In Defense of the Virgin Lover

The initial courtship is slow.  We flirt so often that I find myself unsure as to whether my intentions are coming across or not.  We hold hands as though we’re pre-adolescents, and when my actions finally reveal that my intentions are considerably less-than-pure, I begin by kissing his fingertip.  His brows quirk when I slide my lips down his skin, taking the finger into my mouth up to the first joint and dragging the tip of my tongue lightly along the inside of the digit.

I have been warned, time and time again by assorted parties, that I shouldn’t have sex with virgins.  One of my oldest and dearest friends warned me against it several months ago.  Another friend, when I mentioned that I was pursuing a virgin, said, “Having sex with virgins sucks.  You’ll have more fun with someone else.”

He doesn’t bother feigning confidence, initially.  He shudders with a mix of anticipation and nervousness, and it feels a bit like I’m clutching a doe.  I’m almost unsure about whether he loves or hates the thing that I’m doing to him.  He tenses up as the gentle strokes on his back turn to scratches and I sink my teeth into the sweet flesh of his shoulder.

Thousands of arguments have been made on behalf of the confident playmate.  We talk up the self-assured lover with oodles of experience.  I have seen considerably less arguments made on behalf of the shy, self-doubting virgin.  During a conversation with Omnihim (one half of my favorite deviant couple in the world of sex bloggers), he pointed out that, in having sex with someone virginal, I was giving him a much-coveted initiation into the world of sex.  I was a little baffled by this idea initially – I only know one person who had all of their first time experiences with another virgin, and the individual in question still sees that partner with rose-tinted glasses that are so thick that I’m led to believe the girl really might have a gold-plated cunt and diamond nipples.  Then I started thinking on a more grand scale.  While virgins outside the gender binary don’t exist in the public eye, and virgin women are praised for their purported “tightness” and the “innocence” that begs to be despoiled, virgin men are stigmatized.  As a person with a vagina, I can attest that we hear warnings of unwavering devotion (which can be a negative if undesired), clumsy fumbling, and general cluelessness. 

He embraces me in the dark as I lay on my back.  His fingers are as slender as his arms, and despite being inexperienced, are moving effectively across my groin,  working the wetness up toward my clit before swiftly delving back inside me – one finger, then two.  He complies when I tell him that I need him to curve his fingers up.  His teeth tug at my earlobe insistently, and his breath is hot and heavy in my ear, “Oh god, I want you…”

Many fine examples of how gender roles have shaped our society can be found in the virginity stigma.  Women that lose their virginity, enjoy sex, and are confident in their sexuality are “sluts.”  Men are “meant to be dominant and experienced,” so woe betide the virgin male.

No one talks about the benefits of having sex with someone less experienced than you.  Apparently, we’re all supposed to spring forth from the womb like Athena from Zeus’s skull, popping out as sexual mavericks with a full repertoire of mind-blowing techniques.  Where are the people singing praises about the fact that I can ask him to finger me just so without affronting his pride?  What about the fact that he acknowledges that I’m hard to get off and that he’s still exploring his technique, so he doesn’t take it personally if I don’t come?  There are so many things that I enjoy more because he’s seeing them as he causes them – the look of ecstasy I make when someone pulls my head back with a fistful of hair, the way that I shiver when lips hit that spot on my neck right below my ear.  The look on his face after he brought me to a squirting orgasm was worth all the money in my bank account.

We’re writhing against one another, covered in sweat, my hands twisting as I draw them off the head of his cock.  Between kisses, he asks me to touch his ass, and I grab it ferociously, squeezing the soft flesh and causing his back to go rigid.

In my experience, the two “virgins” (near-virgins, at the very least) that I’ve been with have been attentive, inventive, and most importantly, eager.  They have anticipated and adapted to my needs well ahead of many of their more experienced predecessors, and responded well to my requests to do something differently.  One might say, “That has to do with the person, not the person’s sexual experience.”  Yes, perhaps, but both of the virgins that I’ve been with have been people embodying those qualities.  And to be quite frank, neither of them were as fumbling and clumsy as you might think.  In fact, my now-deflowered playmate surprised me with his well-aimed bites and his dexterous hands.

I’m not saying that you need to go out and yoink someone’s “v-card.”  Regardless of how attached someone may (or may not) be to their virginity, that’s a good way to step on toes and hurt feelings.  I’m simply trying to help clear up some of the anti-virgin-male sentiment that is floating around my culture for no good reason.  If you’re interested in a person who happens to be sexually inexperienced, bear with them and give them a chance.  I write this post as an ode to the virgin men of the world.  While they may not be as widely-appreciated as they deserve, they do have a place in my heart. 
(And my vag.)

