Virgin

March 31st, 2015

He was a virgin. That was something I’d sworn I would never do. It felt so sex negative, judging someone based on their virginity. After all, it was a social construct that really meant very little. However, I just couldn’t bring myself to deal with the responsibility of being someone’s first let alone the awkwardness and having to be patient with someone learning.

Okay, I admit it: I’m selfish. But I’m okay with that, and I’m fine using that as my excuse not to sleep with virgins. So how exactly did we get on the topic of this virgin?

Now, I didn’t know he was a virgin at first. He was a reasonably good-looking guy I scrolled past on one of the many dating sites I frequent. And by frequent, I don’t mean that I troll them for NSA encounters. I’m not opposed to them, but if that’s the kind of mood I’m in, it’s Tinder for me.

So I see this guy who isn’t totally offensive to my eyes and whose profile has better spelling than a middle schooler. I flick through his photos and see a couple of tattoos and decide that asking about his ink will be my ice-breaker.

Flash forward a few weeks and daily messages. The conversation is fun, and I think I might actually want to meet him, and I never would have gotten this far if he had advertised his virginity. It wasn’t something he wanted to brag about, and I understand why. People like me would have looked right past him.

But I did look at him and the idea that maybe I want to meet him has crossed my mind a time or two when I sign in one night to see a picture of his newest tattoo, an intricate tribal-inspired sleeve that shoots right down his perfectly-sculpted bicep, flows across his arm and ends right below his fingers. I may be a sucker for ink, but his artist definitely had skill, and the design was done well even if it wasn’t something I would have chosen for myself.

So I express my admiration for this new tattoo while wondering what exactly that arm might look like with his fingers buried in my cunt, and he takes me by surprise by offering to show me in person. It was certainly an offer I couldn’t resist.

A few nights later and we’ve sitting across from one another at my favorite dive bar. It’s a quiet night, with a few rough-around-the-edges trucker types and a pair of barely-legal patrons who are taking turns picking top 40 hits on the jukebox.

I’m surprised I took note at all, to be honest. This guy, the virgin, was even better looking in person. His hair was artfully tousled, and he wore a pair of glasses he’d neglected to post photos of. That was quite all right with me, however; I’m a sucker for a guy in a nice pair of specs.

We do the awkward introduction thing, but the ink conversation gives us a good excuse to talk about something, anything, other than the weather. But it doesn’t feel forced like all those terrible first dates I’d been on in the past. He seems genuinely interested me, smiles often and teases me the way guys do when they’re attracted to you. I can tell I’m blushing. I can’t help it, but I’m not sure I want to, either.

We sip a few drinks, volley questions back and forth and make commentary about the other customers. He, as it turns out, likes little dives like this, too. I nod approvingly as one of my favorite Bad Company songs comes on the speaker, and my head begins bobbing to the music.

He surprises me with a completely casual comment about how he’d always wanted to have sex to the song. I’m pretty sure my ovaries are singing his praises, and that’s when he says it.

“But I’m a virgin.”

I try to pass it off that this sexy, flirtatious guy with ultra-hot tattoos has somehow avoided having sex. I’m sure my lack of a poker face did me no favors, but I tried to hide it by taking a long drink from my glass.

He’s obviously accustomed to negative reactions, and he rolls with it, segueing into a question about my own tattoos, which we have somehow failed to remark upon. I show him the symbol of my favorite singer on my forearm, and a spiderweb lace piece on my shoulder while talking about my plan for a black-and-white sleeve on the other arm.

I mention the sugar skull on my left thigh, regretting that I’d worn jeans so he won’t be able to see it, but he doesn’t miss a bit as he grins mischievously and asks if I want to drop trou in the bathroom to show him. It’s so hard to believe he’s a virgin.

While I certainly would have declined that invitation had it come from a stranger at the bar, it didn’t seem quite so odd coming out of his mouth, and his charm was irresistible. I downed my drink and we made our way to the bathroom, trying not to be obvious in a bar with only a handful of customers.

There’s a strange sort of anxiety I feel about virgins, and it certainly reared its head as I wiggled out of my jeans. I wonder if this was the first time he’d seen a woman undress in any way, or if he’d perhaps had heated make out sessions with a former fling that just never lead anywhere.

Under the unflattering bathroom light, my tattoo comes into view, and he seems to take it all in while the last few notes of the sexy song faded away through the door behind me. I take a moment to myself, trying to quietly exhale while his inquisitive eyes were on me.

