quizzical pussy

The following personal story can be seen as a supplement to my series on rape and consent, although I didn’t set out meaning to write it. I started relating the experience as a brief example in an upcoming entry and it got longer and longer until I realized it was its own piece. To be clear, I’ve never called this incident rape; I’ve never known what to call it. It was a bad experience, though, so if reading it will upset you, read about tentacle dildos here instead!

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Reginald Sleeth and I were having a fight again. We fought a lot: snarling, ugly fights. He’d threaten to kill himself, or to hurt me. I’d bawl until the salt from my tears formed little icicles on my lashes. Sometimes the battles started when I’d raised my eyes too high from the ground in public and looked another man in the face, which always convinced Reginald that I was hell-bent on fucking that visibly-faced man. Sometimes they started when I found out he’d been making promises to other girls behind my back again. Sometimes I didn’t even know what the problem was and the fight just seemed to start without me.

We sat on his futon. I was sobbing, and he was only getting angrier. I just wanted things to be okay; I apologized again and again, not really knowing or feeling why. I said the words “I’m sorry” so many times they stopped sounding like words and became a strange background noise interrupted by the gasps and hiccoughs spewing from my wailing, puffy face. The part of me that I considered my personality had been broken for a while, and whatever was left of me seemed to cry a lot.

His face got crueler and he looked more disgusted with every sorry I said. But I couldn’t stop. It was mechanical now; it was the whirring gears that kept me breathing. Finally, I said the “I’m sorry” that tipped him into a rage. His movement was so abrupt and violent that I assumed he was going to hit me, and I flinched. But he turned away–toward the door–not toward me, so then I thought he was going to leave me all alone in his apartment with no car, no phone, no self. That scared me too. I reached out to stop him from exiting, but I realized I was already being pulled, dragged to the floor by my shirt. He ripped it trying to take it off. He tore my favorite bra too but it clung, wounded, to my body. His grip was too tight on me. The air conditioning was suddenly too cold on my newly bared skin. I shook my head, tried to back up, struggled to regain the safety of the furniture, to get away. I was sure he was going to hurt me. Badly. Maybe he would kill me. He was stronger.

Reginald was on top of me, holding me down with his knees while he undid his belt and opened his pants. He was hard and I was terrified. His anger and his force and my misery transformed even the erection I’d always been happy to see into something frightening. He grabbed my hair and moved me around to my knees, facing him. I cowered as he loomed in front of me, and I couldn’t look at him. I pulled away but he had my hair and I was too afraid of him to really fight. I didn’t say any real, human words because I wouldn’t stop screaming, and then he slammed my head down and rammed his cock into my mouth, and it felt like my face was on fire. I choked on my tears as much as his thrusts. My mewling panic was muffled now, less shrill and more like a ragged, guttural hum. I wonder if the vibrations made it better for him.

It didn’t take him long. When I felt him release into my raw throat it was bitter and nauseating. I wanted a drink of water. I wanted to be sick. But then his fingers jammed into me between my legs, raking against the dry flesh there and now a new pain tore through me. I was afraid to tell him no and I’d run out of screams, but I shook my head again and whispered “please”, mute tears running down my cheeks. And he did stop after a minute, and I curled myself into a ball thankful he hadn’t killed me, all the while just wanting to die.

Why why why why why? It kept buzzing in my brain. It was punishment. I’d finally done something that bad, and I didn’t even know what it was. The amount he must hate me is unfathomable I told myself, like hovering at the edge of a bottomless pit.

Reginald sat on the floor with his back to the wall, looking away from me. His presence nearby was ugly, but no part of me was willing to move. I was still and he was still as I tried to ride the roaring whys in my head. It wasn’t until I heard him crying that I looked and saw that he’d covered his face with his hands. I don’t think there were any tears.

“I’m scared now,” he told me, in a shrill voice that threatened hysteria. “I’m scared because I thought you wanted that and now I’m afraid you didn’t like it.”

Of course I hadn’t liked it! What the fuck? I probably looked at him like he was speaking Icelandic, like he was a Martian teapot or a huge aphid-shaped gumball. Why would anyone want that?

“Remember?” he sputtered. “Remember how you told me you wanted that? I didn’t think I could, but I wanted to try. For you!”

Oh shit. It fell on me, a cold, dead weight. Months ago I had told him that I’d fantasized about “forced” blowjobs. I had wanted it to be like a game, defined sex play done in fun. Not like this. Never like this. How could a misunderstanding be so profound? But it had happened. He’d done it for me. He’d taken my throat while I cried, while I was terrified. And it was my fault because I had literally asked for it.

