With a Woman

I’ve been attracted to women my whole life, but I was married for two years before I worked up the bravery to admit it to my husband. He was initially terrified. And then as it sunk in that this was a part of me I couldn’t change and that it had not stopped me from marrying with whole heartedly, he began to accept my bisexuality.

He has waffled back and forth since then about whether he would be ok with my exploring this side of my sexuality. Initially, he thought nothing could be sexier and then he feared it would make me less attracted to him. Worse yet, he feared I would decide I was never into men at all, that I wanted to move on from men all together.

But as my friendship with L progressed, becoming flirty, then touchy, then even more flirty, I knew there was a chance it could be more. I knew she was hinting, wanting. As we spoke about it more and more, M knew there was mutual attraction, was still scared, but gave me a tentative go-ahead.

It was my birthday, and L had taken me out for drinks. I was loosening up and becoming more comfortable. Then we decided to head home. She was driving and she lingered by the passenger side. When she got in the car she blurted, “Don’t judge me, but I was going to kiss you just then.”

I laughed, “You’re a terrible influence.” And we drove in silence. I was becoming more aroused by the minute, thinking of the idea that it could actually have just happened, I felt myself becoming warm and moist.

“Pull over,” I demanded.

“What?!”

“Get into a parking lot. NOW.”

I grabbed her face as the car was in park. It took a moment for me to acclimate to someone’s kiss that wasn’t M’s. My hands wandered, cupping her breasts, massaging her legs, running through her hair. I couldn’t believe how immediately passionate it was, compared to my other make out sessions in my life.

She demanded I remove my bra and I pulled my dress down for her to reach my breasts. “They’re amazing.” With incredible skill, she found the pressure I craved, playing with one nipple while sucking on the other expertly. My back arched.

“How far are you willing to go?” she asked, looking up from my breasts.

I didn’t answer, panicking. Instead, I instructed her, “Lay back.”

I began massaging her breasts, then licking each nipple. I rolled them in my fingers, gently back and forth. Then I began to suck on them gently.

Her moans were dizzying, she sounded a moment from coming. “Harder,” she demanded. And it was a joy to comply.

We played like this, in a dark supermarket parking lot, for over an hour, going no further.  Lacking a space and spousal approval, we replaced our bras and returned to our respective partners. She came inside to hug my husband when she dropped me off.

As she hugged me goodbye, she gently caressed the side of my breast.

“Next time.”

 

 

The Most Perfect Compliment

This will sound weird, but here goes. Occasionally I visit Chat Roulette. It’s odd, but I do it mostly for its oddity. Being bored, for me, is only one or two notches away from being slightly turned on for some reason. This odd combination has often drawn me towards these slightly off-color, novelty activities like a semi-sexual video chat environment. My thought going in is always, “Could it hurt?” And I almost always find that it does. 

The thing about Chat Roulette is that it is mostly men looking for women. Most are relieved to see a woman at all, and yet sometimes, a man will click “Next” before I am tired of him and do it myself. Herein lies the self-esteem crasher of Chat Roulette. This shouldn’t be possible from an economic stand point. Every time it is sad for me, I’ll be honest. I’m too sensitive. 

Not being a thin woman, I am not a mainstream archetype of beauty. I realize I’m not the fantasy most men log on for and when one clicks “Next” or logs off, my brain says “Duh, fatty! No one wants to sexy video chat with a chubster.” This is stupid, of course. And I know it because of the best compliment I have ever gotten, the point of this post. 

When you click “Next” you are randomly placed with the next random person. Usually he’s a man, and a good lot of the time he’s already naked. On this particular bored, semi-turned on day, I clicked next to find a man my age, looking anxious to meet his next partner. The moment I came onto the screen, self-esteem-battered and feeling chubby, he let out an enamored “Oh, you’re perfect”. The sound of it was so elated, so…taken. And it was so completely not for me. He was just muttering to myself, not even sure if I had sound on. 

It turns out, I am exactly what someone craves. I still go back to it on days where I am feeling unpretty. Once, I was exactly what was needed to cure someone’s insatiable something. 

Bursting Porn’s Bubble

Not so long ago, a close male friend of mine was commenting on how ridiculous the newest Clint Eastwood movies are. Any one with any knowledge of being 80 knows it is pretty unlikely old Clint would actually be able to knock down gangsters and kick them in the face, says he. In fact, upon such a kick, Clint may have broken his femur.

