Tonight 6/11/09

Off for my date with GF; she hasn't punished me since Saturday, and since then I've accumulated several transgressions that will probably be dealt with severely. I have no way of knowing exactly what I am looking to receive until I am standing before her.

I ruined a perfectly good (and cute) pair of Air Walks by repeatedly wearing them without socks. From sweating in them as I ride my bike, they now smell like absolute hell, and I have them in a plastic bag because the smell is so overwhelming I can't have them open in the same room.

I have whined about my weight several times over the past few days. Worse, I have done it to people who obviously desire me, with the express intention of being complimented by them.

I have experienced guilt about things that in no way were my fault, yet still crippled me.

I haven't even pretended to pick up around here. I did a load of laundry because I was running out of underwear.

I am ready for whatever punishment I receive. I will post what happens tonight when I return.

Bad Night at the OTK Corral

Pretty much since I began to entertain sexual fantasies, there has always been an element of submissiveness-of being punished and humiliated, of being a martyred saint, receiving her torture in meek humility (thank you, Catholic Church). As an adult I've been exploring the boundries of how for I am able to go in power exchanging, surprised by just how far those limits can be. But while I am a "sub"- I do at times have "Domme" itchings. I have very little experience in real life; a couple of boyfriends spanked and penetrated, a woman friend I spanked a few times- that's pretty much it. Once in a while I do get in the mood toTop, and I log into my spanking/fetish site in search of a willing applicant.

When I've topped women on-line I try to do basically for them what I have had, or would want done to me. I might mix it up a little if they have differing fantasies or limits, but for the most part I project myself into their place, experiencing both positions at the same time. But with men it's trickier-I know a couple of Dominatrixes in real life, and they agree with my theory that subbies have a different set of desires than women who are submissives do; they like really extreme humiliation, especially verbal abuse in the "crawl to before your Mistress, worthless worm", "lick the bottom of your Mistress' boots, you disgusting piece of shit", and a whole bunch of other demeaning stff. They also seem to really go in for the Mistress/Queen worship-licking the dog shit off their Domme's boots and serving as her toilet. I absolutely love GF and wish to serve her in anyway I can, but laying under her open-mouthed as she empties her bowels and thanking her for it isn't realistically going to happen any time soon. Thankfully, since she's the one who has to kiss me I doubt she'll demand it.

Because of the gender/power dynamic, being a submissive woman is inherently different than it is for a man; for a man to be submissive in a F/m situation (I'm excluding M/m from this, because I don't know all that much about it) is an intentional, conscious inversion of gender roles that by it's very inversion reinforces those traditional gender roles. By the subbie being passive, subservient, receiving punishment and correction, even willingly offering up his body for violent penetration, he is electing to take become a woman. Consider sissification- where the subbie dressed in womens' clothes and forced to wear make-up, often climaxing in him being anally entered with a strap-on dildo; in all my conversations with men who want to top me in bizarre and disturbing ways (the strapped down forced pregnancy guy comes to mind), not a one has shown the least interest in humiliating me by dressing me up in boy's clothes and making me go outside and play catch with him.

Submission for women, on the other hand, is about exaggerating gender roles- I've been asked more than once how I reconcile being a Feminist and a submissive (usually by male Doms), a question that says far more about what he thinks about submissives than it does about being submissive. Kneeling alongside GF's chair nude except for an apron around my waist, my head bowed and holding a tray for her to set her drink on, I am a tableau of pure femininity at its weakest and most passive. By choosing to become this parody of Womanhood I am negating it-by owning my desire and deciding to be bound, spanked, humiliated and used as a fuck toy I am breaking from the confines of the powerless woman.