Gender Anarchy and Gender Equality

This is the fourth post in July’s Gender Celebration Carnival!  Check out the post before me, by Curvaceous Dee, and be sure to check out Jane Blow’s post that will be published on the 13th!  If you want to get in on the action, click here to find out how!

I was laying in bed with my best friend, spooning her and thinking about what to write for this prompt.  When I read Lumpesse’s announcement about the Gender Celebration Blog Carnival, I was thrilled and knew I was going to participate.  I love gender, sexuality, and sex… I just wasn’t sure what I wanted to say about them for the July carnival.  So I started thinking about our lives.

I’m female-assigned-at-birth and gender-queer.  My best friend is a male-assigned-at-birth, gender-queer trans lesbian.  I also consider her to be something similar to my “primary.”  Even though we aren’t officially in a polyamorous relationship, she tends to my non-sexual intimacy and emotional needs in exactly the way that I need her to, and in ways that I’m not entirely sure that someone else can.

When I started this post, I was just going to talk about my gender-queer identity and how it reflected in my everyday life.  It probably would have put you to sleep, or sic’d the GENDER POLICE on my ass.  I think my point can be better made by ruminating in a sort of free-form style about how we live with (and without) gender.

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[Image description: a black and white photo of two torsos from the waist to the upper thighs.  Both people in the photo are wearing women’s underwear and sport slightly noticeable bulges.  The person on the left is wearing a black thong with white polka dots and bows, and the person on the right is wearing what appears to be a pair of plain white hipster underwear.]

My birthday is in early August, but her early birthday present to me was something I was lusting after – the Sailor Soft Packer from Good Vibrations.

Both of the people in the photo above have cocks in their underwear… so which of us is the masculine one, and which is the feminine one?  Are we both men because we have cocks?

Our society tends to assign gender based on the irrelevant factor of genitalia, and we tend to judge the actions of others based on whether we perceive them as being appropriate actions for a “man” or a “woman.”  On the first day of the Gender Celebration Carnival, Lumpesse blogged about masculinity and mentioned how her father told her that dropping the f-bomb “wasn’t very ladylike.”  In our society’s view, women are emotional, incapable, soft-spoken, submissive, and meet a certain standard of appearance.  Men are protective, dominant, strong, out of touch with their emotions, and are prized for their ideas and intellect.

Do I even need to point out the flaws in those roles?  How many people do you know that actually fit them?  My father has emotions, and my mother is anything but soft-spoken.  My parents butt heads somewhat regularly because my mother is a verbal-shit-slinging, irrational, domineering figure in their household.  (I love both of my parents very much, so these words are meant to be a statement of fact rather than a verbal assault.)  Yes, my mother did fit the feminine gender role in some ways, such as her (mostly) unerring, sentimental support for the things I pursued in life: tucking away my kindergarten drawings, print-outs of my seventh grade poems about homicide, award certificates from high school, and my diploma when I got my associate’s degree.  In other ways, though, her tendency to default toward gender roles clashes with how she wants to act.  She expects my father to manage the finances because men deal with the money, then she’ll get impatient and take control of them herself, or she’ll spend with no regard for the money they may or may not have.  Despite their tendencies toward the gender roles they were socialized into, they fight because, even though they both were raised to believe that my father should be in control because he has testicles, my mother can’t abide by that.  They’re losing their minds because even though they think they should, they don’t live in accordance with our society’s gender roles. 

Neither do I.

I prefer to live in “gender anarchy,” which is a radical-sounding term that I use to state my ideas toward gender because 1) it’s a decent summary of them, and 2) the part of me that is still 13 thinks it sounds badass.

My best friend and I live together as equals.  We do what we’re good at, and we do those things when we feel like doing them.  I carry heavy things (within my range) because I’m “super-butch.”  We nurture one another based on who needs it, not based on some absurd dogma; “I have a dick, I’ll protect you.  You have a vagina, so you be supportive and understanding.”  If anything, I’m more protective of her, and she’s more understanding of me.  Sometimes she’s the little spoon, and sometimes she’s the big spoon.  We divide chores evenly.

The point of this is not to brag, “Oh, gender-queers do it better,” or to be like, “LOL MY LIFE IS AWESOME BECAUSE I’M QUEER,” (on the contrary – my life is awesome because I’m awesome).  The point of this isn’t to attempt to define “gender-queer” or masculinity or femininity, or to tell you which you should lean toward.  The point of this is to make the case for living in a state of gender equality.  Sociological research proves that happier relationships are based on equality, rather than the enforcement of gender roles… because let’s just be honest: they’re based on the assumption of superiority because of genitalia.  There is no real science to the idea that a husband should dominate the household, or that a wife should care for the children 24-7.  I can understand how things developed that way in the past, but every century brings about new change, and as far as gender roles are concerned, the time for radical change is now.  How many couples will continue to suffer because they struggle to uphold the gender ideals that they were bred into, even though they don’t always fit?