But then they are back on my face, and I am reaching to pull my jeans up from around my knees. This wasn’t part of his plan, it seems, as he steps forward, pressing my back against the door and leaning down to kiss me fiercely. It’s unbelievable, the type of chemistry I am feeling with this, this, virgin.

It was like electricity courses through his mouth, straight to my lips, jolting across my tongue and igniting throughout my body. If I’ve ever considered breaking my virgin rule, this was the best reason I’d yet had. And if he were to bend me over that grimy bar bathroom sink, I would have my legs and braced my ankles while greedily taking every inch of his cock.

He doesn’t. I knew he wouldn’t, so why is it that his hands have pushed my jeans further down my calves? Why would he carefully lift one foot out of the leg of my pants? And why is he leaving the other entrapped? The swirling has barely stopped from our kiss. Now, my head is swirling with other thoughts.

I don’t know if everyone else experiences it this way, but when someone’s mouth and tongue first make contact with my clit, it’s like a switch flips. There are no more thoughts. It’s feeling, it’s energy, it’s adrenaline and it’s noises that can barely be qualified as human, but it’s not about thinking.

So when he pulls aside my panties and pushes his tongue between my folds against my clit, I’m not relieved that I had worn underwear worthy of showing someone else. I’m not thinking that we’re in a dingy bar or that the bartender, a friend who willy surely give me hell later, has likely noticed our extended absence.

What I do is sigh, my chest heaving with the effort, gasp and allow him to lift my free leg over his shoulder. I lean back to support myself, ruffle my hand through his hair, and let this near-stranger swirl his tongue around my clit and lap at my body with wide, soft licks that cause my legs to quiver.

I bite my lip to stop myself from moaning loud enough that anyone in a two-block radius could hear me, and I push my hips toward my new friend as he adeptly slides three fingers into me, my most sensitive parts surrounded by my body. His tattooed arm, just like I had imagined it, stretches out between my legs.

His mouth and his hand work in tandem, as my body threatens to give out beneath me. For a brief moment, an image flashes in my mind of the bathroom door breaking behind me and us tumbling out, me with only one leg in my jeans and him with his hand up my cunt.

But his eager attentiveness to my needs quickly snaps me back to the present, and I press his face against my body with renewed vigor. As best as I can, I grind my cunt against his face, glasses be damned.

Now, I may be lucky that I can cum easily, but there’s denying that this guy is damned good at what he was doing. It’s one of those moments that feels like it both takes a lifetime and is over in a heartbeat, but I’m sure it’s no more than a few minutes before I am cumming — shuddering and nearly collapsing against him as only the muscles in my pussy seem able of working correctly for that brief moment.

And then he is done, sliding the fabric of my panties back across my vulva, lifting my jeans back up to my hips and buttoning them as he leans into me for another fiery kiss, the taste of me still on his mouth. I can feel him, his hardness and heat, as he presses his body against me.

Sure, he might have been a virgin, but he won’t be one for long.

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Categories: Stories

My Sex Life Can Legally Vote

February 3rd, 2015

And marry. And it can drink in Japan.

That is, to say, I’ve been a consciously sexual being since I was around 8 years old. Give or take.

I don’t remember the first time I masturbated exactly. I remember simply grinding against balled up blankets — never pillows — until I became sweaty and hot and felt finished. In hindsight, that must have been an orgasm. But either I didn’t know the word or maybe it really wasn’t. Perhaps I felt some sort of other closure. And I would stop for the night.

Some twenty years later, I occasionally find myself getting off in the same way. I almost-but-not-quite wake up in the middle of the night, reach down for a corner of my blanket and grind against it for dear life. I’ve always been a fan of grinding.

Of course, it’s not the only routine in my repertoire now, but that’s how this all got started. I was still in the single digits, and I was humping blankets when I was supposed to be sleeping. I suppose I became bolder, sometimes doing it during the day time. I recall masturbating in my best friend’s bed one night while she talked in the other room. I couldn’t quite remember where her brother was. I was relieved to know he wasn’t in the room.

I remember, in high school, masturbating with the door to my room not quite closed. Could someone in the living room see the movement of my feet and legs and guess what was happening even though I wasn’t making a noise?

It wasn’t that I was a voyeur. I was just a horny teenager, and I couldn’t resist if the mood strike. And strike it did — hard and often.