I had a point to all this...oh, yeah, Topping. So last night I decided to set up a room that would be sure to draw the subs in: I_Heart_Butt_Plugs. And of course, as soon as I opened door, in they came. I'd make conversation with them once they entered, getting a sense of how articulate they were (pretty important when only communicating through text) and how developed their imagination was. Ended up with three over the course of the night, all a complete disaster.

subbie #1: this guy seemed pretty interesting, telling me right away all the many, many things he enjoys inserting into his anus. He was around my age, which is always nice when at a site where most of the regulars are older than my parents, and the profile pictures of his smooth, plump butt certainly didn't hurt. We ended up moving to Yahoo Messenger, since there's less lag time and it doesn't crash every 30 minutes like the spanking site. After a bit of teasing conversation, I received an invitation to view his web cam. I have a couple of friends with these, and while I don't really understand why I'm supposed to be so fascinated with a grainy video of someone typing on a keyboard, I figured, why not? The screen popped up and there he sat, framed from chest to mid thigh, bucknaked and pulling on his bizarrely large, uncircumcised penis. Despite being 1am, I shrieked like a 13 year old girl- It's been more than a year since I've come face to face with a penis (except for porny penis, but that never looks like they actually do in real life...cock make-up?). And again, this one was insanely big (at least based on my limited reference base)- like an eel wearing a crimson turtle neck. After a few minutes of me laughing uncontrollably at the sight of watching him masturbate his monstrous member, unable to type anything more profound or penetrating than OMG!!!! over and over again, I guess I bored him enough to close out and disconnect with me. Because based on our earlier conversation, he was interesting and diverse in his fetishes, and realistically, it was a penis to genuinely be admired-I'm just waaaay too immature to be able to handle the idea of being entered with something the size of a canteen. OMG!!

yanked this from detrande's site-it's seriously great...go there!

subbie #2: this one came in not long after, sporting a nickname like littlewhiteundies or boybriefs or something like that. He started out right away telling me what a bad boy he'd been, and that he sure hoped I wouldn't punish him with a spanking and a butt plug. I bit, and asked what exactly he'd done deserving punishment; after a few hems and haws he finally admitted that he had skid marks in his underwear. This was definitely not even remotely close to any fantasy I myself have ever had, but he seemed to have fleshed it out with such exacting detail that I wanted to investigate more. He kept leaving me bread crumb trails of escalating punishments (when you sub on line, you try to subtly work into conversation what you want to happen), until it got to the point of him have to chose between half a dozen suppositories shoved up his ass before being plugged and spanked, or getting a punishment enema. I told him I would put his shit-smeared undies over his head, and if he continued to whine I'd stuff them in his mouth. It was obvious he wanted me to berate him for his poor bathroom habits, so I did so (knowing full well he was frantically abusing himself as I did). He went so far as to suggest his dirty anus was a result a hairy butt and maybe he should wear a diaper. I suggested instead maybe we ought to pluck out each and every one of those ass hairs, to which he remained silent for a minute or so, then left the room. I don't know if he left because he had orgasmed; some men have a bad habit of logging off right after they cum without a thank you or goodbye...or certainly any effort on their part to assist in your pleasure. Or did I cross some completely arbitrary and meaningless line in what he considered good and bad form- and he stormed out angry? As little as I want to upset people, I do kind of like the idea that while he was intensely aroused by having large objects shoved up his fecal-coated anus in punishment for a humiliating failure to fulfill basic good hygiene habits-even having his dirty underwear stuffed into his mouth, but the suggestion of me tugging on the hairs growing around his butthole is so disgusting and wrong that he couldn't even say goodbye. Sure, why not?

Did a google image search for "dirty underwear"...this is the only I found that didn't make me want to sit in a scalding tub of water crying as I try to scrub myself clean

subbie #3: After dirty butthole boy any arousal I might have enjoyed earlier in the evening had completely dried up; people who are not anal erotic may not understand this, but my intense fixation on anything anal stops short of the scatological. I'm not squeamish-or even claiming there hasn't been a pair or two of underwear I embarrassingly stuffed to the bottom of the hamper- it just doesn't do anything for me sexually. I continued moderating the room, though, because I was enjoying the conversations I was having with the different people who were curious about the name. It was pretty late, and I was settled in enjoying light banter with a few friends when a subbie I was unfamiliar with came in. He introduced himself and mostly hung back not participating in the conversation until all the other men had left the room. Once it was only me and another woman "P.", he finally spoke up. He asked the two of us if we had ever Topped before, and we told him we had, he asked us a long serious of questions about how specifically we had dominated our partners. He told us that he was interested in being on the receiving end of anal penetration, but didn't know what to expect. We both told him all we knew, P. a little more than me because she's more hetero and has had more experience on the giving side.