My life with my best friend, who I consider my 24-7 “partner,” is built around equality.  Our genital configuration plays no role in whether we are emotional or detached, dominant or submissive, or the things we have an interest in.  Because we don’t assign these things, we’re free to express ourselves with the fluidity that all human beings crave.  As our moods and desires fluctuate, we can pursue them on our own whims.  She has a penis, and sometimes she’s the dominant partner, supporting and nurturing me, making decisions for us, and guiding me to my destination.  But other times, more often than not, I’m the dominant partner, and she’s my baby-girl.  I protect her, guide her, and boss her around.  We can express however we please without freaking the other out – she’ll pass me my dick, and I’ll dig her tits out of a pile of clothes for her.  I can be as sexually aggressive as I please, and she can be as disinterested in sex as she feels, because she knows that I don’t expect her to “take  the man’s role” and turn a kiss into a sexual encounter.  Our roles in the relationship are fluid.  These decisions have nothing to do with either of us being dominant or submissive (because in the bedroom, we can both switch, but do seem to have leanings, and they’re exactly the opposite of the roles we assume the most in real life), and nothing to do with our genitals.

It’s the freedom to be people, independent of gender.

No dogma.  No expectations.

Gender anarchy.

How do you think being socialized into a gender role has had an effect on your life?  Would you consider living in “gender anarchy?”

Getting My Jollies

I’m just going to preface this entry by showing you the notes I jotted down about this thing when I started drafting:

1) BEASTLY

2) MY CUNT WILL NOT HAVE IT

3) IT EATS LUBE

4) It’s 100% medical grade silicone, so while that means it’s awesome for putting in my electric kettle, it won’t have anything to do with my bottle of Wet Platinum.  Because of the shape, it won’t have anything to do with my vagina.   But because of the material, it does as much as it can with every fuzzy, dust and hair-related particle in my room.  But that’s actually not so bad, because I can just pop this sucker back in my kettle and boil it before I get down with myself.

5) Can’t really feel handle ridges

So those were my first impressions of it… and no, I don’t generally write my notes in allcaps, if that tells you anything.

I’ll explain each of these, obviously.  And then I’m going to tell you why it’s my new favorite toy.

The Jollie [Image description: A pink dildo sits on a white background.  The dildo is relatively phallic, with a bulbous bump near the head of the toy.  A protruding, handle-like piece is positioned at the bottom of the toy, complete with a hole that would be ideal as a fingerhold.]

1)  I tend to do a lot of research before purchasing toys.  When Epiphora mentioned that Jollies was going out of business and that JT’s Stockroom still had the Valentine’s Jollie, I spent a good ten or fifteen minutes chewing my nails and reading several reviews that she linked to determine whether I wanted to spend this money before the Jollie went off the market forever.  There were some warnings posted, and the Stockroom site even offers dimensions for the product, but I’m totally inept at putting those numbers to a visual.  The only time I felt like I really saw the Jollie at proper scale was in the Wanton Lotus video review of it… and I promptly cried, “It’s HUGE… I have to buy it!”  I’m not a size queen.  In fact, I have spent the vast majority of my life being the opposite of a size queen, because my sex with Ex generally always resulted in some spotting afterward.  (His girth wasn’t the only reason, but it was a significant contributing factor.)  But this dildo was a really cool idea, and it was going off the market, and I was seduced by the idea that I would have something that no one else could get soon.  (I’m petty, sue me.)

So the Jollie came, and despite the videos and the warnings, I took it out of the box and I was like, “WHAT?”  Like I said, it’s pretty beastly.  If you check out the photo on my preview post, you will find that its girth dwarfs pretty much every other toy there.  The only adjective I could think of for the shape in my image description was “misshapen,” which is a considerably less-than-stellar word to use when you’re talking about a toy that you actually like.  You will find that this fucked-up shape is actually what passes as “ergonomic” in the world of things that you stick in your vagina.  That’s right – the word ergonomic is no longer limited to office supplies.  I would like to think of the Jollie as the Quasimodo of my toy collection.  Rest assured, the comparison is warranted, because I can tell you right now that when I die, my skeleton will be found entwined with this thing.

2) My first attempt at fucking myself with the Jollie was somewhat less-than-stellar.  I tried to insert it while I was chilling out in my desk chair.  But here’s the thing… I have this bad habit of ejecting my tampons when I sneeze.  Without any sneezing necessary, my vagina forcefully expelled this thing as if it were a tampon.  The g-spot bump did absolutely nothing to keep it inside me.  The Jollie was an expansive foreign body, and my twat wanted it out.

