Practicing a Sensation

Not really! But sometimes!

(There is/might be a new lovely human in the picture too, but I’m not quite ready to write about him yet except to say:

1.     WHOA.

2.     Yay!

3.     “Good girl.”)

Anyway trigger warning for this story—sexual assault, abuse.

During my twenties and for a good chunk of my time with Sweetie-Now-BFF, the sensation of a penis inside me felt like an elusive, impossible grail, something I wanted WAY to much and absolutely COULD NOT figure out how to get with any kind of healthiness or consistency. I think I accidentally acted out this weird story I tell myself if getting stuck on sexting with The Coach—just another (really fun for a while!) way to convince myself I couldn’t get that feeling. I’ve always thought I’d better become SOMEONE ELSE ENTIRELY to get a dick in me, like other women somehow knew the secret I just couldn’t grasp.

I know. It’s very silly. But I still feel unfuckable-in-this-one-particular way even as the evidence is mounting (ha) to the contrary.

When I was text-playing with The Coach, I got a little sick of fucking myself—all of his delightful big-dick-describing made my fingers feel inadequate and though I came over and over for him, I craved the inside release. I had toys, nice gentle still things that usually do the trick, but I wanted something to take the edge off the yearning, off the power The Coach had over me.

So, having done absolutely no research beyond remembering that one Sex and the City episode, I ordered myself a Rabbit and a whole bunch of lube. Sometimes, I do make good decisions.

My new toy did take the edge off enough, gave me enough of a self-esteem boost that I could admit that The Coach wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. But more importantly, that sensation! The coming-from-the-inside sensation that always felt like an impossible treasure now waits in the drawer for me at the end of any given day, good or bad.

Not only that, it TURNS OFF MY BRAIN long enough to just melt and bask in the pleasure.

It seems a little odd to want to learn to take this feeling, that amazing-superhard-cock-inside-me feeling for granted, but that is exactly what I aim to do.

I want to learn that I deserve that feeling as much as anyone else who wants it. I want t0 practice feeling the joy and comfort and brain-tingle without wondering who exactly I would need to be to get it.

I have to acknowledge that I am massaging out a lot of pain that lives in there too—the loss, the heartbreaks, the losses of autonomy large and small.

Some of that pain is even inherited, I think. My mom may have actually taught me this inside-orgasm-craving-lack-of-agency. I used to overhear her berating my dad for not satisfying her properly, which one night culminated in something-like-ten-year-old-me overhearing him rape her.

What a memory to live in my body along with all of the recent traumas, likes, loves, and grief. I’m happy to be taking ownership of this particular sensation, giving myself a safe, private (well) space to learn what it’s like to feel entitled to, and safe receiving, inside pleasure.

I would like this to be part of building up my self-esteem and confidence enough to actually look for a guy who LIKES me, someone who wants to be close as whole humans. It’s a pretty basic wish, the PSL of dreams. I’m glad to have written it down.

 

 

Happy Friday from Sex Pajamas!

As always, wish you could see the smile that goes with!

One of the joy-sparking things in my life are the pajamas (and other lacy things!) I have just for sexytimes with myself. Just thought you might enjoy a peek.

I haven't taken very many sexy pictures since I gained a bunch of weight, but I see no reason for that to be so! I'm even flirting with the idea of booking a photo session with Fireguy, or at least getting a tripod for my iPhone...

I have a lot more to say about my warm relationship to the camera, but for now, enjoy some nipples. Happy Friday!

Today's Award for Outdoor Orgasming Goes To...

Lately, I've been wrestling with and trying to declutter the amount of patriarchal organized religion nonsense that is still taking up space in my brain. One fantastic side-effect is that I'm feeling my witchy, bitchy nature-goddess side start to re-emerge. For a while now, I've had a very private outdoor spot all my own, and today, I deflowered it. This is a very good thing.

Reunited With My Ass (And Yes, It Totes Feels So Good)

My blog breaks never last as long as I think they’re going to, pals. There are always more adventures to celebrate and I can’t wait to share them with you.