During my teen years, I spent countless hours in chatrooms talking to boys, men, women. Cyber sex, they called it. Back then, it was simply erotic roleplaying. There were no photos and videos, not really. People would try to encourage them, but I wasn’t comfortable in my skin in any way shape or form. During those times, the blood would rush to my clit and my G-spot, making me feel like I had to pee. I read plenty of articles about G-spot stimulation, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t impending orgasm. I just mistook the equivalent of blue balls as a different sort of bodily fluid.

I experimented with technique during these times. I once read that you could use the handle of a Venus razor as an impromptu dildo. I tried. It wasn’t necessarily pleasurable and I freaked out when I realized I was bleeding. I was never entirely sure if it was a cut from vigorous thrusting of a first-time penetrator or if that was my hymen. It didn’t hurt, and neither did sex for the first time. I didn’t give it much thought. I was happy to be masturbating and having sex.

I guess there must have been other household objects, but nothing stuck. It was that blanket or nothing. At some point, I added in fingers to rub my clit, which afforded me the opportunity to jack off wherever the hell I wanted. Eventually, the feeling-like-I-needed-to-pee sensation would fade away, and I’d forget about it.

It wasn’t until 10 years after I started masturbating that I bought my first sex toy, a purple jelly beast. In hindsight, it might have been a bit large. But I used it for a couple years, and it worked for several years after that without the purple glitter jelly leaking. I was surprised. I enjoyed this toy internally and externally, but it wasn’t doing me any favors. I can now recognize that my body just wasn’t used to masturbating in different ways.

I decided that I need clitoral stimulation, too, and plopped down money on another purple beast: the Rabbit Habit. In less than a month’s time, I had broken it because my tendency was to pull the base upward, forcing the shaft to bend. I bought another, not realizing the dubious construction or materials were something that should prevent me from doing so. I hadn’t ever thought about silicone, even though the original Form 6 had already been added to my wishlist.

The second rabbit eventually broke, too, but because loose beads are simply a terrible idea. But between the two bunnies, I had managed to have a toy-induced orgasm. Except, I had no fucking idea what it was. The quick contractions of my vagina felt like an alien, and that’s literally how I described it to a Livejournal group I was part of. Some women replied with “Yes! That’s an orgasm.” Others thought I should see a doctor.

I spend a lot of time researching whether or not a person, especially a woman, could have an orgasm and not realize it. Weren’t they all supposed to be toe-curling and earth-shattering? Mine surely weren’t. In fact, to this day, I’d still describe them as somewhat perfunctory. There have certainly been some pleasurable orgasms, but they’re notable, not frequent.

A few more shitty toys, including pocket rockets, would call my makeshift converted shoebox home before I would finally upgrade to something better, mostly thanks to this blog.  I still focus on clitoral stimulation, and I often use nothing more than my fingers despite my growing collection.

Rabbit after rabbit followed. An interesting night with k-balls and the Miracle Massager led to me squirting for the first time, awakening my G-spot. Or perhaps re-awakening it and reminding me of sensations I had experienced but learned to fight years before.

The years following would include more clitoral and G-spot vibrators, glass, wood, stainless steel and various ceramic toys. Several of those years were spent with my ex-husband.

5 years ago, my marriage started to crumble. Although masturbation was much the same, my sex life would change forever when the divroce was finalized a little over 4 years ago. For months, I would struggled to be aroused and masturbate without fantasizing about my ex, an issue I still face when dealing with heartbreak.

For three years, I would remain sexually celibate. It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, but I also didn’t want to deal with the hassle that came with romance and/or sex. I was sick of terrible first dates. And for nearly two of those years, the hot geek was unintentionally breaking my heart.

2 years ago, I finally left my celibacy behind. I was glad to have broken the fast, but it didn’t enhance my sex life. My drive might have been kicked alive once more, but the very act that was the catalyst for this change also opened my eyes to the fact that there would be no coming back for seconds with this person.

Just under 2 years ago, I would begin a haphazard romantic and sexual relationship with the bartender. There were as many highs as there were lows, but the sex was some of the best in my life. It brought out parts of me that I hadn’t understood or perhaps had even hidden from light for years. I felt whole and I finally understood that my sexuality can never be quite complete without a partner.

1 day, 1 week, 1 month from now, I don’t know how my sex life might look. I can imagine. I can hope that the next time I have sex, it will satiate me in every way. But if there’s anything that the past two decades have taught me, it’s that the life my sexuality takes on is bigger, bolder and better than I can imagine.