3)  While pondering over why the Jollie wouldn’t peacefully occupy my vag, I briefly speculated that maybe I had too much lubricant.  Bullshit!  There’s no such thing as too much lubricant!  Besides, every time I ejected it, it was practically dry.  The third time I had expelled it after coating it up with yet another layer of water-based lube, I began to wonder if more drastic measures were in order.  Virgin sacrifice?

4 & 5)  That’s self-explanatory, right?

Now I’m going to tell you why I’m so happy about owning the Jollie:

I had a literally hands-free orgasm in less than ten minutes.

(more…)

Upcoming

So I have a lot of crap on my plate right now, hence why I haven’t put out a toy review in forever and a day… but here’s a photo of some of the toys with reviews that I’m working on.

The Sailor2 soft packer, the Fun Factory Bootie, the Pipedreams Fetish Fantasy Ball Gag, the Jollies Jollie, the nJoy Pure Wand, LELO Luna Beads, the Glass Gems Diamond, the Glass Gems Andalusite, and the Tantus Acute.

For an image description, hit the “continue reading” tag below.

Also upcoming: Reviews for the Tyler Hope Love Bear Toy Storage, the Liberator Throe, a 7-piece neoprene restraint kit that was sold by Trinity Vibes  (although I think it’s manufactured by some division of Kink Industries… unfortunately, I didn’t keep the box, and now I can’t figure that out to save my life), and the 30 Days of Kink prompt.

(more…)

Gender Celebration Blog Carnival

Something I’m looking forward in participating in during the upcoming months is Ellie Lumpesse’s Gender Celebration Blog Carnival.

In Ellie’s words:

The carnival is about reflecting on gender, questioning it, doing the hard work of grappling with it but also experiencing the joy of celebrating it. Does everything we say have to be all sunshine and puppydog tails? Absolutely not! Celebrations often include intense conflict, debate, and even mourning. This one will be no different. However, my hope is that when we take the time to think, write, and converse about gender we’ll bring good things into the world. We’ll shed light on the beauty of the human family and we’ll all become closer.

It is with that hope in my heart that I am humbly requesting submissions for the first (hopefully of many) Gender Celebration Blog Carnival.

The concept is simple. A group of bloggers all agree to post on the theme of the Carnival during a particular period of time and they link to the posts that transpired at the  end of the Carnival. What happens in the middle is the real magic as we will hopefully have fascinating things to read and great conversations to share on the issues that are generated. Think of it like a two week, virtual cocktail party with a fabulous guest list.

The upcoming theme for July is going to be “Living Gender,” and I’m completely psyched about it.  Anyone interested should give the submission page a look!

Blurb #1

That awkward moment when you have to remove your sex toys from your electric pitcher because you want to boil water that’s actually going to go in your mouth.

Fully Functional Fundraiser

I’m still alive!  Due to a lack of sexual accommodations for a hellacious period and a combination of Minecraft and classwork, I haven’t been able to play with any of my new toys very much… but things are coming.

In the meantime, I just figured I would post to advertise about the fundraising efforts of Fully Functional.

I’ll just quote directly from the fundraiser page, for the sake of saving time:

“Fully Functional: A Zine About Fucking Trans Women”

…is a collaborative DIY (Doin’ It Yourself) zine about the sex lives of trans women. It is designed to help trans women and our lovers share information about how we have good sex and what we do when we have sex that works.

The project of Fully Functional is to create an open-ended community resource for trans women and our lovers interested in sharing information about sex and our sex lives.  Published as a digital zine and, beginning with issue #1, a print zine, “Fully Functional” is designed to be an accessible medium for communicating and sharing information with each other.  It is the first and only sex zine dedicated exclusively to the sex lives of trans women and our lovers, and most basically begins with the question “How?”, as in, “how do I have amazing, fulfilling, passionate, hot, toe-curling sex?”  Contributors are invited to discuss the ins and outs of their own sex lives, with no one answer privileged over another.  There are as many answers to the question “how do I have good sex?” as there are contributors, and with that in mind “Fully Functional” has been designed as a sort of community cookbook .  Our zine is a community resource for sharing our knowledge, discoveries, and practices with one another and our lovers.

As we are preparing to publish issue #1 of “Fully Functional” we have reached a dilemma: we are desperately in need of a fully functional computer of our own with which to write, design, create, and publish this issue and issues to come.  The goal of this fundraising campaign is to gather funds to purchase a MacBook that will be the primary computer for “Fully Functional.”

I definitely consider this zine a worthy cause, because sex can be an extremely conflicting issue for individuals undergoing transition, and it is also challenging to feel confident about being an adequate sexual partner to a trans individual, especially if your partner experiences gender dysphoria.  While there’s no substitute for honest and open communication, new ideas can go a long way in the bedroom.  It’s hard to find knowledgeable sexual material geared toward members of the trans community, so I’m definitely intrigued by what Fully Functional has to offer.  I encourage anyone  with an interest to check it out and support their efforts!