I saved this a while ago because I thought it was so absurd I might have a use for it, but now every time I open my picture file I have to see it...I'm sick of it, so here you go. Plus I figured readers bored with my story might enjoy it

After a good twenty minutes of questions about the best way to prepare for a strap-on and what to expect from the experience of being Topped by a woman, he finally wrote something along the lines of "let me tell you the real reason I am asking you these questions". He then explained to us that, of course, he would never-could never- submit to a woman Topping him or even taking charge during sex. After all, he was a man, and (as he kept telling us in three dimensional detail) a man of considerable size and strength- a size and strength that nature had bestowed upon him as proof of the man's role as the dominant sex. Yes, I should have just gone to bed and forgotten about it, but of course I could not. Partly because he held up as proof of woman's natural weakness (aside from our lack of upper body strength) that when he presented these facts to women they invariably either lost all composure and started screaming hysterically or ran away in tears...we are such emotional creatures. So P. and I (of course!) got suckered into this crank's desire to argue the hierarchy of gender, which seemed to mainly center on his ability to lift heavier objects than us.

I won't bore you with the whole thing- you already know all the arguments. You also know all my counter-arguments- or if you don't, you may want to do some serious consciousness-raising. It was a lot of that pseudo-romantic nonsense about how the man shows his true love for a woman by dominating and controlling her and how lucky she is to be fulfilled in her passive subservience to his masculinity. He did go on a weird tangent about how women wanting to wear the "manpants" (his term- which he used over and over) on reality television and the news causes divorce. While I don't know about newscasters' role, I do think womens' liberation and the breakdown of traditional gender roles is a contributor to the rise of divorce...but so what? Even as a child of divorce, I'm not really bothered that people choose to end unhappy marriages-the alternative is people staying with people they no longer love, making everyone miserable...plus, I'm not going to lie to you, absent father guilt gifts rock.

Then, from no where, he switched (not surprisingly, really) to religion in defense of his bullshit gender roles and the reason women shouldn't wear manpants. Of course, it's those very same bullshit gender roles and the restrictions on a staggering number of harmless activities (including manpants) that largely caused my distance from religion. He quickly picked up that I had grown up in the Catholic Church, and told me he as well was Roman Catholic. If in fact he is Catholic, he has either very recently converted or is one of those who were only nominally Catholic growing up and only really connected with it as an adult. Whatever his specific situation was, he knew fuck-all about either the history or the core doctrine of his denomination (this is pretty common with Catholics who went to public school). After an hour trying to explain to him who Thomas Aquinas was and the significance he had in church ideology, I gave up and went to bed...even the faintest hint of arousal long, long gone, replaced with a dull aching frustration. I think I'm only going to Top women from now on...

Lily Allen is going to kick your hating ass.

A Bit of My Sexual History part two/a- I Discover Masturbation

Okay, this took way too long to write, and it's only part two of three.


There's a memory that returns to me now and then, I'm like five or six years old, watching tv in the livingroom, chin propped in one hand while the other arm was pinned beneath me-and it feeling really good. It felt good enough, in fact, that I didn't want to get up, ever. I just wanted to lie there, blankly staring at the point just below the television, the space between my chin and the palm it rested in damp with perspiration. But as much as I wanted to stay there forever, my mother inevitably called from the kitchen to let us know that it was dinnertime. But despite being called, I lingered further, unable to separate myself. By the third time she called out it switched from being an announcement that dinner was ready to her specifically calling out my name. The forth time her voice was terse and its volume higher, everybody else seated and waiting for me. The fifth time it changed from my name to a direct command to "get in here now". Fearing punishment, I pulled myself up off the floor, feeling as I separated from the carpet like a limb was being torn from my body. I glumly shuffled to the kitchen ( a little too late to avoid my mom's displeasure, as I recall), my body now feeling naked and raw without the floor against me. Later that night and for the next few days I greatly confused and irritated my family by laying down on the carpet and then getting up a minute later to lay down in a different spot. It was like I had found a secret door door to a magical kingdom right there on the livingroom floor of our little split level...and had lost it forever.