I took down the posts about it, but SG and I are on the outs again, and I think in the long run, that’s the more loving thing. Even though they never asked me to, I really, really, REALLY wanted to be a good girl for the Steampunks, and that was making it hard for me to care for myself and go forward the way I need to, and it was hurting them, too. I hope they’re forgiving me over there.

My ass is sad about SG—after all, he was its first non-me friend, and I thought that that phase of the project might have to be shelved for a little while, but yesterday while I was getting some journaling done, I felt the tingle return, that naughty spark of well-being that means it’s time for some personal time.

I decided to make a morning of it and got all cleaned up—I can’t believe I ever felt embarrassed or afraid about enemas, they’re so easy and pleasant, a loving little thing to do for myself, a slightly more intimate version of painting my nails or getting a haircut. For some reason, they make me feel cozy and cared for.

I kind of associated the Little Metal Thing with SG, but the pleasantness of having it in there trumped any regrets. Every part of me, body and soul, woke up. I felt warm, special, and safe.

The other day, I was listening to this Poly Weekly episode in which Marcia Baczynski reminds us that we don’t have to push ourselves into risky things, especially into types of play that are triggersome. She was talking more about opening up relationships than about sex itself, but I think it applies. She encouraged listeners to find smaller, slower, less goal-driven ways to experiment, things that don’t stress us out, so that we can give ourselves the space to feel the emotions that come up, so that we can have more compassion for ourselves.

I say all of that to say this: I had such a lovely moment with myself yesterday. After I took out the Little Metal Thing and started playing with the Too Big Butt Plug (excellent for wriggling around on, you may remember) I felt my heart speed up a little bit, in a scared way. I backed off from the little bit of hurt that was happening, took a few moments, and breathed with my hand on my heart until it calmed down. This is what it feels like to adventure in a way that is kind to myself (and others!) and I am so, so proud.

For my body adventures, no more struggle. Struggle isn’t the same as work, which of course I love. It’s fighting the tide, trying to make myself do things because I feel like I should, trying to make myself fit when I don’t, and it’s been the source of all the worst things. As I let go of the things that make me miserable and let myself be carried forward, I feel so much more in touch with my better self, more able to just sit back and let the tide of awesome wash over me.

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part One: State of My Ass

In the month or so since I chose Steampunk Guy to be my first ass-guy, I’ve been gradually getting myself ready. He doesn’t have very much time, so I’m doing the gentle parts on my own. This appeals to my sense of independence but also makes me feel (like the Steampunks almost always make me feel) like he’s rooting for me and there are many treats to look forward to.

So, every Saturday afternoon, Sweetie makes herself scarce and I climb into bed naked with a library book until the stress of the week leaves my body enough and I settle all the way back into my own skin. Once my mind starts to wander, I put the book away, feel the warms sheets on me and let myself daydream—about whatever I’m hoping will happen at the night’s party, about past adventures, about the end goal of being covered and filled up by him, crying grateful tears.

Then I’ll start to feel myself up for a while, pulling the blankets down for the feeling of showing off my breasts, loving them wholeheartedly just as I’ve done since they first began to grow. If only all the parts had been so consistently and emphatically celebrated.

Then I’ll let my fingers wander to my ass. For a while I was shy and only touched it with toys, but I’m getting less so. There’s still the psychological barrier of the ick factor—probably more handwashing than the average self-adventure. Should get around to ordering some pretty pink gloves. Also there are some other steps I need to learn, but mostly I just want to teach myself away from the shame.

Anyway, I don’t appreciate that the stress of my Friday is directly expressed inside my asshole. The harder my week has been, the trickier it is to enter, and the more pain there is once inside. I try to massage it away, but still. I must be getting my life slightly more in order though, because on this particular Saturday, everything was open and easy.

Once I’m all soft and ready, it’s time for toys. As you may know, the only butt plug I had up until then is far too big for its intended purpose (I learned that this is a common mistake. And, I think, an optimistic one.) but excellent for wiggling around on. By now, my hoo-ha was opened up and emphatically wet, like a library book that’s been left out in a rainstorm. Every fold was swollen, alert, and perfectly slick.