Here’s a link to the fundraiser!

Why Your Screen Name Didn’t Make Me Wet

Every time I foray into online dating, I am met by some things that compel me to promptly foray right back out.  I think about it whenever I decide to check my OKCupid account late at night, or whenever I’m eying some of the “Meet in North Carolina” groups on Fetlife because I find myself very, very desperately wishing I had a regular sex partner so I wouldn’t have to do all the work.  I haven’t checked my OKCupid account in a few weeks, but yet again, I’ve found my mind wandering back to dating on the internet because of a conversation I just had with one of my best friends.

This particular friend was displeased with her eHarmony experience, but mentioned that she was thinking about re-activating her account on the site.  Because misery loves company, I said, “Why not try OKCupid?  I’m on there!”

This blog post was spawned because of the following conversation:

She:  “What should my name on this site be?  I don’t want to put my last name on this profile  I was thinking about this.”

Me:  “Yeah, I think that’s great!  It doesn’t give too much away.”

She:  “You don’t think it’s dumb?”

Me:  “No.  Seriously, once you see some of the names on this site, you’ll realize that you could have named yourself PeckerMcDongHat and still come away looking like a being of superior intellect.”

Which brings me to my point.

I know that the internet is a very big place.  I know that screen names are things that you can agonize over for hours because you want to choose the right one.  I know that some people are reading this and scoffing, “Yeah, well what does Sugarcunt even mean?”  (Exactly what it says on the tin, bitches.)  I’m not saying I have the best name on the internet, and I’m not here to offer any better suggestions.

I’m here because, if you have named yourself, “Oralmaster66698,” chances are that I’m just not going to be compelled to hit you up for a date!  Or even a no-last-names sexual encounter, for that matter.  When I get a wink from someone with a screen name like “bAbiGuRLLL,” I groan and delete the notification immediately.  “BigCock4U2Day sent you a message!” translates to, “Call your friends over to point and laugh.”  MakeUMyBitch247?  I’m going to laugh in your face if you approach me with the assumption that I’ll submit to you.

Here’s the thing.  I know it’s mean.  I know it’s judgmental.  But I’m on a dating site to judge you.  On this site, yes, a first impression is everything, because unlike real life, I can block you if you annoy the shit out of me.  In real life, it takes slightly more effort to avoid you based on a first impression (I solve this difficult-to-avoid problem by never leaving my dorm room), and because of the type of person I am, I’m more likely to judge you based on your typing skills than I am on your appearance.  You have more chances if you have the balls to approach me in person, because it will (hopefully) take you longer to out yourself as a moron.  “That’s not fair,” you cry.  Is it fair that you’re going to decide you don’t want to date me because I’m fat?  Well, on a cosmic scale, maybe not really, but on a scale closer to home, yes, it is.  You have the freedom to bypass me because I don’t meet your weight requirement.  I have the freedom to bypass you because a screen name like wAnT2cMipussy indicates that there’s a 95% chance that you don’t meet my intellect requirement.   I enjoy clever screen names, or original-sounding screen names.  I will even grant my attention to people who use small parts of their names as screen names, because I have met some people that I really like that do that.  When I see a screen name advertising the girth or tightness of your genitals, or your super dominance, or your ability to beat your face in the general area of your Shift key with impunity, I mock you and then I sit down to write blog entries like this.

And now I’ll nitpick a little further.  If your screen name has to do with fly-fishing or hunting and your profile says you love nothing but sports , you and I are not going to exchange messages.  If your screen name specifically mentions sports, I’m going to be skeptical of you.  I will block you if you message me and say, “You’re a girl” (strike one) “that plays games?”  (Strike two)  “So do you like, play Xbox?”  (Strike three).  If you send me a message that says nothing but, “hey,” I will not respond to it.  If your profile states that you are “looking for your redneck Romeo,” or a “girl to have your babies,” please don’t message me.

I’d sooner send a wink to PeckerMcDongHat.

(Disclaimer: I didn’t reach out and deliberately select these screen names, but they probably exist.  Rest assured that these were chosen at random and were not intended to represent any real individuals that I have had contact with.  I have much more scathing things to say about people that I’ve had to reject personally.)

Texture Fiend

Let me tell you a story about one of the worst things that has ever happened to my vagina.

I can promise you that it does not involve childbirth, but if you’re at all squeamish about or triggered by vaginal injury/tearing of any kind, then you probably do not want to read this story.

