Waaaaaay back during the Steampunks in 2013, I remember
being jealous of Steampunk Girl’s story about her first anal sex. Her guy at
the time had been so gentle, so careful, she said. He listened to her and let
her go at her own pace, making it about intimacy, not conquest or transaction.
Marooned as I was with Steampunk Guy and my main
partner, Divorce Grief, I couldn’t imagine a man ever being that kind, that
tender towards me.
I’m kinda glad (Though still irritated!) that my Ass
Project with Steampunk Guy got vetoed on account of feelings, because my ass
journey with The Shy One was beautiful. I don’t remember exactly when my
asshole came into the mix, but I love the memory of him playing there sweetly
and lightheartedly, mischievous and amused. Standing over me, next to me, or
behind me while I was on my knees.
Whereas Steampunk Guy would have ripped off the Band-aid
(Probably a little traumatizingly) with gusto and wrecklessness, the Shy One
was in it with me. He tried a few times, after lots and LOTS of other things,
to enter my ass, but, though I relaxed my jaw (Like I learned in that one anal
sex class I took!) and took deep breaths, I couldn’t convince my inner
sphincter to relax. He tried, ring of pain, he stopped, repeat. Deliberate,
responsive. A dream come true as he almost always was.
The closest The Shy One and I got to anal sex was
during his after-the-big-trip visit. He’d missed me and he wanted all of me—even
fucked me even though I was (I almost always was!) on my period. I wanted him
to have all of me, and I pushed through the pain as much as I could. He
was too big, or I was too deep-down tense, but it was close. He was inside me
in a way that was totally new, in a way my body and my curious mind had wanted
for SO LONG. Painful as it was, I was woozy with gratitude and wildly,
helplessly in love, even more than I’d already been.
So part of the dream came true, hooray! Cue choir of
slutty angels! But then, jetlagged and getting sick and also just him,
he withdrew afterwards, both went home and became a little less reachable, and
I felt abandoned. Abandoned is a big scary dramatic word for a grownup to be
using, but there we are. In those needy, vulnerable, most love-dizzy moments,
he went away from me. Even if he only withdrew a little, I felt foolish, lost,
stupid. I felt like the world was being taken away just as quick as it had been
given. Like the sun had stopped shining.
(I do wonder how much of that emotion I owe to my own
trauma. I kinda wish he and I had been able to sit down and sort out our
traumas like laundry. I wish I could know more about what he was feeling,
whether those shifts to not-liking-me after sex were as real as they felt. But
in the end, it’s as simple as “this feels bad” I think.)
I think, someday when I restart this part of the project,
I’d like to be kinder to myself about it. I’d like to hold out for someone who wants
to be with me after. A guy who feels the afterglow with me and wants to bask in
it. Somebody patient who can pat my head and soothe the vulnerable feelings. He’ll
bring me fizzy water and tell me what the experience was like for him. We’ll talk
all night.
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