll up the sock just so, and rub it against my clit and vulva. The friction got me off quickly and effectively, though it also made me so sore I could only do three or four at a stretch, max.
Fingers rubbed against the clit were okay, but slower and more awkward. I got into my parents' copy of The Joy of Sex and learned that what I was doing had nothing to do with sexual penetration, yet I still had no interest.
Every once in awhile, I'd check it out. Get aroused, slowly slide a finger or very skinny vibrator inside me, assess. It was alright. I didn't feel terribly much, and was a little nauseous.
It's not that lovers never pressured me to give penetration a try, but I dismissed their urgings easily. I've never been convinced to do something before I wanted it, and I'm very grateful I didn't have any sexual assaulters in my bed. They all took my "no thanks" in stride and enjoyed all the oral sex I was happy to give and receive.
God, I really miss that state. Just so perfectly content in my nonpenetrative skin. Maybe if I had been born later, I would've found the asexual community and stayed perfectly content in it. Or maybe not.
Anyways, I was a most unusual "virgin", in that I'd done a lot of cool, crazy, and kinky shit in my external-pleasure-only body. I'd also read a lot of research, both for my book and on my own, and felt I understood more about first intercourse than many people.
I always assumed that, due to that mountain of knowledge, my first time would be better-than-most, and I'd jump straight from the comfortable-in-her-skin person who doesn't care for penetration to a comfortable-in-her-skin person who rather likes it, with very little transition needed inbetween.
If only.
Eight months after crowing about my nonpenetrative sex life, I wrote a long entry whose second half spoke of finally feeling enough curiosity about intercourse to start the long process of stretching out my vaginal muscles comfortably and researching birth control, again.
But nearly three more years would pass before I finally did it.
November 1, 2006. Eight years ago. Coyote was my first, of course. He'd been waiting patiently all those years. He would've still been completely inexperienced in intercourse himself if we weren't polyamorous. But his first piv partner was a dead fish in the sack, and he only had a few brief encounters. He was happy this was happening, but blessedly not overeager and filled me with reassurances that if I turned out not to like it, we could go back to how things were. No harm, no foul, and he wouldn't feel that his sex life was incomplete because that's how we've always had sex.
I had to make four attempts on four separate occasions before I could get it to work. Despite all the foreplay we always did, my vaginal muscles were so tight and, um. Coyote's not a tripod, but he's definitely on the big side, okay? There would be this stretching sensation that almost felt like tearing, and the pain would make me stop and retreat and curl up in defeat while Saint Coyote soothed me.
Finally, I was relaxed enough, I was squatting over his cock in a candlelit room with a specially-made playlist playing on my iTunes, and finally, finally! The stretching sensation was uncomfortable, but didn't quite get to the tearing feeling. Even though I was on top, I still felt pinned: there's just so much of him to take in, and he's much firmer than the silicone toys I owned. A few minutes of gentle rocking and he came. I didn't, but that entire encounter counts as sex because of course he got me off a few times before the piv.
I remember being elated and giggly, so relieved that it worked at last. My thigh-muscles were all shuddery and I was high for the whole night.
I tried it out at least ten more times with Coyote, over the next few months. But there was always at least a pinch of pain and/or stretching that lasted like thirty seconds after he first began penetrating me. Didn't matter how much foreplay we did, how aroused I was, it was always there- and its presence was so distracting, I couldn't manage to come during the intercourse.
I tried other partners, and that initial pinch varied. Sometimes mild, sometimes absent, sometimes agonizing. I became so frustrated with it, with associating something so many others adore with pain, that Peter had very specific instructions when I went on vacation with him in the early summer of 2008. First, make me come by tongue or external-only fingering. Then, very gently push one finger inside, a second one only when I ask. Only after that, put the condom on and fuck me, very slowly at first. That ritual would work, the pinch would still happen but it'd be associated with his fingers and not his dick.
Long before, I think in February of 2007, I'd stopped trying piv with Coyote. I dreaded the pinch with him more and more every time, and of course focusing on it made it worse. The last time was excruciating, and probably the closest thing to date rape I'll ever experience. It was emotionally ravaging, to hold back tears while the love of your life is splitting you in two. He's not trying to be cruel, but there it is.
