Glitter. Real Stories About Sexual Desire From Real Women (18 page)

“Fuuuuuuck,” I thought. “Fuuuuuuuck” screamed my vagina. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck” screamed pretty much every part of me. “FUCK IT!” screamed my head and finally I just leaned over, a bit too fast and forcefully, and kissed her.

I let out a loud sigh of relief when she kissed me back.

Grabbing and kissing someone is scary. Slowly moving towards each other makes it obvious the other person wants it too so there’s less of a chance you’ll get rejected, but if you’re getting nothing from the body language it’s a frightening prospect to boldly go where you haven’t gone before. It should have been obvious she wanted me too, we had talked about it for a while and in some detail, yet there was a part of me, the majority part of me, that was still shocked when her lips showed an interest in mine. No matter how many people I sleep with, no matter how many cheers I get as I take my clothes off on a stage, no matter how many people I have in my life that love me, I will always continue to be shocked when someone likes me. As the past fades and I no longer hear my father’s voice telling me how unattractive my body is, my mother’s voice telling me how unattractively obnoxious and stubborn my personality is, maybe a bit of that shock will fade with it. As I move away from my childhood home of quick-fix dieting and single-minded goals, as I swim farther from the fish bowl and into the sea, maybe I’ll begin to see that I am likable, lovable and desirable, even though I was an awkward, fat, loud, nonconforming little girl. Maybe one day I will see that I am likable, lovable and desirable precisely because I am an awkward, fat, loud and nonconforming woman.

But that night, in the room with Costello, I wasn’t there yet. Writing this, I am still not there yet and so I am still shocked, as I was then, when someone likes me enough to kiss me.

Costello’s kiss did give me enough confidence to garner hope that this would go farther and soon I had blue ovaries to go with that confidence. I thought that once we breached the first kiss we would rip each other’s clothes immediately off and go at it like wild rabbits, but again, things moved slowly with awkward moments of tense hesitation. Each step took time and prodding on my part. She wasn’t being prudish by any means, but she definitely didn’t move as fast as I was used to. I was there with a goal and something was impeding my victory. As each minute passed, fear set in, a fear of having to come back here and do this again, a fear of a continued connection.

I liked Costello. The longer it took me to get what I came there for, the greater the chance that like would turn into something more, something less stable, something less cut and dry. As of now, we were people who met on Craigslist with one goal: fucking. The longer I stayed in bed with Costello, joking, laughing, rolling around and kissing, the higher that chance that other goals would form. And I did not have room in my life for any more goals.

Some say it’s good for me to learn to slow down, but my body was not in agreement. My legs had shut down from being open for painfully long, and my mind was starting to join them, leading to boredom and annoyance. The time for pussy footing was over. Now was the time for pussy pounding. Using every part of my body, including my voice, I expressed to Costello that I wanted her inside of me. Now. I didn’t care which cock she used, I didn’t care which condom she put on it, I didn’t care how her harness was attached, I just wanted her in me that very second.

I let out a neighbor-waking moan when I finally felt her slip inside.

Thrust, thrust, thrust, moan, moan, moan, glory, glory, glory hallelujah it was finally happening. My goal was finally met. Whatever happened from this point on didn’t matter. We could take as long as Costello wanted now that I had what I wanted. My belt was notched, my box was checked, now I could get on with enjoying the ride.

Except, I couldn’t really enjoy the ride, not with my legs so sore and stiff from the hours of dry humping we already did on Costello’s couch. I’m quite flexible and usually great at opening my legs for someone, but tonight my body had given up. As Costello thrust on top of me, I groaned both in pleasure and in pain. I had finally gotten what I wanted and I couldn’t enjoy it. I hopped on top, thinking that controlling the movement between my thighs might help stop the burning in them, but soon my hips were complaining too. Just when I thought I was going to have to give up and stop, Costello said, “I want to use my hand.”