Young, dumb, and full of cum, Ex and I were working up to a marathon sex session after we’d been apart for our standard three months.  Three of the five years of our relationship were long-distance, and for some reason, phone sex just didn’t cut it.  *Cue knowing canned laughter from the audience members that have ever maintained a long-distance relationship.*  They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but they made a gross oversight in forgetting to mention the effect that it has on the genitals.

I’ve mentioned previously that I’m hard to get off, and producing an orgasm for me is a huge ordeal for the fingers, tongue, and any other appendages with nerve endings that may be put to the task.  After 20 minutes of working me over to no avail, my ex decided he was going to improvise and insert something to help him get the job done, lest his fingers organize an extended strike because of inhumane work conditions.  The tricky part of this was that there was nary a dildo to be found, because my sex toy obsession was restricted to online window shopping at the time.  So let’s think of some basic household objects to slot into the equation of x + condom = insertion, shall we?

For the sake of this article, I really did try to think of some things.  Here are some of the first suggestions that the internet offered up when I googled this question:

  • Produce
  • Hairbrush handles
  • Paper towel holders
  • Flashlight handles
  • Candles

Ex also knew someone who masturbated using a handful of markers, but we weren’t even going there.  Crayola products are just about the only childhood relics that are too sacred to go in my vagina.  (Although they do have a somewhat large, crayon-shaped crayon sharpener that I just had a mental image of fucking myself with.)

There I was, staring at my ceiling, soaking wet between the thighs, while my boyfriend trashed my room, searching desperately for something that he could put in my vagina with the minimal amount of effort.  Guess which of the objects from the list above he found?

None of them!

He found a wooden foot roller.

If you’re blanking when you try to conjure a mental picture of it, let me help you out.

foot_roller

[Image description: A ribbed cylinder of light-colored wood on a white background.  The cylinder is wide at both ends, and tapers to a slightly thinner point in the middle.  The wood appears glossy and smooth to the touch, and the ends of the cylinder appear to be flat.]

Okay.  Maybe those of you with more experience and wisdom (and who had received a comprehensive sex education that covered safe insertion) can look at that picture and go, “Maybe that isn’t the best idea.”  But for those of us who didn’t have the benefit of that, or at least some common sense, this looked like a totally viable dildo.  “Hell, honey, it’s ribbed for your pleasure! “  (Not a direct quote, but I know we were both thinking it.)  My foot roller wasn’t tapered as significantly as the one pictured above, but beyond that, it looked pretty much exactly like it.  He found it on my windowsill.  He asked me what it was.  I didn’t know.  What I did know was that I had received it as part of a massage/pedicure set.  I knew that it had a somewhat phallic shape.  I knew that it was made of smooth, seamless wood.  I also knew that I hadn’t seen my ex in almost four months and was ready to devour him, and because of that, everything else that I knew took a backseat to the fact that I knew that thing was going in my vagina.

And it did.

Oh my god.  It was good.  It was so good.  Intercourse had never felt that good.  I am not exaggerating.  I was in ecstasy, with that foot roller thrusting in and out of me and a devoted tongue on my clit.  It wasn’t very long.  It didn’t need to be.  It was amazing.  I genuinely have no real way to describe how it felt, because I have no basis for comparison in memory.  I couldn’t get enough of the thing, and I was so wet,

so close

my cunt was on fire my back was arched my toes were curling my right leg was twitching and that telltale cramp was forming in my thigh and oh my god, yes, yes, YES, I… flopped my spine back against the mattress, uncurled my toes, stilled my leg, and I was PISSED.

“WHY DID YOU STOP?”

“Honey, you’re… bleeding.”  He sounded a little concerned.

Fire spurted from my nostrils as I sat up and grabbed his hair in a death grip, growing to twenty-times my size and towering over him.

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT.”
“No, really, you’re bleeding…

The pleasure HAD NOT RESUMED.  His words were drowned out as Latin choirs sang in the distance.  My bed became a slab of ice and the temperature was sub-zero.  My room was now Cocytus, and I was buried in the middle of it, gnashing the teeth of my three mouths.

“KEEP GOING, DAMN YOU.”

Our sexual encounter quickly devolved into a non-kinky shouting match.   Finally, tossing aside his fear of spooking me, he showed me his hands.  It looked like he’d fingered Carrie after the prom.  “LOOK.  Are you okay?”

It was right about then that I got a little nervous.  I was accustomed to a tiny bit of bleeding every now and then, but outside of menstruation, this was more blood than I’d ever seen come out of my vag.  But it didn’t hurt… in fact, I was feeling no pain at all, which is why I hadn’t realized how serious the situation was.  I rushed to the bathroom and held some toilet paper to my cunt until the blood flow was minimal, and as I was pressing it there, the pain set in.

Oh my god.

Let me tell you about the pain.

