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.

Normal Sex: The Last Part

Image via Delta Sigma Phi.

1. Desire
2. Fetish


He took me to his house, saying something about all his housemates, how they were in a rock band. He wasn't, tho. The rock band may have also been daylight house painters, but I'm no longer too sure about the facts.

"You're nice," I had told him on the subway. There was something about him that let me know he wasn't going to use me or play with me, that all he wanted was the human warmth.

He said it was because he was from Littletown, the same small town I had gone to college in. "Nothing bad ever came from there."

I found myself peacefully remembering a question I'd read once: Why don't all women who play around get in trouble? The answer was that they're lucky. That night, I thought, I was lucky. His house was still decorated with month-late Halloween decorations--which struck me as appropriate, because I think all rock bands are Goth. There were prayer flags and christmas lights tacked around his window. It was like any room in college, with a copy of the Brother's K. on the dresser. He could have been any of the few boys I had fumbled with on cramped mattresses in messy dorm rooms. I was in a strange house, with a boy I only knew by his first name, but he was already known, familiar.

I asked to use the bathroom, then he took a turn. While he was gone I took off my shoes, lay on the bed. It was all so normal it pleased me.

The only thing that almost ruined it was the quotation. Someone had scrawled a philosophic quote on the wooden frame of his bed. I can't remember exactly what it was now, but it was something about you should make sure you were doing what you really wanted before you died. It bothered me particularly, but then he came in again and I was able to forget about it.

"Take off your shirt and shoes," I told him, "and get into bed."

I had never told a man to do something like that, and it gave me a little thrill. He lay down beside me, just in his blue jeans and leather belt, and we began to explore one another.

I've found that you can never tell much about someone's body until they have their clothes off. With his t-shirt and scruffy beard, he looked like any lit grad, but once he had his shirt off I discovered the kind of body I had never been with. If every one of the men in that club had lined up with their shirts off, I would have chosen him for myself. "Large nipples," I said with pleasure, working my way down his body, "tattooed biceps, prominent hip bones..." He was lean, flat-bellied, and I ran my eyes with pleasure over the subtle curves of his muscles underneath the skin.

"I like your body," I told him when he was on top of me.

"It's not a great body," he said.

"It's a good start," I said, or something like that. I think it was the potential that caught me, the idea that with a few months of work he could look like this. As if I were seeing an X-ray vision of his future life.

I took off my clothes piece by piece, until I was in my corset teddy. He fumbled at the bra-like hooks that held it closed. I laughed at him as I began rubbing myself between my legs: "I have all my clothing off except this one piece, and you still can't get to my pussy!"

I took pity on him and undid the hooks. He fingered me for a while. That was nice. I slid my hand in his jeans

We had a brief discussion of why condoms are uncomfortable, but I can leave that out. He wasn't unwlling to wear one, it going with "the whole thing about having sex with strangers and all."

He started thrusting--not in my pussy yet, just in the groove where my thigh joined my body. With each thrust the head of his dick smacked into my palm, hard and hot through the slick wrapping of the condom. I breathed in as I felt the power in his thrusts.

It hurt when he first put it in, the ache sharp but not unexpected. I knew I wasn't aroused enough. But after the first few thrusts let my pussy know he wasn't there to hurt me it began to get wet like it was supposed to. I loosened up, wrapped my legs around him. I realized it had been a while since I'd done that, it had been impossible with the BHM. I remembered that with the BHM there had always been the strange thrill of his size, his excess of flesh pressing up against my mound and sometimes, a little, on my clit. This boy, though, still made my thighs ache because I was holding him so hard.

I realized, as I lay there under him, focused on his movements as I tried to figure out when he was going to orgasm, that this was normal sex. It didn't hurt, but I didn't feel pleasure. I just rested underneath him, as he did the main work, and it was my job to make it easier by tilting my pelvis up, kissing him, playing with his nipples. There were no strap ons. No leather chaps or handcuffs. He didn't even want anal sex. Just a boy and a girl, doing the thing that a year ago I never thought I'd be comfortable enough with to simply take in. His thrust were going faster and faster.

Suddenly he stopped. He must have cum, I thought, but instead he started whistling.

"What the hell!" I laughed.

"Tantric," he told me.

He did this a couple more times, stopping at the peak of his thrusts to hold himself for me, moving his hips in a figure eight to touch different places inside me. It wasn't his fault I couldn't cum. I only came when I shut my eyes, sucked my stomach muscles in and out, and thought of stuffer boys. I had gone home with him knowing this.

He allowed himself to cum at last. I admired the sperm in the transparent condom, he told me it would be hot if I swallowed it, then added, "No, not really." He was teasing.

It was so late I was a little afraid to go back home. It would take me an hour, and I was deep in the darkened wilds of Brooklyn. He let me stay the night, tho, wanted me to so we could curl up together naked on the bed, snuggle together. That was nice too.

He might not like what I have written. The next morning I wrote my blogger name and email down on an envelope, in case he wanted to see me again. I don't want him to think it was awful, he was funny and smart and I liked his body a lot, I really did. But being with him only made me realize, once more, that my body and my mind don't work like other people's do.