We all know it somewhere: Movies lie. Some more than others. One huge liar, in my humble opinion, is porn. And it’s fine. We all enjoy impossible jokiness in our comedies and ridiculous explosions in our action movies. What would the Street Car Named Desire have been like if it were not for the ridiculous method acting? Why not go with some extra glitz and glitter in the porn department, right? I think it’s fine. My only issue with the situation is this: As a culture, we dialogue so little about actual sex, how it really works, and how to make it the best it can be that we wind up absolutely baffled when men can thrust and parry for 45 minutes. We’re astonished when penetration doesn’t bring women to orgasm upon rolling orgasm. And we’re beyond confused when something that seemed sexy on the laptop does not actually execute to sexiness in real life.

I bring this up today because one of M’s favorite moves to try is to get me to touch myself while he’s inside me. Why wouldn’t he be? Every porn star ever, apparently so turned on by the notion of a penis in general, does this in every porn movie.  I hate this move. As I hate hell and all Montagues. Why, you ask? Well for one thing, masterbating takes rhythm for women. It just does. And with you getting tired and slowing down and me trying to speed up to my moment-o-pleased, its a rhythmic and bizarrely like nails on a chalk board. Why else? Because you’re in the way. Yep, I said it. If you can’t stand perfectly straight and avoid leaning on my clit don’t expect me to be able to reach her. One more reason? I’m the way! My boobs are huge and my arms are short. It is a mechanical impossibility.

In the perfect, Cirque de Sole-like world of porn this works perfectly. Two perfectly sculpted people who do this for a living are able to accomplish this. However, in real life, it does not work. Whoops! Ruined the fantasy. Also, the act of penetration is not so thrilling as to ever have excited me to the point of wanting to self-please while being stared at in spite of all the other factors to interrupt. And in this sexual encounter, I have as much interest in being pleased as you and it doesn’t happen at the mere mention of your penis being a penis around me. I know this may come as something of a shock to many of you.

Your particular penis may be great. But we do not feel the way you feel about it. In any way. At any time. At most, I’ve been able to muster a feeling of affection for the particular penis that occupies most of my sex life. I’m turned on by how obvious you being turned on is. And it turns me on to know I make you feel good. However, the thought that his entry into my day may be greeted with frantic uncontrollable gasps and masterbation…. a little off.

Listen men. Really listen. Because a real woman wants to be pleased and if you ask, can usually tell you how. If she can’t, then explore her. Really explore with the same amount of attention and discipline that court stenographers use. I will cover this a bit more in future posts.

The Story of a Vagina

A few years ago, I went for the first time to watch The Vagina Monologues. It was the first time that it had ever occurred to me to consider my vagina and my relationship with it. And when I did look at “her” and the story of our life together, I considered that there may be some healing we both have to do.

The first actual memory I have of my vagina is pinching it as I tried to hop in the tub over a sliding glass shower door as a child. I was at my grandmothers house. My second memory is that, in her quest for cleanliness, she rubbed her with a rag and soap as a part of my assisted bathing. It may actually be my earliest memory.  And can I say, youch?

I’m not sure how, but at that age I new that my vagina was something to be ashamed of and guarded. I was nervous when she was touched and I was more than a little irked when a doctor needed to “peek inside” when I had a yeast infection. I wasn’t curious about her. I didn’t wish her gone, but I was certain that no one should know about her.

This made it all the more peculiar when she became so fascinating to the men in my life. When I was eight, an older boy offered a jaw breaker or similar treats to see her whenever we were alone. I rarely gave in.

Four years later, in an confusing moment, another boy I knew wanted to put fingers inside of her. Until this moment, I had no idea that she was capable of receiving anything- had no idea she was a portal into myself. And I had no idea how this arrangement benefited either of us.

The story of my vagina and I blares on through the next decade.  I learned how we could feel good together, but no one else seemed to understand us.  I found the path to pleasure on accident, like many women do. I had read a teen magazine article that recommended practicing kissing your pillow. A few moments later, I had learned by accident the most terrifying and beautiful thing I’d experienced until that moment. “What other secrets do I have?”