But it turned out childhood was filled with a thousand tiny doors into that kingdom- doors it felt really good to press against or rub on. There were the long cushions from the couch that I would pull off to straddle-until my mother became upset with how lumpy and disfigured the cushions had become (this also might be partly because they served as clubs during fights between my sister and I). Forbidden the cushions, I moved up to the arm of the couch, perched on it like a gargoyle (this irritated my mother too, but she chose to ignore it in hopes of preserving the shape of her pillows). At school I discovered that entire recess periods could be spent straddling the cement wall that ran the perimeter of the play ground. I would wake up mornings with my pillow, a stuffed animal or the comforter bunched up between my legs, no memory of putting them there.

I stayed like that for the rest of my pre-adolescence- rubbing against things with out even being aware that I was doing it, enjoying my body weight as I pressed down. I can't honestly say I remember exactly when this changed, but it did. With the beginning of puberty and the first appearance of breast buds I started to become acutely aware of my body, of how sensitive my skin was. It wasn't at first centered on my "erogenous zones", but a whole body sensitivity that consumed my attention. I discovered the intense sensitivity of my arm pits, and would lie in bed at night lightly, lightly grazing my fingertips up and down under my arm. If I went to fast or pushed to hard or angled my fingertips wrong it would be unpleasant-but if I used only the nail side of my fingertips from just above my elbow to my lower ribs, it would become more and more intense with each pass of the hollow of my armpit, my body tensing and relaxing with each electrical jolt of contact.

But I am a Scorpio, meaning my sexual energy is focused at the center of my body, and gradually my self-tickling moved down along my body until finding its home. When I was little it was not unusual for me to sleep with one or both hands down my undies; it warmed-up my hands and I felt secure folded in a ball with my hands pinned between my thighs. But this was different; whereas I had always taken my vulva pretty much as a whole, but from nowhere I was suddenly aware of the different sensations it afforded, the different degrees the skin gave when pushed and moved with my fingertips. Examining myself, I discovered that I was developing delicate nuances where I had never found much complexity before. I even discovered that certain touches might feel intensely good for a while, but would then start to sting and few raw, but if I changed the pressure and speed it would continue to feel better and better. I felt like I was moving towards something without knowing what. Somewhere buried in my DNA was a message telling me to go on, push further...but to where?

By the seventh grade, I had certainly heard of masturbation; simply mentioning it is a guaranteed eruption of laughter on television, and boys my age had introduced it into the already considerable pool of insults to hurl at each other (they would challenge each other of doing it). The frantic up-down motion of the clenched fist, and equally violent sounding synonyms ("beating" or "jerking" off) were completely familiar to me- even if I had very little specific knowledge of what it exactly entailed. I only dimly connected the snicker-producing act with touching myself as I fell asleep; what little I did know about masturbation was couched in the language of male sexuality- I guess that's because while male masturbation is a subject openly joked about, discussing women doing it is still largely taboo (I could easily rant about this, but I'll save it for a future post).

The first time I went to my pediatrician after my first period, after the check up and me changing back into my street clothes, he called my mom out of the exam room and the nurse came in to talk with me. She was there to talk with me about my body changes and any and all associated issues. I was intensely uncomfortable-partly because I had completely believed the friend who told me I would have to get a pelvic exam after my first period (I am kind of gullible sometimes). And while I was revealed as hell when I didn't have to go through the pap smear I was fully expecting that day, I was still exceptionally uncomfortable talking about this with anyone, let alone an adult, let alone an adult who had known me since before I could remember.

