I didn’t know what the term slut-shaming really meant until yesterday. Hearing the phrase doesn’t sum up the internal burden of secretly loving sex my whole life. In Seattle, I can just say, “I’m from the South,” and most people nod in commiseration. I could detail my specific self-loathing or recall the flavor of bitter I taste but wallowing is self pity isn’t my thing. I’m happy to know myself enough to be here and look forward to the future. Continue reading Sexual Repression
The last time I was properly spanked, I didn’t see it coming. My friend actually listened when I nostalgically reminisced I hadn’t had a good spanking in a very long time. There’s an art to sexually charged spanking that not all people can master. My last spanking was a pleasant coincidence of empathy and intimacy. A magical reminder of something I was missing. A beautiful moment with a good friend.
My daddy issues aside, spanking puts me into a submissive mode. I relish the attention required to sense pleasure in the pain. Attempts to interpret my screams, testing my limits gradually. A gentle caress or teasing word at the right moment is relaxing. It doesn’t take long before I’m dripping wet. In expert style, he finishes with a sharp bite on my ass cheek and cuddles me onto the mattress.
Right before the bite, he commanded me to tell him what I want. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what I wanted. My voice squeaked and I physically clammed up. He sensed my distress and finished promptly. Spared me the drama of using the safe word, especially since I was mute. I was scared but not fearful. Not having a voice is stressful in normal situations. I’m fortunate to have such a loving friend in my life.
That episode is why I’m seeking out a sex positive environment. The best way to get what you want is by asking. I want to at least be able to ask, even if I don’t get what I want. Of course, my recent experience indicates I’ll find things I didn’t even know to look for. I’m going to a singles party tonight and get to discover what edge play is like.
In college, I was known for having loud sex. Frequently. No one in the dorm mentioned anything to me. I found out when my dorm-mates complained to other people on campus. I feel embarrassed that I annoyed people unnecessarily because I’m usually quite polite. To this day I wonder why no one asked me to keep it down. When watching a loud television they’d ask me to lower the volume. If I blasted my stereo the complaints would be almost immediate. I realize sex is a touchy subject but the sounds I make are just noise. Thick, luxurious noise.
My working theory is they enjoyed the show too much to turn it off. Kind of sad really. I was the most entertaining person in the building. I only dated 3 different men the whole time I was there, so things could get creative. At the end of that year, someone left a book titled “Sex Ettiquette” and some lube outside my door as a prank. Joke’s on them because that’s when I discovered the joys of DP. I hope those girls went on to find their own sex to enjoy. I’m still enjoying mine at a loud volume.
Trapped in the front room of my grandparents house in Nashville, I’m aware people are getting ready to leave. The family gathering is almost over and I’m tense. I told my family what I really think and can’t communicate with them anymore. There’s still love in the house but not warm feelings. When I try to speak the only phrases I can say are leave me alone, go to hell, fuck off and I hate you. A clear scale of the same feeling.
I hear a scritching sound coming from underneath the couch. Searching it out I discover a giant black rat. He bites me and I don’t flinch so he settles calmly into my possession. My mother tells me I have to kill the rat. I know why she says that but I don’t agree. Killing is wrong. I offer the rat to a snake and they find a way to mutually exist. That’s when I find the smaller brown female rate. Her bites are smaller and don’t hurt as much but she gnaws persistently until I flinch. The female rat is never fully comfortable with my presence.
It’s time to leave and there are only two cars. I insist I won’t survive the trip if I have to be in the same car as my family. My mother refuses to leave me alone and my father dislikes the impracticality of a 4 to 1 division of the group. I admit that my sisters are welcome to ride with me but I’m driving. No one is happy with that. I haven’t told anyone about the rats I plan to stow away with me. Doesn’t matter that much because they keep escaping every container I try to keep them in. The rats have no interest in a car ride at all.
When I finally go to pack my things I discover a baby rosy boa near the kitchen. The tiny thing bites me but I can’t feel it. Snakes don’t care if you flinch. Putting the reptile in a large clear bag, I bring it with me to the car. Now that there’s a snake riding with me the only person willing to get in the car is my younger sister. Checking Facebook before we leave I see that my friend posted a picture of his father. I read that his dad died the night before and I start bawling. I can’t hide the pain I feel and my family asks why I care so much.
Then I woke up.
Last week, I stick my finger up a guy’s ass during a blow job. He likes it so much our next date is buying a strap-on together. There’s more to the story but I think it’s easier to just get the important part out in the open. Talking about sexual exploration and actually trying new things are completely different actions. After many years of sexual repression, I’m making an effort to talk less and do more. Continue reading Pegging
I chose not to have a baby. It’s a decision I’ve wrestled with most of my life. Having children is an expectation in my family. Fortunately, I recognize my own flaws and would never inflict my existence on a non-consenting child. Not to mention how much medication it takes to keep me sane. Most importantly though – I don’t want to continue the cycle of insecurity and emotional abuse I witnessed in my own upbringing. So when my loving, long-term boyfriend Tim impregnates me, I schedule the abortion exactly 8 weeks from the day of conception. I choose not to have the baby because of my gut. Continue reading It Ends With Me
Where I came from, pot smoking is as illegal as heroin selling. I’m not talking about Memphis (for once). In the 90s, I was a teenager. Growing up as the target during the War on Drugs wreaked havoc on my psyche. I wasn’t anywhere near the drugs themselves but honestly, I have PTSD anyway. America was so thorough during that war they not only attacked people using drugs but made sure to inoculate demographics that might use drugs. Continue reading Collateral Damage
“Have you ever been with a woman,” Dan asks.
“I’ve had intimate encounters with women but nothing I’d call sex,” I reply carefully.
“How do you define sex?” Continue reading Orificexual
At Disneyworld in the 90s there was a state-of-the-art ride that offered a multi-sensory experience inside an alien spaceship. An arena of futuristic chairs encircled a holographic tour guide in the center. Our seats were armed with as many doo-dads as a Dr. Seuss invention and the basis of the experience hinged on reduced visibility. Clever lighting and timed release of things like mist or hot air accompanied the narrative and in-seat surround sound gave the impression of things happening all around the cabin. At one point I even felt an alien brush against me. My 12-year old disbelief was suspended almost the entire time. Continue reading Simulated Reality