My cunt was on fire again, but it wasn’t the good burn from earlier – it stung.  It’s been a few years, but I vividly remember sitting on my toilet, trying not to cry because of a mixture of fear and pain, wondering if someone had turned a hive of pissed-off, razor-wielding hornets on my poor pussy.  It was scary.  I had no idea how bad the damage actually was, I just had some blood and pain as indicators of what I had done.  I felt confused, frail, vulnerable, damaged, and above all, foolish, because I thought it would be okay to put that thing in my vag.  Ex was pounding on the door, asking if I was okay, and all I could do was sit there and sniffle.  It didn’t take too long for the bleeding to slow down, and while I spotted for several days afterward, the damage wasn’t severe enough to warrant a doctor’s visit – at least, that was my opinion at the time.  In retrospect, I wish I had gone to the gynecologist just for peace of mind, if nothing else.  I still have questions about it.  Exactly what kind of damage did the edge of that thing cause: scratches, tears, scrapes?  Could it have changed the internal topography of my vagina?  Once I had healed up, I was convinced that my innards felt a little bit frillier than they used to, but that was an entirely subjective judgment from someone who didn’t often penetrate herself with her fingers.  Could I have gotten an infection if I hadn’t taken better care of it?

Now, do you want to know the scary part of this story?  I was the most sexually-educated person among my friends for years, and I thought that this roller would be okay to use in my vagina.

I was the one who told my friends that yes, they still needed to use condoms if they had anal.  I was the one that my friends asked about STDs, pornography, blowjobs, sexuality, and last but not least, masturbation.  I was the resident “sex genius,” and I thought it would be okay to stick this thing in my pussy even though it didn’t have rounded edges.  It wasn’t the ridges that hurt me… not initially, at least.  It was the top of the cylindrical shape that had hard edges instead of rounded ones.  I’m not going to deny that the ridges probably didn’t help, but once I started doing some reading on the subject, I realized that something with hard, pointy edges really shouldn’t have gone in my vagina.

THIS IS WHY WE NEED REALISTIC, COMPREHENSIVE SEX EDUCATION THAT DOESN’T DEMONIZE PLEASURE AND ACKNOWLEDGES THAT ALL KINDS OF SEX OTHER THAN PENIS-TO-VAGINA INTERCOURSE HAPPENS.

When we’re showing them how to put condoms on bananas, if we’re even showing them that, then we also need to be teaching young adults what sort of things should not be put into their orifices and why, because they’re going to experiment with that whether you address it or not.  Instead of telling them not to have sex, tell them how to have sex safely and responsibly.  Instead of telling them not to masturbate, tell them how to do it safely and responsibly.  Even the teenagers who know more about sex than their peers (like I did) can learn how to do things more carefully.  If someone had told me that I shouldn’t put anything into my vagina until I made sure it had a smooth, rounded edge, I would have told my boyfriend to go fuck himself with a chainsaw before I let him put that thing inside me.

You can find all kinds of threads on the internet asking questions such as, “What can I find laying around the house to masturbate with?”  If it had been a masturbatory experience, would I have gone to Yahoo! Answers and asked if it was a bad idea to put that roller in my cunt?  Probably not.  It never really occurred to me.  It was just phallic enough that I didn’t think about the danger of the edges.

Do you know something important that I learned from Girl Scouts?

It was to be prepared.

Do you know what I learned from this experience?

Have a dildo for every occasion.

Why We Want the Wahl

I got out my porn and toys and my best friend asked, “Want me to bring you towels?”  Oh, beautiful angel of mercy.  You know me so well.  I meticulously arranged the towels and got myself set up to play.  I was ready for my mind to be blown.  For starters, I’ve never used a vibrator that wasn’t operated by AAAs or AAs until I bought the Wahl, but it goes without saying that a corded vibe is supposed to be intense.  I noticed that the Wahl’s cord has your standard, “Please don’t shower with me” warning label, but said label also warns against use on your genitals.  As I plugged the Wahl in for the first time, I caught sight of that warning label and laughed, knowingly, murmuring, “Puh-lease, what’s the worst that could happen?” Everyone raves about this thing.  I don’t think I’ve read a completely negative review of it yet.  Maybe I just haven’t been looking hard enough. It was cheap, and it was WORTH IT. While the thing is a little big, somewhat gun-shaped, and rather heavy at the head of the device, the two vibration speeds are both incredibly agreeable.

Refer to this image from Amazon, because I’m gripped by the urge to masturbate with this thing every time I remove it from the box, not take pictures of it.