I unraveled myself from my fetal position on the floor and gestured toward him affectionately. I could not bring myself to touch him yet. I was fighting back nausea and shudders, and tears leaked silently from my eyes. I was so thirsty I couldn’t afford the tears, but they wouldn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” I told Reginald. My voice sounded tired and raspy, but I tried to make it soothing. I knew I had to say this or worse things would happen. “I’m sorry I made you do that, baby. I know it was so hard on you. It’s okay. You never have to do anything like that again.” I hoped like hell he never would. I stared vaguely at his cheap, stained carpet because I couldn’t look over at him and I couldn’t look down at me. I hated us both too much just then, as I kept purring my lies and his breathing quieted. “You were so good, baby. You were only doing what I wanted you to do, and it was very wrong of me to ask. But I’ll never, ever force you to do those things again.”

“Another reason we didn’t work… I think I’m a little kinkier than you.” There. I said it. It was a step away from admitting that my sex life with Edwin Pomble had been on the boring side, sometimes.

We’d been broken up for months, and we still had these periodic conversations about why he thought we should get back together and why I disagreed. I was willing– even anxious, for motives that have all but escaped me now, to try being friends. But I couldn’t date him. Not ever again. The reasons were manifold: they covered energy-sucking dealbreakers like his propensity for creating drama out of thin air, and his hobby of always making everything about him. There was the intellectual and educational deficit that echoed between us, parroting back his plaintive “I don’t know what sanctimonious means, so it doesn’t do any good to call me that.” There was also the fact that he’d said incredibly ugly things when I admitted to him that I’d been raped back in college, which made me loath to trust him. Maybe I didn’t even want to forgive him. Somewhere in the midst of all of it, I suppose I sort of stopped liking him. But also, as a little side issue, there was the boredom.

I have no problem with plain old vanilla sex. I love it, actually. Vaginal penetration, maybe a little foreplay beforehand– I’d never want to give that up. The problem is that it gets boring when the feeling that there’s never going to be any experimentation beyond that “no frills” plain sex insinuates itself. Because frills are such amazingly wonderful things. Even splendid traditional sex seems kind of oppressive when you start wondering if it’ll be the only thing on the menu until time beyond knowing. And that had been my relationship with Edwin. When we had plain old vanilla sex it was often good: his penis was just about as big as I could handle, and he often described cunnilingus as his favorite thing to do– many women would be ecstatic with this combination. He wasn’t very imaginative, though.

Whenever I brought up trying new things he never had a single solitary idea. I understand that sometimes these things are hard to talk about, but I don’t think he was hiding any dark fantasies; I really just don’t think he had any. He did mention that he was open to trying new things with me, though.

Once, I asked him to be aggressive during sex: quite aggressive, actually. We all want to be thrown around a bit and called a dirty little slut from time to time, right? Well, I do! I don’t want constant or erratic, unrequested aggression from a partner, but sometimes in a purely sexual context it’s a game I want to play for a little while. He seemed confused by the request, but he tried it out and did surprisingly well. He actually got quite into it after the first couple moments of uncertainty. I got off many times, he got off, and I felt heartened. It seemed a resounding success! “That was awesome,” he breathed. “Yeah,” I agreed. As we held each other in the dark afterward, waiting for sleep to seep behind our eyes, a new optimism flooded me. Maybe this was the beginning of something. Maybe we could start experimenting more. Maybe I’d underestima…Edwin interrupted my reverie with “If all rape was like that, they wouldn’t call it rape, amirite?”

Um. No. Fuck! Way to make it go from zero to creepy in one sentence, buddy. It kind of made my skin want to flip inside out just to get farther away from him.

I’m not going to say I never discussed trying new things with Edwin after that, but I always kept the discourse hypothetical: I never asked for another damned thing. It wasn’t the first bad experience I’d had sharing a fantasy, but I was determined that it would be the last time with him, anyway.

It helped that I didn’t need anything specific. My kinkiness isn’t very exact. I guess I want to try (mostly) everything: I want to take charge sometimes, get used as a fuck toy others. I want to play with an exaltation of toys, roleplay to make myself dozens of different people, and give and accept pleasure in a thousand different ways. As long as it’s safe, sane, and consensual, sex should be rife with boundless and varied possibilities. That’s the way to keep the game fun, I feel sure.

After our breakup, Edwin was angry and had a lot to prove. He talked about wanting to change for me, but I never wanted that. I didn’t want a different Edwin; I just didn’t want Edwin period. He figured if he could convince me that he’d transformed into a creature that contradicted all my stated reasons for not rushing back into his waiting arms, he would never have to feel rejected again. A few weeks after our conversation about kink, we decided to do the “hang out as friends” thing people often seem to try after deciding they were a big fat mistake together (dating-wise) but before deciding that they’re a big fat mistake together (any-wise). He reminded me of what I said with a smug little grin on his face. “You may have underestimated me,” he divulged. “You think I’m not kinky, but lately I’ve been researching a lot of new sexual positions. Don’t you want to try them out with me?” Aww, honey.