I usually have the Big Purple Thing out, for sucking or for using in front, but this time, I tried an experiment: I lubed it up and crouched down onto it. Whereas the butt plug, which is about the same width, kept refusing to go all the way in, the BPT went all the way in on the second try, easy and natural as if I’d been doing it my whole life. (I’m realizing it’s not the best tool for this purpose, since it doesn’t have a base, so I guess it’s back to the toy store I go.)

Nonetheless, vibrating and filled up with the BPT, I felt washed with a sense of perspective and realized that absolutely NONE of this, really, is a very big deal. I can do it just like anybody.

I went as long as I could without touching my clit—I didn’t want all of the sensations to culminate just yet. I lay back and thrust against the BPT, squeezing my nipples and moaning my head off.

As soon as I got off and washed up, I texted Steampunk Guy (still on the other side of the country) a high five and told him I’d be ready for him when he gets home. He asked some follow up questions and told me I probably wasn’t ready just yet, gave me some more tasks which I happily agreed to. It was one of my favorite conversations with him. I chose him partly for his roughness, for the catharsis, but these texts felt gentle, insightful and humane, like we really are in this particular project together. Some of my pals make fun of me for waiting for him, but it turns out I knew what I was doing. We may not have known each other long, but we’ve been through a lot of paragraphs:

“It helps not to push yourself too hard or try to prove something.”

Who, me? It surprised me that my I-have-to-catch-up-to-the-other-girls urgency was gone and had been replaced, at least in that afterglow moment, with something like faith.

I had a snack and read some more, daydreamed and texted, almost forgot that it was time to get ready to go to Intro to Anal class and then to Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s clothing optional party. I was running so late that I’d missed the window for taking the bus and parking is from the devil, so I had to ask Sweetie for a ride. My life is just a little strange right now.

Next: A pretty new toy and some literal fireworks.

Screening News: Don't Worry and Keep Kissing

Gold star to me for being such an excellent sex-friend that I spent part of my vacation day getting my hoo-ha up to date. Some tests you have to wait for of course but my good news is that HPV hasn't come back still (it's been almost two years) so it's probably time to stop fussing about that.

I also had a concern that I'd been exposed to HSV 1 (that's the mouth kind) indirectly. (Describing how felt superbraggy!) The nurse practitioner told me not to worry about it, to go ahead and kiss all I want unless I see symptoms. I kind of knew that was the case, but I needed a medical professional to say it to me before proceeding.

Going to celebrate by kicking Sweetie out for the afternoon and having a bunch of personal time--it's been a little while since I really went to town on myself.

And The Winner for Best Making Me Type With Slippery Hands Is...

Ohmygoodness friends! The Cutest Boy at the Party is decidedly also the most excellent boy in my phone. Not only does he send me lots of friendly and attentive regular texts, but he also sometimes says things that make me go from zero to gushing in like two seconds. Also he's reading me, and you know that's the best way to get on my good side.

Not that he always wants to be on my good side--he's a switch and his bottomy aspects bring out some deliciously growly feelings in me--I've spent lots of quality fantasy time plotting against him. When I see that boy he'd better watch. Out.

Anyway, be proud of yourself, honey. It's been a long week and the company and text-slutty afternoons made it amazing. Such a good boy.

Self Adventure: I Heart My New Toy!!

On Saturday when I went to drop off the ropes, our meeting place happened to be right by my favorite sex toy shop. I’d just gotten my job back and my birthday’s coming, so I decided it was the perfect day to buy my first butt plug.

I get a gold star because I did such a good job of asking the salesgirl questions about which materials and lubes were the best. She steered me towards silicone and of course I chose the lavender one. I looked at the little size, I looked at the big size, and with hope (and honesty) in my heart I chose the big one. It sure doesn’t fit in there but I imagine I’ll grow into it.

Once I had what I needed, I couldn’t wait to get home. My bus took forever to show up and I was tingly and smushy for the whole ride.

Sometimes I like to get fancy for myself so when I got home I put on a purple lace top and lay down on the bed. I lubed my new toy and placed it under my ass, eased it in and felt a rush of urgency and joy. I pushed down on it as hard as I could, rocking back and forth onto it and rubbing my nipples through the lace. I did that for a long time, happy moans and wiggly butt.