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Firsts

May 6th, 2009

From birth, we are trained to commemorate our “firsts.” There is an entire self-publishing platform marketed for these firsts. It is called a babybook. And into these books for locks of hair and hand prints and those first tiny baby booties that seem too small to be real. Other, less tangible and sometimes more bulky, memories fit into the baby book in the form of photos or stories and we fawn over the books almost as much as the babies until, somehow, someway, they wind up in the bottom of a drawer or in the back of the attack, gathering dust.

But that is neither here nor there. However it does go to show that, as a society, we obsess over firsts. It’s in our veins, if you will. Sex is no exception, either. In fact, it might be the epitome of firsts. The “big one”. Virginity. Of course, we don’t put pictures of that in a book (well, some might).

There is a fine line to walk. Certainly I think making that the decision to lose one’s virginity should not be done so lightly. On the other hand, it placing too much significance on the cherry poppin’ can cause a lot of unnecessary stress.

I told all this to a good friend who felt a bit left out. Perhaps “left out” is not the right way to describe it. She was sick and tired of the world saying “But you don’t know what you’re missing!” and feeling like a freak. Yet, she was also afraid of all of that inevitable stuff; you know, the pain and bleeding, the emotional trauma and heartbreak after he leaves. She wanted it to be perfect, like in the movies.

Having sex for the first time is a lot of things, but perfect isn’t one of them. I told her that. I told her that if she waits forever she may miss out on something worthwhile but if she really wasn’t ready, she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, not even herself.

“It’s easy for you to say,” she responded. Maybe it is easy for me to say. Maybe the decision was easier for me. After all, I lost it to someone who I loved and who loved me in return. I was in a happy, long term and, until 3 days before the act, long distance relationship. There was never any doubt as to whether or not it would happen, just when (quickly, if you didn’t catch on).

And I married my first, which some might think as a happy ending. Although, truthfully, there’s some sacrifice to it, too. I probably won’t ever have the opportunity to explore my sexuality with anyone else, a fact which is both comforting yet frightening at the same time. Of course, one could argue that he does not get to explore anymore of his sexuality with anyone else but we all know that I am the best he’ll ever have in all ways. 😉 (And really, I like to think that what we bring to the table for one another makes it worthwhile in the end.)

I guess I was lucky, too. My first time wasn’t painful or bloody. It wasn’t necessarily pleasureful and while it was awkward and not glorious, it felt right. It wasn’t a drunken one night stand. He didn’t break up with me the next day and while it wasn’t all fireworks, I wouldn’t call it disappointing. But I think I went into it with realistic expectations. I think that’s harder for females to do. Sex mimics masturbation for guys and most of them have done so by their first time but it’s not like that at all for girls. We hear the horror stories and we expect to feel like a chainsaw is ripping us apart. Apprehension runs rampant when you fear for your life.

I didn’t expect anything to change, and it didn’t. Except that we were now having sex all the time and I could talk about it with my other deflowered friends (Hey, it was cool). That is crucial to making a memory of your first time that will make you smile rather than haunt you from there on out. My friend, like many people, thought that sex will change something, sometimes something that has been horribly wrong with the relationship as long as anyone can remember.

But sex is not a miracle cure. To be cliche, sex is like putting a band-aid over a bullet hole. Even if it does seem to work, at first, it won’t be long term. Frequently, the wound festers even more because of the superficial healing. When everything comes out, it’s that much worse.

Which was why I shied away from telling her to go for it. In a healthy relationship, sex can do a lot for you but he had been pressing for sex for months and she had simply wanted him to apply himself to their relationship. I had my suspicions and, like the good friend who lets others make their own mistakes, kept my mouth shut. Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised when the outcome was a little disappointing. Things may have seemed better initially but the same problems resurfaced.

And she felt hurt. She had given him something you could never put a price on and his actions seemed to disregard her gift. Her feelings, while understandable, also reflect the disappointment of countless people who expect too much for sex, either out of desperation or because they simply don’t know what to expect.

In the end, no one can prepare you. You can be prepared for the worst but, then, you won’t ever be able to reap the benefits of sex. You can expect Hollywood with perfect bodies and simultaneous, screaming orgasm. You can put your life on hold waiting for the impossible. Or you can accept that it will happen how it happens, knowing that the fantasies we entertain can never be reality.

A little awkwardness will not ruin everything. It may even make the memory sweeter. In the end, you won’t be left with a photograph of what went wrong, but of the feelings of the moment. If you’re too busy lamenting and picky at the faults, it won’t be much of a feeling.

You only have one “first” with sex but, just like anything else, you have plenty of time to get it right, even if things don’t turn out as expected.

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