An expanded repertoire of ways to have no-frills vaginal penetration? Wow, somebody call the kink police immediately. Also, no. I do not want to try them out with you. I can actually find sexinfo101.com on my own, thanks.

I’m not afraid of much. I love heights, I relish the chance to get up and make an ass of myself in front of a crowd. When I’m walking alone at night it crosses my mind embarrassingly seldom that I might get jumped. My grandma bought me pepper spray as a high school graduation present, and I never bothered to bring it with me to university: it lay scorned in a desk drawer in my old bedroom until my little brother discovered it while snooping and unleashed its wrath on his own face. I’m not afraid of snakes, spiders, or ceolacanths. Maybe I’m a little afraid of commitment (commitment and velociraptors), but even that bogey doesn’t leave me in a cold sweat. I’ve had my share of ugly experiences. I know that bad things happen, and I’ve learned that this isn’t a safe world. I still just can’t manage to work up much day-to-day fear about things; I have this bizarre and baseless confidence that I can manage whatever nasty surprises come along in life.

That said, fisting scares the shit out of me.

Sometimes I’ll watch a video or read a first-hand account of a woman experiencing vaginal fisting, and it’s obvious to me that the pleasure involved is transfiguring, transporting. It’s all so over-the-top and sexy. The apparent intensity of it is incredibly erotic, and that makes me think “Hmmmmm, what if I…” for a split second. But then, my inner realist shuts me down with “Surely any sex act that would require an episiotomy needs to come off the table, sweetie.”

Okay, medical intervention is probably hyperbole here, but I literally do not understand how an entire hand would fit in me. Four male fingers is the most I’ve ever attempted, and my vagina felt like a clown car. A ripping, throbbing clown car. Three fingers is usually too intense, if I’m catching knuckle. Where would the thumb even go? And it isn’t like my vagina is freakishly small. It’s accommodated some beautiful penes in its day (no, never more than one at a time). I’m pleased when a partner remarks that it’s nice and tight, but I’ve always thought that was more a function of my mighty pelvic muscles than an indication that I’m anatomically much smaller than average. So I put it to you, speaking as the possessor of roughly normal-sized equipment: where would the thumb even go?

Also, I don’t think I could feel right about being the fister unless I was absolutely sure the chick was a seasoned veteran. I have huge hands for a woman. Whenever I consider the possibility of fisting someone I look down at my gargantuan mitts and flinch in sympathy. And I haven’t even gotten started mentioning anal fisting! I can’t even grok that at this point, although I’m thrilled that people are having their fun.

So how does fisting work for these courageous women who welcome it enthusiastically into their sex lives? I guess, like most things that are potentially awesome, it requires training. It’s probably like gauged piercings: you work up to larger and still larger sizes until finally you’re absolutely guaranteed to never have a career in corporate America again. I mean, until you can fit the whole thing in. And I know there’s skill involved: the whole “silent duck” entry with all the fingers tapered to a (relatively) comfortable point (aside: is it still a silent duck if I’m screaming in agony?), the copious lube, the necessity of relaxing. It all just seems like it’s a lot of time and effort to put into making sure I’ll have to order a diva cup in size 2.

Fisting might be one of those things I’ll just have to file under “not for me”, along with water sports and nu rock. Although, what if I tried it with a really small-handed woman? That could be sexy. I mean, I hate to think I’m missing out. You know, fear is the mind killer.

The fabled hitachi magic wand

This is it, people. The Hitachi Magic Wand, the Cadillac of vibrators, the oldie-but- goody, the sultan of snatch. Das Wunderwerkzeug.

I was ten or so when I looked under my parents’ bed (I don’t remember why, but when you’re ten do you really need a reason?) and found a “personal massager”. It was definitely Magic Wand-shaped, although it was brown and cream colored, a tell that it had probably been purchased in the seventies, when they married (at least it wasn’t harvest gold like their stand mixer). I’m not sure if their device was a knock-off or a previous iteration of the legend; the Hitachi Magic Wands I’m familiar with are always a crisp white and blue.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with here, but I had a vague feeling that it possibly had something to do with this sex thing I kept hearing about. (No, I had not yet connected that what I routinely did with the hand shower was in any way related. Why do you ask?) It’s possible that my mother, who to this day is a very religious and reserved woman, actually used it to massage her neck or something. But honestly, what are the odds? She used it to get off, right? And good for her!