When I got around to touching my pussy, it was wetter and more swollen than I’d ever made it on my own before. The harder ass-thrusts brought about eensy little squirty feelings up front—I definitely am capable. I told myself not to be embarrassed to just go ahead and let it happen when it’s time. I may have actually said it aloud.

I was so excited that I was giving all of this amazingness to myself—it was an enthusiasm that felt a lot like new love.  I got out the original Big Purple Thing, turned it on, ran in over my nipples and showed it inside, the two toys ratcheting up the sensation exponentially. At that moment I had a realization that I’m embarrassed it took me so long to get to—I turned off the Big Purple Thing and put it in my mouth. I licked it, sucked it, shoved it down my throat. I turned it back on and ran it over the part of my cheek that always wants to get slapped. I ran in over my pussy and then sucked it some more.

My entire body was thrumming and thrilled. I sat up and pushed harder into the too-big butt plug, fucking it hard and feeling my pussy open further and further, wetter and wetter. I alternated sucking off the Big Purple Thing with  putting my hand over my mouth until I was in a frenzy, then I pushed the Big Purple Thing up my hoo-ha and fucked myself hard until I came. (Not in the fancy new way yet, but still.) I couldn’t believe I’d done all that for myself! I was so proud.

Whenever my ass comes into play, though, I get a little fear-hangover from it, a little triggering. It usually lasts for about half a day. I sometimes wonder if maybe when the bad thing happened in high school they might’ve done things to my ass while I was passed out, but I think it’s more likely that it’s just garden-variety shame. There are so many layers of it that still need peeling away.

I took the rest of the night to myself, wrapped up in a pretty sheet and watched sitcoms. I am so excited for my next self-date, and the next. And the next!

Self-Adventuring: Hand Over Mouth and This, Um, Other Thing

Since I’m partly still in multiple-heartbreaks mode, I have kind of a love-hate feeling towards masturbation at the moment. Still, I’m doing it about twice a day. I’ve always been one of my main (and best) partners, there’s no reason that should change now. Last night when I went to bed I was antsy enough to need personal time, but I was having trouble getting things started. My body chemistry has been off from the grief and I’m not always as instantly ready as I like to be.

My fantasies have been on the rough side lately, so I tried putting my hand over my mouth. To my surprise, my whole body responded. I felt my shoulders relax and a warmth spread down my arms and across my shoulders—it was a miniature version of the warmth I always felt when I was playing with Steampunk Guy, but it was so cool that I was giving that feeling to myself. I was relieved and excited and kind of mentally already writing about it.

And I was instantly wet. I have to admit, too, that the wetness wasn’t just coming from inside. That’s happened a few times lately—I think my hoo-ha is learning to squirt. I think it happened a little this summer but I wasn’t ready to tell anybody about it at the time and there were already too many things to process in that story. (I’ll give you a hint: there was a great big cock shoved all the way down my throat.)

Anyway, I think before my 40^th birthday, (September 2014) I’ll be an ejaculating lady. Fireguy once told me it looks like I can do it, whatever that means. More research is needed. It’s not been particularly a goal or anything, in fact it fills me with trepidation and shame, makes me feel really vulnerable even to mention it. But at the same time, I’m curious, and I want to let my body try everything it wants to.

This morning I woke up triggered, for various related and unrelated reasons. (See the next thing I post.) I think the key to letting things unspool in a nonscary way is, as always, trying to temper curiosity with time and self-care. And research!

Oh, Big Purple Thing

I’ve never had my own big vibrator, and I’ve been wanting one for a while—something really insistent to shut my brain off and make me stop thinking about lesson plans for a few minutes.

So the other day when I was out window-shopping with my friend Angel Face, he helped me pick one out. It was big enough, had the right not-real look (I like the real thing a lot, but for whatever reason I don’t want a sex toy that looks real.) without too many bells and whistles or complicated punch-button controls. I was shy to ask the clerks if it was the bad plastic, so I just bought a box of condoms to go along with it.

It was the first box of condoms I purchased for myself. Sometimes I feel pretty worldly, what with the edge-play and all, but on this matter I am strikingly naïve and brand-new. Angel Face pointed out that condoms are available for free in, like, every queer space around town, and I made a mental note to start taking advantage of that.