Oh thank god, I thought, closing my legs to a more comfortable position. Costello’s hands did not require my legs to be wide open. Costello grabbed a latex glove and some lube, then slowly, one finger at a time, entered me again. Strapping it on is fun, it allows the hands to stay free and makes for a closer connection with your partner, but nothing compares to the variety, specification and adaptability of fingers. Fingers can do five things. Fingers can go five ways. Fingers can take me five different places. All at once. And Costello had very talented fingers. Flipping on my back, she worked me so hard her bed rolled its way across her wooden floor to the other side of the room. All my eagerness for hurrying before was drained out of me, I never wanted this to stop. But Costello was now the pushy one, Costello was now speeding, taking me up, up, up, fast, fast, fast. I had no choice but to go along for the ride. Grabbing a pillow, I covered my mouth and screamed as I went over the edge.

We went for more until my legs gave out and we both collapsed exhaustingly onto her bed. We laid for a bit deciding how to feed our growling stomachs (it had been almost twelve hours since that unsatisfying Thai dinner), but exhaustion won over and we soon passed out. I woke up with a start a few minutes later, realizing I was asleep in a practical stranger’s bed. Even more startling, however, was the realization that I wanted to stay there, that I wanted to get to know this charming stranger. This was a first for me and like my first kiss and my first date, I felt awkward and scared. There was an opportunity for depth, an opportunity for growth, and I consciously ran away from it, choosing once again persona over personal. Queerie Bradshaw did not spend the night, she came and went. So I got up, got dressed, and got out of there in as polite of a way as possible.

It was six a.m., and both the sun and my friends on the East Coast were up. On my trek across town, I called and regaled a few New Yorkers with tales of the evening and thirty minutes later, exhaustingly dragged my body up the stairs and into bed next to Pumpkin, the only person whose bed I could share. He was just coming home himself and we chatted about our mutual morning ménages before passing out with smiles on our faces and pain in our thighs.

Over the next month or so, I made half-assed attempts to get back up to Portland and see Costello, but between finals and packing for my summer internship in San Francisco, it never really worked out. Eventually, we morphed into friendland and that’s where we’ve been ever since. I can’t deny I thought about what it would be like to date her, how it would feel to open up to her, how things might be different if I had stayed in her bed that evening, but there is a time and a place for that emotional depth and I was not ready for anything more that evening in Costello’s bed.

The Power of Shame

Mona Darling

Mona Darling aka Dead Cow Girl, spent close to twenty years as an A-list Professional Dominatrix before becoming a D-list Mommy Blogger. After spending many years traveling the world being told that she is fabulous, she now spends her days being told she doesn’t drive fast enough by her three-year-old son.

My uncle just called me a cum bucket on our private family Facebook group. I really don’t want to call him ‘my’ anything and I guess if I were to call him my something, I should call him my childhood bully or even my childhood molester.

And yes. The irony of my childhood molester calling adult me a cum bucket is not lost on me.

I realize when I dismiss it lightly, that people look at me strangely. But he no longer holds any power over me, so him calling me names is really just a waste of time on his part. It doesn’t hurt me and it makes him look the fool.

I’m considering this a defining moment in my sexual history NOT because it defined my ideas around sex, but defined my ideas about the shame surrounding sex, because the actual abuse wasn’t bad. It was the shame and the guilt that did the damage. I guess that’s why I’m a fanatic for removing the shame from both sex and abuse.

Not that I think everyone should run around having sex with everyone else, I feel, quite strongly, that each person’s sexual proclivities, habits and desires are to be respected. There is no shame in being monogamous, polyamorous, kinky or vanilla, gay, straight, bi or celibate, slut or virgin, it’s your decision, and it’s a very personal one.

My uncle was several years older than me and always a bully. Obviously still is. I was five, living with my grandparents while my mom dealt with other things, and I was terrified of him. Some of it was simple boy-teasing-girl things: sticking a frog in my bed while I was sleeping. Threatening to dip my hand in water and make me pee my pants if I went to sleep on the couch. Convincing me that I could ride my trike down a very steep road.

And in fact I was a big ol’ cry baby if I didn’t do it.