In spite of having the pleasure aspect handled, we dived into relationships with other boys and later those boys would become men.  I wish I could explain what it is like to have something everyone seems to want and having no idea why. Being a religious teen, I was taunted by my sex drive and my ability to pleasure myself was alarming at its easiest moment. I was committed to my virginity until marriage. I felt guilty about everything I ever “did” with boys.  Their desire to see, poke, explore and grind against was confusing to me.  And it seemed we confused them as well.

Men may weird promises to my vagina- “I’ll just rub the outside” they’d say. “It’ll make you feel so good.” or “Before I’m done, you’ll scream my name seven times.”

When an explorative finger didn’t offer waves of untamable pleasure, the odd finger was never questioned. But my vagina was suddenly scrutinized. When she was untrimmed, she was wrong. When she clenched, she was wrong. When she did not clench, she was wrong.

It’s not the purpose of this blog to explore where the messages men get about vaginas come from. Instead, I’d like to say what it was like to have a vagina. And here is what it is like:

Having a vagina is like loving a B-side Queen song. When you confess to loving Queen, everyone conjures images of their favorite song, asks you about yours and waits… anticipating comradery. But when you offer that your favorite song is “It’s A Kind of Magic” or “The Show Must Go On”, you suddenly find yourself stuck singing their songs with them. No one KNOWS “Magic”. They know “The Champion” or “We Will Rock You”. The conversation turns to what they know, keeping it fun for them. And you get to remain in it in some way- you brought up Queen, after all. But really, it has progressed to being no longer about you at all.

This is the lesson I learned in the ten years while men performed a variety of vagina related science experiences with my vague cooperation.

The message women hear about their vaginas are numerous: “Your vagina doesn’t know what fun is!” “Your vagina is difficult!” “Your vagina is stinky!” “Your vagina is confusing!” Never wanting to disappoint, we behave in response as if the men in question are our friend who believes he is funny and laugh politely.

This is what I considered earlier this week, as M moved my foot in a way that reminded me, like a lightning strike, of the first man who attempted pleasing me orally. He had been so terrible- holding me down when I became uncomfortable and needed to move my leg- that even M lovingly moving my leg for angle reasons caused me anguish.

I curled up and cried. I hadn’t thought about that moment for five years.  And then it was out. I wept, naked and feeling hysterical, having interrupted beautiful oral sex.  And M, a lover and student of vaginas, stood confused as a pain waved over me.

We have a collective story, the vagina and I. M was only recently welcomed into it. He has attempted to get to know her and understand her, sometimes finding us both frustrating and sometimes fascinating in turn.

When you approach a vagina, know that she is filled with memories and emotions. She is complex, she is both beauty and chaos. And she is deeply tied to the soul of a woman.

Questioning the Secrecy

This blog doesn’t use my name. I don’t mention my posts on my Facebook. I refer to my husband by a nondescript letter, much like in a Victor Hugo book.  I find this awkward and an odd way to relate these issues to the cyber world.

For one thing, I’m completely comfortable talking about sex.  It has never bothered me. Even in our most conservative circles of friends, I am at ease sharing stories or giggling about moments shared.  The issue, at least so far, has never been about a fear of me talking about sex.

A worry about the other individual’s comfort with sex shuts me up. And makes me scared to share about this blog to people I know in real life. It is impossible to predict how people will respond to stories and reflections on sex.   Some of the most liberal people I know assume a posture of absolute horror at the mere mention of a sex toy. They bristle at the thought of someone else’s happy orgasms.

Why is that? After all, we are all having sex!  Even those who postpone intercourse are sexual creatures and know what it is like to want sex, imagine sex, self-sex, and probably porn it up.

I’ve heard this isn’t so in other cultures. When I lived in a fairly conservative middle eastern country for a few months, I found the appearance of modesty to be in vivid contrast to the discussion of the women I knew. Under their hijab, they were sexual tigers. We put all our secrets out on the table, laughed and joked about experience, etc.

So I don’t believe americans who claim that our puritanical background has something to do with our discomfort. What could it be that makes us so scared to admit we are animals? What could it be that makes us nervous to be ourselves?

We may never know. But I do know it’s not helpful. Pretending my husband and I never touch only contributes to a society that cannot embrace healthy touch. Never discussing sex leads to a society that both idealizes and fears sex. To know anything at all about it, one needs to explore and since poor resources exist experimentation is the logical next step. Any sex had following is bound to disappoint in a world of porn, romantic comedies, and odd blog entries like this one.

Le sigh.