She covered all the same subjects my mother had three months before, when I had to sit next to her on her on the edge of the tub staring at the floor in embarrassment as she went through all the procedures, products and problems that I would have in my life once a month for the next forty years. Since my mom's a nurse I already had heard all the scientific explanations of what was going on with my body and what more to expect coming, so I was only half-listening when she asked me if I had any questions about masturbation. I looked at her dumbly for a moment before asking, "huh"? She then went into what sounded like a very prepared explanation of how it was perfectly normal and healthy for girls my age to experience new feelings and to explore their changing bodies, that it was just part of being sexual. The entire time she was giving me this monologue I stared down at my hands as they opened and closed into fists, thinking to myself, "why is she telling me this? Shut up shut up shut up!". She asked me if I had any questions and I quickly shook my head no. "You can ask me anything, really. Are there any concerns you have about it, anything you might be scared about or not understanding?" With each new question I shook my head and said a small "no", a brave little resistance fighter who was been captured and refuses to give any information to her interrogator. I was not giving an inch to this woman who had seen me pretty much naked, poked and prodded more times than I could count. Finally she gave up, patted me on the head (which was patronizing), and told me I was always welcome to come to her if I had any problems. I rapidly thanked her, and rushed out to the waiting room where my mom was waiting.

Books have always been a part of my life, they were there with me as soon as my mom taught me to read. With the arrival of puberty my mother directed my attention to the several books on womens' health in the house. Some afternoons I got home from school and grabbed a bunch of them to thumb through laying on my bed. Her copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves must have been purchased when she was pregnant with my older sister, and was full of late 70's era clothes and hair styles (but not in a funny, disco way but more of a Gloria Steinem owl glasses and ironed flat long black hair). There were a lot of nude pictures in there, which excited me having a chance to look at adults naked- but I was also kind of weirded out by just how hairy people were back then, how positively massive the bushes were (I'd seen my mother naked and a few other adult women in the locker room at the pool- and none of them had such enormous mountains of pubic hair).

As anyone who has read Our Bodies, Ourselves or any of the similar books for and by women already know, there's a good amount of sex information there- certainly a lot more than I would have been comfortable asking about. There was a lot about STDs that I tried to avoid spending too much time consuming the horrific descriptions of warts and sores and crabs that would end up looking quaint compared to the AIDS virus coming a few years after the book was published. It was reading those books that I first started to question the position the Church regarding abortion, that it wasn't automatically about satanists forcing screaming babies into a meat grinder (the twentieth anniversary of Roe v. Wade was when I was in sixth grade-imagine what that was like at a Catholic school in a rural community!!). Reading the information about young girls and women with no options cornered by unwanted pregnancies a proto-feminist was slowly formed.

But it was the section covering female sexuality that earned my closest attention. The central focus (of course) was heterosexuality; there was the same basic mechanics of straight sex that I sort of understood already (man's penis gets hard, lies on top of woman, sticks it in, stirs it) with the those cross-section illustrations of male and female anatomy that always looked like a package of uncooked meat. New for me were line drawings of the different permutations of heterosexual couplings, or at least the more popular positions and acts (so no butt-fucking, throning, foot-sucking or prostate milking). The couples were pretty hippie looking, a big ol' tangle of untrimmed body-hair. Disturbingly, the beard and long hair made the hippie man look more than a little like Jesus...not the best thing to lay on my young and church-addled mind.

There, after the chapter about the many ways Our Blessed Lord sticks it to a woman with a Wookie snatch and before the section on lesbianism that I wouldn't get up the nerve to read for several more years, there was a chapter about female masturbation. There it was, in exacting detail, why women masturbate and how. It detailed all the different ways women touched them selves, from indirect clitoral stimulation to digital penetration and toys. And it was even illustrated with drawings of a long-haired -and big bushed, natch- woman striking all the different poses a woman could strike while pleasuring herself. I had discovered a detailed, non-judgmental how-to manual for my vulva.