I still have little scars in my knees from when I landed. They have faded with time and only I know they are there at this point, probably more in my mind, than in actual visible proof.

The only time this bully was nice to me was when he and his friends would corner me in some distant part of the yard, behind a shed or bush, and tell me to take my pants down so they could see at my girlie parts. I was terrified of them, but once I did it, my five-year-old brain was thrilled that I had finally found a way to make this bully like me, to make him be nice to me, at least for a moment.

I don’t remember how many times it happened. Nor do I remember how far it went. I don’t want to. I don’t care. I do remember it was a fairly common activity. I remember one time he tried to bully me into getting into sexual positions with the neighbor’s dog, but thankfully his friends decided that was going too far. He promised to make me do it later when they weren’t around to protect me.

I didn’t tell then, because I wanted him to like me.

One time my grandmother came around the corner and caught us. Me with my pants down, him and a friend staring.

Laughing.

She chastised me and demanded I pull my pants up as he explained that I had been following them around doing it all day. Bugging them. That I did it all the time.

I was banished to my room for the rest of afternoon, not to protect me from my uncle, but because my grandmother thought, at five, that I was so promiscuous that I needed protection from myself.

I didn’t tell then, because I thought I’d done something wrong.

As time went on and I moved away, back with my mother to another state, I pushed it to the back of my mind, which had twisted it into “that’s the uncle I explored with.” Even though it was 100% one-sided.

And because it was 100% one-sided, because there was no traditional penis-in-mouth/hand/vagina, I never thought of him as molesting me.

After all, he didn’t do anything. I was the one who pulled my pants down. But more than anything, I didn’t want anyone to know that I had, at one time, wanted this bully to like me.

I didn’t tell then, because I was ashamed of what I had don
e
.

Any time I was around him for family vacations, reunions, and finally, when we moved to the same city, I had a hard time being friendly. I felt I was the butt of all his jokes. I was scared that at some point, in the middle of some self-aggrandizing tirade, that he would tell the family about how I used to pull my pants down to entertain him.

The family thought I was being too sensitive. He was, after all, everyone’s favorite uncle. The baby of that generation, doted on by the elders, looked up to by the youngsters.

It was just me that looked at him in terror and distrust.

I didn’t tell then, because who would believe me?

After all, it was so long ago.

And after all, it was just kids exploring.

It’s natural. Right?

It wasn’t until recently almost forty years later, that I realized that what he did was not ok. That it wasn’t my fault. That I didn’t bring it upon myself.

I wonder if my grandmother knew and just didn’t want to deal with it. If it was easier for her to ignore her child being a horrible bully then to address the issue with me. I wonder if she ever thought that she should have handled it another way or if she just pushed it from her mind.

Or maybe that’s why she didn’t trust me when I was a teenager.

I sometimes wonder what the rest of the family would say. To this day I have not told a soul. You, dear reader, are the first, the only people to know. There is no reason to tell. He would never be punished. I would be further shamed.

I’m not entirely certain how this whole event shaped me. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that over the last couple months as I tried to decide what to write about as MY defining moment. Perhaps this is one reason why I like to be in control sexually. As a switch, I am able to find power in topping or bottoming. Either side is about being desired.

Maybe it’s why I found sex work to be an easy and exciting career. I found a way to get people to like me. Even the bullies.

That’s a double-edged sword though. Because for everyone who likes me because I’m a sex worker, there is someone I can’t tell for fear they will shame me.

I don’t want to think that he did anything to shape me, aside from being a perfect bad example of a human being. And I don’t want to think that he did anything to shape my sexual desires. I feel those desires are mine and they are very personal. I feel that I have explored the world, my self, my lovers, friends and slaves and I have found what I like and enjoy. I have explored my limits and think I know where and what they are. I have worked hard to find out what turns me on and to get past any shame associated with it.

Maybe I’m lucky to see it that way. Maybe I’m just so messed up that I don’t realize what kind of damage he did to me.

Either way, I am me and I am my own imperfect creation.