When it came time to play with the Big Purple Thing with Sweetie, I felt ashamed. I guess I still feel penis-liking-shame around her (she has made her share of nasty comments over the years, though not recently) and this was almost like having a penis in the room, especially with putting a condom on it. (First time I put a condom on anything myself, actually—can that be right?) I felt like I was being disloyal to her, even as I was wrapped up in her arms.

It felt good, thought, of course it did, and I didn’t know how I’d gone without the sensation for so long. It vibrated my whole body and made me forget the pretty feather thing I was tickling Sweetie with. And then the memories came, and the regrets, somehow not being able to keep Bill in there, MKT and his perfect (but ultimately monogamous) penis, Mr. Popular who never called again afterwards. I miss them, I need them, not those men, but men.

My first time with a nice big dildo didn’t make me feel all sassy Sex-in-the-City-independent; it reminded me of just how needy I am on the inside. Instead of feeling empowered like a good sex-nerd should, I feel pathetic for needing a piece of plastic for something I should be able to get a human being to do. That’s not the right feeling, to be sure, but it’s the one I had.

Throughout my adventures, especially my self-adventures, I’ve noticed that new experiences can sometimes be triggering—the first time I put something up my ass, I had space-issues for days, but it didn’t stop me from trying again. The Big Purple Thing is upsetting to me specifically because I missed that sensation so much—needing something inside me that way has always made me feel too vulnerable, too out of control, and that’s exactly the reason I need to practice it. I’m resolving to try it again until it doesn’t scare me, and to go back to finding ways to let actual men into my life, even if it means answering even yet still more OK Cupid questions.

May Is National Masturbation Month and I Am Celebrating!

**First, some meta-blogging—last night I read one of my smuttier blog posts in public for the first time. It felt great, especially the parts where they laughed. I’d been lagging a bit, but the combination of a few glasses of wine and a warm audience was very restorative. I woke up feeling like today was a holiday, a nice spark/sunbeam feeling for my upcoming adventures—gonna try my best to keep them going. Thanks a jillion to the wonderful hostess and audience—I think I know what the next steps are.**

So May is National Masturbation Month, and it coincides with the fact that I have been dawdling through the self-love exercises in Jaclyn Friedman’s What You Really Really Want. One of the things she recommends is to try masturbating every day for seven days. I would have done that anyway, but she says to try and make it special, to really try and push your boundaries. I recommend trying this—even a handsy-from-way-back girl like me can always learn some new tricks. I’m shy to share some of the experiments here, but here’s a favorite recent self-adventure:

On Sunday when Sweetie and I were driving back from a trip, I was feeling antsy because we’d been away from our bed and missed out weekend sex-reading-napping routine. Also I’d been reading Wicked before we left, which I’m surprised to note is pretty hot in places. So I asked Sweetie if she would mind if I took some personal time on the road. She suggested that I wait until after we stopped for gas, but thought it was a fine idea.

As I laid the seat back, Sweetie offered to switch over to music from her usual podcasts, but I didn’t think that listening to the Extra Hot Great crowd talk about The Avengers would have a bad effect. It seemed oddly fitting.

I borrowed her big green zip-up hoodie to put over me like a blanket. I wanted to show off but didn’t want to be too much of a highway pervert. I pulled my white lacy tank top up and pulled my books out of the cups of my shiny pink bra. I flashed them a little bit, letting the sweatshirt/blanket sit just beneath them. I imagined that truckers were driving by and looking down at me.

I was slow and shy, just brushing my nipples with my fingertips at first, closing my eyes and feeling the sun on my face, looking up at the sky or Sweetie. I felt a little guilty for not asking her to join in. I played with my boobs for miles and miles. I loved letting them poke out from my shirt, seeing them stick up like perfect pink peaks in the sun. I love them so much.

Once I reached down into my pants, it didn’t take long at all to finish. I was very quiet, almost like I had to be stealthy so that the traffic wouldn’t notice. I couldn’t find a napkin, so I wiped my hand off on my jeans. Pretty soon, it was my turn to drive, and time to switch the podcast over to Judge John Hodgman.