Penetrate

I should never Twitter while drunk.

Some weeks ago, Essin' Em wanted to know if someone would buy her (new in box) dildo for the amazing price of $10. Goofy with two screwdrivers and wanting to help a sex blogger in need, I grandly DM'd her that I would adopt the rabbit, exchanged addresses via email, and woke up the next morning to wonder what the heck had come over me.

Because, you see, Feederism people don't use sex toys. Unless you count Twinkies, but I can assure we don't stick them anywhere but in the most usual place. We're not even into lingerie, really. For us, the best accoutrement is a birthday suit, where you can see all the rolls unencumbered. All of the fiction I have read is so overjoyed at the unveiling and subsequent ravishing of all that soft flesh that there isn't room for any extra stuff. Except for junk food, we're entirely immune to the commercialization of sex. We'd make Bitchy Jones proud.

But there's also my own prejudices to contend with. I have a weird relationship with the penis--or, more precisely, sticking anything in my vagina.

There, I've said it. And I feel very unoriginal, because every woman who ever thought her vagina was "broken" ends up on the internet at one point or another and tries to cure it with large amounts of casual kinky sex. (By the way, this method totally works.) But, even when it has already been written about around a million times, it annoys me deeply that, as much as I think about sex and erotica and two boys making out, even now I'm not totally sure why I get off.

Because, unlike many women on the internet, I CAN get off. I do it about five times a week, and lately I have been able to come harder than I ever have before. I even have a surefire way of doing it: I put a pillow, wrapped in a towel, between my legs, hump it, then shut my eyes and think of pretty boys being forced to eat gallons of ice cream.

Oh, yeah, and it helps if I suck my stomach in and out too, while I'm doing it.

Y'all do that too, right?

It is maybe the least photogenic way of getting off ever conceived. To that end, I feel odd about letting someone else see me do it, and in fact only two people have ever seen me cum: The Colt, who wanted to know what the pillow was for, and Edward, who improvised lines of Feederism fiction until reading them and watching him and squeezing my thighs together made me cum so hard I found myself staring at the ceiling, wondering what he'd say about the fact that I hadn't even taken my panties off.

A part of me thinks it's weird why anyone would want to shove a buzzing piece of hard plastic up inside themselves. Sometimes, I've wondered how anyone manages to get anything inside themselves. The couple times I have put my fingers in there, I've met with resistance, and I've always been afraid I might hurt something. Same with the last few dicks I've had in there: no matter what we did beforehand, no matter how eager I was at the time, there's usually a single thread of pain, which, once pushed through, goes away. But it is never replaced by pleasure...

Gah, I thought, it's no good taking this all apart in some Freudian way. Let's just get over these prejudices, be an adult, buy the dildo, and experiment. (And anyway, I didn't want to go back on a promise of payment, no wonder how I felt about it afterwards.) So I dropped a money order in the mail, and waited.

And waited. See, the payment had to get to Colorado first. And then the toy had to come all the way back here. And then, I dunno, maybe it was detained by the postal service, because I had time to go to NYC and come back, and I still hadn't gotten it. By then some things had happened--mainly, I had been in a room full of eager hands and cocks that were attached to people who knew how to use them.

"JESUS!" I'd screamed up at the ceiling, while the boy between my legs smirked as he proved that the G-Spot does in fact exist. "CHRIST!"

By now everyone else in the room was giggling. "Was it good for you?" asked someone.

See? Classic story: girl goes to big city, girl gets off, girl lives happily ever after. After having five fingers inside of me I found myself wondering what else I could stick inside there. (Cucumbers? Baby hippos?) I was armed and dangerous. I had a roadmap. From now on I was going to be able to tell every boy I ever bedded exactly where to stick what to make me get off!

And then I couldn't find it again.

I had everything, I thought. Water based lube. A sexy video to watch. And of course my own hot mental video of the first time it had happened. When I put two fingers in, I felt lots of wet flesh, but all of it was uniformly smooth. There was an area that felt like a bump, but wasn't that too close to the opening? It had felt like he was halfway to my navel. And pressing on it didn't make me feel like I had to pee, or scream...

To every boy I've ever been with who didn't find my G-spot, I apologize. I can't even find my own. All this fumbling around had decidely broken the mood, and my vagina was going from wide open to discomfort at having one finger shoved up in there, let alone two. I sighed, rolled over, and ground one out the usual way.

Two days later the rabbit arrived.