A thorough rereading of the Kama Sutra finally gave me a concept of the problem. No failure on either of our parts, just a mismatch. My vagina is medium length and narrow. Coyote's penis is long and thick. It will always hurt, because it's always one size too big.
But true to his word, Coyote shrugged and we went back to our old sexual ways without issue. He had a girlfriend a year or two later. There were many things about that relationship I disliked, but one very good thing was that I felt relieved. He had someone to have intercourse with, so I didn't have my anxiety-voices whispering that I was denying him the One Thing That All Men Want, Really. (Shut up, stupid voice. People are individuals, and they each have different sexual needs and desires.)
After Coyote broke up with his girlfriend, I had a boyfriend for a little while. He crowed about his sexual prowess, but he was awful at foreplay, really terrible. Surprisingly good with his cock, though, and he was my first lover with the stamina to enable me to relax after the (usually minor, with him) pinch and actually orgasm. Because of his awful foreplay, they were usually teeny tiny mini-orgasms, but there were a few nice romps where I got to come hard and lots, just like I have so often with partners skilled in nonpenetrative arts.
I broke up with him, but got back together for two or three rolls around the bed. They were all deeply unsatisfying, emotionally and physically. A few weeks after the last one, I remember him kissing me and trying hard to convince me to come home with him, but my pussy felt . . . closed. Boarded over. Giant "DO NOT ENTER!" sign sprayed hastily over the boards. I couldn't fathom that, but I listened to my body and didn't go to his bed- not that night, not ever again. Eventually I realized that was my pussy finally kicking some sense into my heart and mind. I'd gotten all the good I could get out of that relationship, high time to move on.
So three years later, Tiger came bouncing into my life. He's young and somewhat inexperienced, but an eager learner. And much more importantly, he's wired like me and Coyote: we get off by pushing our lovers to new heights of pleasure. As important as my orgasms are to me, they won't mean much if the person I'm with isn't having a great time, too.
Tiger and I came together cautiously, slowly and deliberately. He didn't even want his dick touched until he'd perfected the ways his fingers and tongue could please me. Intercourse took us quite awhile because we were both so nervous and eager to please. We might as well have been 13-year-olds fumbling in the dark of their parents' basement. Now, though, it's smooth and fun. I want to be fucked a few times a month, and I want to fuck him with a strap-on at least once a month.
The shame I have on this subject is twofold. First, it took me about seven years to go from "hey yeah, I can do this thing!" to "fucking is fun and I get off every time!". That seems like a lot, even including all my inborn caution and insecurities. Second, I'm fucking my boyfriend and not my husband. There's strain there.
There's a slight physical difference between my lovers' penises, though they both fit the same size condom. Tiger's is slightly narrower, an inch shorter, and curved to very nicely hit my g-spot whilst in missionary. So even when the pinch is bad, I just grump at it internally and do everything I can to hurry past it 'cause I'm so eager for the yummy orgasms that are minutes away.
I'm still terrified of the pinch with Coyote. A friend told me it might feel better in different positions than the two basic ones I've tried with him, but I don't have much hope. I did attempt piv with Coyote a few years ago, and nope. Failed again, even with a dildo stretching me out a half-second beforehand. I really think it's a mechanical failure and there's not much I can do. Except for trying it while on some form of muscle relaxant, and even then, I'm not hopeful.
I hate that I'm not having all the wonderful forms of sex that Coyote's into. I hate that I'm causing a minor jealousy that I'm terrified to attempt to quell. I feel caught. Maybe things will be better if I can get my anxiety under control- something I've been contemplating medicating for quite some time now. Maybe I can see a sex therapist and find a toy or relaxation method or something that can eliminate the pinch altogether. I dunno. (Yes, it may be a minor form of vaginismus. Or I may just be a giant wuss about pain, and this pinch is commonplace but shrugged off by most who experience it.)
I wish Coyote was the sort of dude who liked MFM threesomes, or any form of overlapping sex. Like, Tiger fucks me right before Coyote comes home, then Coyote can fuck an already blissed-out, super-relaxed me and maybe the pinch will be minimal or nonexistent. But I don't think Coyote would go for it, and a sex therapist may be my best bet.
Well, glancing up at the length of this, I'm not sure I succeeded in telling this story with any flow. But it's less jumbled and rambly than it was in spoken form, and that's a start. I'll have plenty of time to condense it.