My point here is not to think of my mother masturbating, or to invite you to think of my mother masturbating, so seriously, stop. My point here, I think, is that the Magic Wand’s reputation for being timeless is well-deserved. It seems to cross generational and ideological barriers. It seems to get the job done for an astonishing range of women, and the fact that my mother had hers well over a decade speaks to its dependability and durability if nothing else.

When I began to get serious about my sex toy collection I was impressed by its reviews and testimonials. Sure, It looked less scintillating than a lot of the other toys available, but everyone agreed that there was not a better clitoral masturbation aid anywhere. It was a perennial staff pick at every major sex toy retailer: women with access to dozens, hundreds of toys always came back to this, the Cadillac of vibrators. Also, I loved that you could plug it in. I burn through batteries like David Lynch burns through crazy.

So I ordered one. Of course I ordered one! I couldn’t wait to have the orgasm of my life, and then follow it up with another just like it. And another. And another. I was going to make it sorry it ever met me and gave me those come-hither product reviews.

It came in a long rectangular box that I appreciated for not being plastic clamshell packaging. The neutral exterior and the carefully worded booklet enclosed seemed intent on projecting a “you just bought a personal massager, not a vibrator, dammit!” attitude. This amused me, because I was all too ready to corrupt the shit out of my new toy. So I scrubbed up the “soft, flexible head” with dish soap quickly, perfunctorily. I dried it off, plugged it in, and…

It was. Sort of. Meh. It wasn’t like I couldn’t get off with it, but that’s really not saying much since I can technically get off with a smoke detector. It just wasn’t very compelling. It has two vibration settings for your pleasure: “boring” and “clitoris-searing”. On low I could have a quick orgasm, but it wasn’t any better than I could do without a toy. On the high setting I would sometimes have a great, gushing orgasm, but even if I braced it against my pubic bone and let the radiant sensations get me to that climax I would still feel sore right after. Both settings left my clit numb every time. All this is better than having zero orgasms, but for me it wasn’t the spiritual experience it seemed to be for every other woman on the planet.

I was the lonely voice of dissent with a numb pussy and a long future in front of her, full of buying batteries.

Yeah, I tried buying the attachments. Yes, I tried using it through my clothes. Honestly, it’s just not my favorite sex toy. I wanted it to be. I was ready for it to be, but it didn’t work out that way. I would still recommend it, though, because every woman I know who owns one loves hers. Then she looks shocked when I tell her it isn’t my cup of tea; it’s like I’ve just told her that her first born child looks like a lamprey.

I’ll admit that in spite of all this, I just used my Hitachi Magic Wand mere hours before writing this. My hips and lower back were feeling tense and I needed to work out some (actual muscle) tension. Yes. Alas, I’m actually using it as a personal massager, and I absolutely adore it in that capacity. I feel like the one guy who actually did read Playboy for the articles, but it seriously pummels the knots right out!

I guess I’ve finally succeeded in downgrading an intimate relationship into a highly productive platonic one. Go figure.

You know what’s frustrating? Entitlement. Or, I guess I should say a misguided sense of entitlement. I don’t like it when I run into it on the freeway or at the grocery store, and I sure as goddamn don’t like it when it burrows into my sex life.

A sense of entitlement, in my experience, can be the biggest distinction between a date and a rapist. It often transforms a partner into a bully, a disappointment into a snit, and if it doesn’t let up your sense of entitlement will make me want to stop touching your naughty bits, without fail.

Not too terribly long ago I used to mess around with Clifton Overmangle. He proved a challenging playmate. If we interacted on a purely platonic level, we were fine. Mostly. Sure, he mocked my voice, my clothes, my mannerisms, and my lack of coordination ruthlessly, which wasn’t totally fun, but tolerable. When bathing suit areas come into the equation, though, mockery became one small element in a constellation of issues. His only two settings were “not touching me” and “hurting me”, omitting all the luscious possibilities that lie between. Sure, roughness has a place, but more importantly it has a time, and that time is not always. Additionally, his interest in my pussy was conspicuously outstripped by his involvement in my ass. I’m absolutely up for anal play, but I hate feeling like my genitals are either going to be neglected or considered a chore.

Also, he was a “virgin”, only interested in oral and possibly saddlebacking at some point. I’m not a fan of technical virginity in concept. Feel free to do whatever you like on your own timeline, but when you’re sexually active and claiming that you’re a virgin because of which orifices are involved, I have to ask, what are you protecting? A hymen you could’ve broken in a hundred comparatively boring ways? Some magical brand of virtue I’m unaware of that doesn’t tarnish when mouths and asses are substituted for vaginas? A pretend superiority over the rutting masses… you know, the ones who rut in a slightly different way from you? In addition to all the other ways that it’s silly, insisting that digital and oral sex aren’t real sex is tantamount to saying it’s impossible for me to fuck a girl because I have no penis. It’s an absurd construct, and I feel hypocritical enabling it.