It would would probably make for great reading if I now tell you that I instantly rolled over on my back, thrust both hands under the waistband of my underwear and quickly brought myself to wonderful and transcendent orgasm- but that would be dishonest. At this point I still shared a room with my sister, and while her career as a high school over-achiever kept her occupied a lot, I never really grasped the patterns of her schedule well enough to be sure when she would be home. At this point my sister and I were on limited speaking terms, communication kept to as little as possible ("when's mom getting home?", "we are out of shampoo" etc). I can safely assume she would react poorly if she came home from whatever extra-curricular activity she had been at that day, to find me sprawled out half-naked and self-abusing in our room.

Plus, I don't think what I was feeling at the time was so much arousal as it was a jittery excitement at this discovery. It was weird to think that these books had always been there on the shelves- mixed in with the popular novels, biographies, children's literature, nursing manuals and history books that my house was full of. How many hours had I spent laying on my back at the top of the stairs, my head hanging over the first step staring at the very livingroom that contained the bookcases that contained these books that contained this? It would take a while to process all this...

to be continued...

this has nothing to do with anything, but here's an Asian woman with large ta-tas

A Bit of My Sexual History part one-I start dating

This is a post I started, that was going to be about one thing, ended up being about something entirely different. It's long, so it'll be two parts, this one, about my early experiences dating, and the second, about my discovery of masturbation.




Not very many people I know in real life know about my visiting of sex chat rooms or on-line playing; it's not a question that a lot of people think to ask, and it's not exactly information I feel the need to volunteer. A couple of my closest friends know, and of course, I've told GF (I've had partners in the past who I didn't tell- leaving me feeling dirty and like I've betrayed their trust). Because the people who mean the most to me are not people likely to be disgusted or even concerned about this, their reaction is more one of amused confusion. I've never really been someone looking to have a lot of sex partners...I did the math yesterday, and I average one new sex partner a year since I lost my virginity (junior year of college). Everyone I've ever had sex with could fit comfortably in a mini-van...what a horrible road trip that would make!

No one I've ever known has thought of me as particularly promiscuous (with the noted exception of my sister- who thinks I'm a scandalous libertine); the town I grew up in was small and dull and remote enough that a lot (maybe most) of girls I went to high school with had sex early. It wasn't because there was some aphrodisiac in the town well that made everybody crazy with desire, but really because everything was so boring, so predictable cut off from the rest of the world that there really wasn't anything else to do but drink and smoke pot and hook up. And while I did some of the first, and a bit of the second, I didn't really find the third particularly appealing. The boys in my town were either sweetly dull Christians who talked about having children on the first date or they were terrifying redneck jocks with rape in their eyes. There were a few boys I liked a lot, but they were even more shy than I was; when I saw them at the mall or parties we both would stand there looking at each other pained, too afraid to be the first one to speak. Ah, memories.

There certainly were girls I went to school with that I crushed on to the point of despair- friends I would have to clench my fists around to resist the desire to touch them. And even though that was the era of lesbian chic, where high school girls across America were asserting their sexual liberation, it never reached us. Maybe public school girls can play with gender boundaries, but the assumption of rampant lesbianism in girls' Catholic schools (thank you, male pornographic fantasies) made it a distinctly taboo. Boys and public schoolers would constantly tease us about it, enough so that dyke become the ultimate insult my classmates could hurl at each other. Anything even remotely butch was viewed as genuinely threatening, to the point where a lot of the girls at my school became almost a parody of femininity- lathering on the make-up and adopting the giggling, semi-retarded demeanor that I guess boys find cute.

I did date a few boys in high school; they mostly tended to be from the sweetly dull Christian camp-mainly since those were the only ones who asked me out (it should be pointed out, in fairness, that I did also date a couple of those sensitive shy boys I mentioned liking). Sweetly dull Christians made for passable boyfriends when you're 15, 16, 17 years old; they drive you everywhere, make safe companions on church trips, are gentlemanly to the point of making you feel like a crippled child, they impress parents and they clean up nicely for school dances. True, you have to avoid any conversations about politics, religion or anything else the least bit interesting, and they always brought up their interest in getting married after a month of dating, but they were by and large easily managed, and even when, invariably after you have to dump them because they are crowding into every square inch of your life and they weep and wail about how much they love you and they've never met anyone like you, they eventually move on, finding and marrying a sweetly dull Christian wife, with whom they can have a litter of sweetly dull Christian children. Good for them!