[Image description:  The Wahl 7-in-1 Electric Vibrator is sitting on a white background.  The vibrator consists of a grey handle with a bulbous, round-edged, somewhat square-shaped head extending from one end.  The other end of the vibrator has a power cord connected to it, and the Wahl has a bell-shaped white end attachment sticking out from the square at the other end.  Shown around the Wahl are its six other head attachments: a head that is a slightly-domed, smooth, flat-ish disc, a head that is covered in three circles of nubs arranged in a bullseye pattern, a head that has a bullseye shape constructed by smooth lines and a nub, a head that is just a very large nub, a head that is a rectangle with four rippled shapes protruding from it, and a somewhat pyramid-shaped head with rounded edges.]

The Wahl has three settings: Off, Awesome, and OH FUCKING SHIT.
The first speed (which I nicknamed “Awesome”) is a pretty intense surface vibration that’s leg-twitch inducing when you brush it across the clitoris.  The second speed (“Oh Fucking Shit”) is a little different.  It feels deeper and more layered than the first, and it’s oh-so-satisfying.  To me, the vibrations from the second speed are far more penetrating than the first.  After experiencing the second speed, when I compare the two, I’m actually inclined to call the first speed a “light vibration,” even though there’s nothing light about it from a standalone perspective.  Both of the vibration speeds are almost silent compared to the battery vibrators in my arsenal.

I generally opt to masturbate quietly when it’s just me, unless I’m feeling especially sexy, but I didn’t get a choice on this.  It had been an hour of repeated, orgasm-less ejaculation.  (I think I counted five.  I think.)  The last segment of Belladonna’s Strapped Dykes 2 was off, and free porn was on.  I had the spot applicator (Epiphora‘s recommended jilling tip) on the Wahl. My anal beads were in, the Wahl was nestled against my clitoris and held in place between my legs because my hand had gone numb, and I had my jackrabbit in, thrusting against my g-spot.  It was just too much.

What came out of my mouth was not the confident, empowered moan that my lips are accustomed to.  It was like I was riding in the backseat, and the front seat was populated by an overwhelmed toddler that was reaching the apex of a hissy fit.  (Note to self: never reference anyone under the age of 18 in sex blog again.)  I wailed and it felt passive.  I shuddered, convulsed, my legs twitched like crazy, and I soaked the towel in another gush that was so late in the orgasm that it was almost after the fact.  A moment later, I felt like I lost all basic control of my bodily functions.  The dildo left me without any work on the part of my hands, but my ass was like a vice, even five minutes later.  To summarize the aftermath, I present to you the Lost Tweets, which Twitter stalled out and refused to post… probably for the sake of saving face for me.

“Oh.  So that’s what a queef sounds like.  No wonder it’s so taboo.”

“My ass feels like Thunderdome gone wrong.  FOUR BEADS ENTER, NONE LEAVE.”

It was all such a blur that I can’t even tell you whether I was using Awesome or Oh Fucking Shit.  I don’t remember.  As I was packing up the Wahl, I caught sight of the warning label again.  It needs something about temporary movement impairment.

My complaints about the Wahl are minimal.  The size is a little bulbous, and a majority of the weight is focused in the head of the device, so it’s a little unbalanced and a bit heavy, at worst.  It would probably be inconvenient to integrate into partner sex play if you had two bodies pushed against one another, like one might in the missionary position.

It will numb your hand if you hold it for too long, but I tended to solve this problem by positioning the vibrator with my hands, then holding it in place with my thighs.  (Additionally, the numb hand is still totally worth the orgasm.) Another complaint relating to the hands is that the heads require a little bit of effort to attach and remove.  I think this is reasonable enough when you consider that once the heads are fully attached, they don’t go anywhere, but, those who have problems with or disabilities relating to their hands (arthritis being the first and foremost that came to mind) might have a hard time forcing the different heads into place.

The cord means you need to be near an outlet, which isn’t a problem for me, but means that this probably wouldn’t be very convenient for sex out of the home.  Because of the cord, its size, and the small size of my portable toybox, the Wahl may not make it into my “on-the-go” kit.  However, the Wahl has a very special place in my bedroom.

Get one.  Get one now.  Get two for the hell of it.  Use the ripple-y head on your thighs to work out the soreness from reverse cowgirl.  (Did that.)  Use the deep muscle head on your back to give yourself the massage you need.  (Did that, too.)  After all of that, settle in with a glass of wine, your choice of porno, literotica, or fantasy, and use the spot applicator to have the fun you deserve.  Just make sure that the Wahl’s acclaimed “silence” isn’t essential, because while the vibrator might be relatively quiet, you won’t be.

Pros Cons
ORGASMS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s big, and a bit heavy.
Super-quiet. It numbs my hand after a while.
Multiple heads. All heads not suitable for genitals.
Amazingly cheap. It’s corded.
No batteries! Wouldn’t be very comfortable between two people in missionary.
You can use it for things other than jilling!  (But why would you want to?) It gets a little warm after a while.
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