Despite all this, we had some good times. On rare occasion, there’s some appeal to the prospect of having a few anal orgasms, getting bruised up all over, and ending up with a penis in my mouth. Eventually, though, the inarticulate rage that I sensed behind his roughness got to me: I became more and more convinced that it was coming from a hostile rather than a playful place. It felt like he was working out his internal choler on me just because I was there and physically weaker. When I tried to talk about it, he opined that I was a control freak and wanted to micromanage his behavior. When I explained that it was upsetting me, he argued that it shouldn’t. Yeah, well, it did. So I went on a Clifton sabbatical. This wasn’t an attempt to punish him by withdrawing sexual favors or acting out of pique; I just felt like our emotional tendencies were poorly matched. Anger distresses me, and he seemed consumed with it.

It wasn’t long before Clifton decided I could help him in another way. I should send him pictures: pictures of my ass, my tits, my feet, my pussy (even my pussy, of all things!). He reasoned that it shouldn’t be emotionally taxing for me, and he would be less bothered by the fact that we weren’t sexually interfacing anymore. It was, he asserted, the perfect solution.

Um no.

“With the glut of good porn out there, I’m sure you’ll manage without me,” I responded, unimpressed. I didn’t understand, he protested. He needed my help; I was more of a fantasy object for him than I knew. My body, my expressions, my blowjobs… there were times when he wanted to get off to me, and his usual porn was no help. He needed dirty pictures from me, and he needed them immediately because he was turned on now and it was getting late. These are arguments perfectly situated to thud against a skeptic’s mind with the true ring of bullshit. How can a fully aroused male not have a plan B? Especially when plan A hasn’t even admitted to owning a camera. Even if he was incapable of finding satisfaction without an image of me to wank to for some occult reason, that didn’t make it my problem. Invoking the already stupid fallacy of “You gave me blue balls, therefore you owe me _______.” at a distance of several miles insults everyone’s intelligence.

He was upset that I refused. I was selfish, arbitrary, cruel, unfeeling, and more willing to indulge my insecurities than help out a friend. For months he repeated his request, and this was the new complexion of our “friendship”.

There are people out there who enjoy trading racy pics over the internet with friends, strangers, partners, whatever. I’m not one of them. I’m not any kind of exhibitionist. When it comes to photographs, I haven’t evolved much past the loathing I cultivated during my adolescent awkward phase. I’ve spent entire years of my life avoiding cameras: I literally cannot provide visual confirmation that I was on this planet in 2004, and I’m okay with that. For me, giving someone sexy pics is a big deal, and it requires perhaps more trust than bondage would.

Now, it didn’t irritate me that he asked for pictures. It irritated me that he did not stop asking. He became pushy, plaintive, and disrespectful about it. I never understood when getting a picture of my ass became his inalienable right. When did desire become entitlement?

After literally hundreds of denials from me, he recently suggested we start meeting up again as a way to alleviate his preoccupation with pics. Circular? Not to be believed! In addition to the old problems, I didn’t want to physically deal with someone whom I routinely had to remind over and over in text that my body is subject to my choices, and that no means no. Even for a “virgin”, you’d figure this stuff is pretty elementary. Thus we found ourselves at a total impasse, and at that point each of us had a moment of crystalline clarity:

1) I realized that as much as I like to give people multiple chances before I cut off contact completely, I actually already had in this case, and things were only getting worse.

2) Clifton realized that I wasn’t going to give him naked pictures or blowjobs in the foreseeable future.

My insight made it a great deal easier to take the insults that flowed from his; I was done, he knew I was done, and now it was just a matter of hearing why I had been really, horribly, inhumanly unfair about all of this. I sat through it because I find that when you deprive a guy of his parting shot, he never feels quite fulfilled enough to leave you alone after that. And Clifton and I were at last on the brink of the exciting and glorious prospect of leaving each other the hell alone for good and all.

I’ve had to deal with this type of thing too many times: just because you’ve had or think you could have fun with my body doesn’t make it yours. I’ll decide what I want to touch, where I want to be touched, whom I want to invite inside me, and whether I want to send images of any part of me. If that’s selfish, then… fuck that. It’s not selfish. It’s my birthright. It’s non-negotiable and as true for me as it is for everyone else. To these few but precious things, I am justly and unquestionably entitled.