But no matter how sweetly dull they may be in their devotion to the lord, they are still teenage boys...who take every opportunity to press their erection into your hip or thigh. I remember one sdC i dated sophomore year, who more than once acted as though he was just casually standing behind me, his arms over his shoulder, with his obvious erection pressing painfully into my lower back. It was like getting a spinal tap with a (comparatively) thick needle. This particular sdC boyfriend espoused at great length how wonderful it was that we were waiting until our wedding night to give the gift of sex to each other blah blah blah-he never actually bothered to ask me if I wanted to spend the rest of my unmarried life sitting on my virginity or if I gave one shit about all this purity nonsense. But for all of his vows of chastity, when we kissed, went to the movies, sat in his basement talking or even went for a walk holding hands, he was doubled over from the weight of his hard-on.

After a lot of fumbling and mixed signals and confusion, I eventually found myself with that hard-on clutched in my hand. Thus began my career as a high school handjobber. It's not that I was particularly talented at it- I probably caused as much pain and irritation as I did pleasure as I tried to figure out how it worked- but the fact that I was willing to even hold it in my hand was pretty much all that was needed to bring about a quick resolution. Merely the act of lowering their zipper, reaching inside their pants and pulling it out and holding it in my hand seemed to be nearly enough to produce an orgasm, and even when it wasn't, I eventually mastered the mechanics of giving a handjob enough to quickly finish it off. And what's weird is, to my surprise, I found I really, really liked doing it, having him lay there helpless under my touch, visibly shaking with excitement to have another human being pulling on his penis. The look of penises themselves struck me as more alien than erotic, and I quickly discovered what would be a life-long disgust at the sight, smell or especially touch of semen, but the weight of an erection in my palm, its moist heat, the way it felt so solid yet yielding...it was completely and totally fascinating to me.

Most of the boys I satisfied this way were perfectly happy to limit our sexual contact to the rise and fall of their erections, the very idea of female arousal wholly foreign to them, I guess. What touching of me there was limited to a hand thrust under my shirt, awkwardly kneading and pushing at my breasts while I fondled him. By summer before senior year, my most recent boyfriend (who was not a sdC, but one of the shy, arty boys I had bullied into asking me out), made a concerted effort to repay the favor by sticking his hand down the front of my pants in search of the much point of female pleasure. Let me say I absolutely applaud this effort; it was the first time it even occurred to a boy friend that I might enjoy some attention as well. And it was intensely exciting the first time he touched between the legs...it was the first time someone other than a medical professional or myself came in direct contact with my flower. But...

He seemed to operating under the impression that the place to touch me to give me pleasure was located deep inside of my vagina, and required a lot of digging around to find it, regardless of whether or not I was wet enough for penetration. I don't in any way blame him (or the couple of subsequent boyfriends who labored under same impression) for the jabbing invasions that were his attempts at giving me an orgasm; I'm not seriously anti-pornography or anything, but I do think it gives inexperienced boys really, really incorrect information about sex and womens' bodies (all those bubble gum pink and hairless buttholes come to mind).
you know how they get those pink anuses in porn? it's called anal bleaching...why don't you go bleach your anus


And of course, the real blame ultimately falls on me. Had I communicated specifically how I wanted to be touched I would have saved myself a lot of serious discomfort and maybe even experienced some much craved for pleasure. But I just couldn't get up the courage, just couldn't tell him (or even guide his hand to) what would have made me feel good. Like far too many things, I feel a lot of guilt about this now, both for robbing myself but also because he so wanted me to enjoy it, he tried so hard to make me orgasm, he so wanted to see me climax, but instead got to see me lying there, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists at my sides as his finger violently pounded in and out of me.

But I'm getting better every day...

to be continued

I went overboard on the chastity belt pictures...this is the last one