I’ll say it first, if it makes you more comfortable. I have sex. A lot. Like five to ten times a week. Not always on my bed. Not always in my house. Usually with my husband.

I masterbate. Every day usually. With a sex toy. Sometimes watching porn. Sometimes I chat on a phone sex line if I’m feeling lonely.

We are human. We have sex.

It’s normal.

So speak up about it.

30 Reasons Women Don’t Want to Have Sex

I kind of loved this.

There you go men….! We’re not evil, mean, bitches, etc.

http://thestir.cafemom.com/love_sex/132222/35_brutally_honest_reasons_women?utm_medium=sm&utm_source=facebook&utm_content=thestir_fanpage

Sex Toys… Ah Blessed Sex Toys

When M and I first hopped into bed together, I have to admit, I expected fireworks. After all, our love was absolutely explosive. But it was lack luster at first. Orgasms did not reside around every corner as I may have expected, stamina needed to be worked up. The introduction of the sex toy to our bedroom changed the fabric of our love making. Suddenly, it wasn’t unreasonable for me to expect to cross the finish line every time! M could be less anxious, I could expect more orgasms. All was well. 

We got into an argument recently when M said that sex toys were invented in the sixties and I said it was probably much earlier. It turns out, after some google-research, that the first vibrator was introduces as a method of “pelvic massage”, a cure for female hysteria of the 19th century. Of course it was!

After the invention of electricity, it was the fifth appliance to be converted. FIFTH! Before the vacuum! Before the iron! That’s way too female empowerment for me to handle! 

The first ever, steam-powered vibrator.

 

Finding her picture

I knew that I wasn’t M’s first relationship. I absolutely even knew about her, that she had been before me. But seeing her picture was unsettling. Indeed, I am still unsettled.

Many women complain their partner has a “type” and they noticed how similar they were to other partners, wonder if their individuality is important. What shook me was how dissimilar we are. Where she is lanky and thin, I curvy with bust. While she is carefully groomed, I am thrown together on the way to my next big experience.

I wondered if M, who was clearly capable of attraction to this opposite woman, ever regretted his marriage to me.  I was shocked to see that the picture was taken at a time so close to when we would first meet.   I felt myself buckling as I consider that he would be happy with a me that was…less, perhaps more cluttered, but definitely less.

He is not confrontational, doesn’t appreciate when I wake him with the lap top to ask him about it and explain these feelings. But then, in the most generous way, he holds me and tells me, “I didn’t know what I wanted until I found you.”

And for a moment I feel sure that while I am not first, I take first place.

A Microcosm, A Metaphor

We are so different in our love making, and it has been a journey to figure out how we can be ourselves and simultaneously fulfill our partner’s needs. One of the simplest ways I have found this to be true is in the area of vocalizing during sex.  I am a gasper and a groaner, not so much into talking, but definitely obvious about what is working for me. M is quiet, focused and deliberate. In a lot of ways, these sexual roles are a microcosm of our larger life personalities.

In the beginning of our time together, I found this upsetting. Am I doing something wrong? I’d wonder as he stared continually but said nothing. The most confusing time for this to happen was when I was pleasing M orally, going at it with gusto and hoping for the best. With a sigh, I’d take him at his word that he was enjoying himself, but something always seemed amiss to me.

It wasn’t until a few weeks into our love making that I could even put a finger on what precisely I found confusing. And then I realized, M was completely, utterly, silent. Not like other men who may be modest but occasionally grunt in appreciation when the right chord was played. No, M was closed-lipped entirely.

I decided to bring this up. We had committed to one another. If it was going to work, I would need the affirmation, especially when I was delivering what I hoped was pleasurable.  In the same way that I hope he will express his feelings about a dinner I’ve cooked or a present I’ve picked, I need for him to express pleasure when I am trying to please. But M found he needed the freedom to be himself in bed just as much as I needed his affirmation.

So begins a six-year journey in communication. Funny, the things you find out during a blow job.

Saving Sunday

So bored I could cry. So unable to see an out.

That’s how I spent Sunday.

Until I saw M reading and something was so sexy about that that it could not be ignored.

“I need you, and I need you to make me come with you inside me.”

That’s pretty rare for me, I usually need other help, but man, we tried. And it worked. I think he had forgotten how magical it could be to feel me convulse with ecstasy in this way. Afterwards, he seemed lost in the magic, exhausted by the intensity of it.

It’s sometimes the simplest things.