Found this in my private diary, in which I rarely write these days, instead spouting my private thoughts all over WordPress and Tumblr. It’s from September 20, 2012.
Both PG and quite graphic (adult) talk about sex under the cut…
My Internet addiction is almost something I embrace at this point, and it’s getting to terrible dip levels (the fuck?), by which I mean, it’s gone back down to its baddest point. LAME! STOP!
Was reading about sex again, not just because I can’t have it, but because of the story I was writing, then stopped writing, then tried to research what I’m doing wrong, then thought, “Fuck it, who cares?” then tried to figure out what’s a Mary Sue, one day I looked up sex positions and tried to figure out if they were physically possible, ended up reading about prostitutes and recalled this…
When I was hanging out with [The Teacher], before that whole disaster around his mother’s funeral, he made the mistake of confessing he had been with a prostitute. Three prostitutes.
And what’s interesting, is that after he told me that, for a while I combined it with my fantasy about the thing I was intrigued by a while back – hysteria.
It wasn’t as common as legend would like you to think. In fact, “doctors” who did it were discouraged because it could be considered molestation or rape. But the doctors who did it anyway invented one of the greatest inventions known to womankind (if not the greatest, after the Pill) – the vibrator.
Anyway, any couple not adroit enough to give each other orgasms ended up in awful pairings where the woman had to suffer mundane and sometimes painful sex at the mercy of their husbands, told they must only have it for procreative purposes or for the man’s pleasure – an attitude prevalent among men and women since the beginning of time.
Obviously women have been able to come before, but uptight, upper-class women and any woman sheltered from that kind of thing by their parents didn’t know what an orgasm was, nevermind how to achieve one.
So those first guys who made the first vibrators, and then they began selling like hotcakes – well thank goodness someone had the bright idea that you could relieve a woman’s stress with orgasms. Duh.
I wondered about pelvic massage before that. Did women really pay for men to finger them? Was the vibrator really invented because those men’s hands got tired?
My own fucked up history with masturbation aside, I assume young girls are told by older girls or their mothers, and so on and so forth, now that we’ve gone through the Sexual Revolution. Or by boys who know better, but lord knows a lot of teenage boys don’t know it at all unless they read up on it. Pornography tends to insist that women come during intercourse, unless it’s lesbian porn.
ANYway, [the Teacher] told me in confidence – and was pissed off I ever brought it up again, when we were walking past some signs offering it in Chinatown – and I was disgusted but also kind of amazed. I ended up breaking my oath of silence and telling people, because it’s the only friend of mine who’s ever done it.
Anyway, I kind of imagined him lying there, and her starting to stroke him, and him just…you know…getting there and getting there and…then…coming all over her hand. Ohhh and the pleasure… (Followed by copious amounts of red hot shame.)
He probably felt dirty, but forget about the moral part of that. Or the depressing part. Just think about that hand, that soft hand, stroking…
And even though that doctor back then, treating ME for hysteria, would be just as disinterested in my pleasure as that bored masseuse, I’d be laid back just like [the Teacher] was, my naked pussy exposed just under my lifted skirt and rolled down knickers. I’d lie back and his hand would begin to explore me, to touch and grope, professionally… (like that rare species the male, het prostitute would do, or the female lesbian one; rarer than those for men, because who wouldn’t bed a woman for free?)…He’d know exactly how to get me there…get me there…get me there…to that plateau…extending my pleasure…I’m just on the cusp of orgasm, but he won’t stop, he won’t STOP, he just keeps going and going. I’m not looking at him or his struggle, or the sweat on his brow, or how he keeps looking at the clock and waiting until this one, this girl who won’t come, is over and he can take a break, no, fuck that, I’m gazing at the ceiling, my eyes wide, my body shaking, and then I can feel it in my center, in my toes, in my chest and flushed face, and there it is, washing over me, easy-like, my orgasm, oh yes, oh yes, there it is, my pussy contracts, once, twice, and then my body begins to relax, and then the feeling fades and is gone.
I croak out a “Thank you, Doctor.”
And I pay him.
That’s usually when I come in real life.
I used to confuse my orgasm with something else. I was always told that it wasn’t a “real” orgasm unless it was induced vaginally. Even though I came all the time, by myself, in the dark, music or fan blasting, blocking out the rest of the house. Usually when everyone was asleep.
I didn’t realize, even when I was 16 and curled up with JP on his couch, reaching into my panties and touching myself as he kissed my neck and chest. I would get closer and closer. I forget if I came, once, on that couch. It was 11 years ago this autumn. It’s fuzzy, now.
I wish things had gone differently when I pulled down my pants and he knelt down and put his face between my thighs. I wish I had him go higher, to part the folds and push the hair aside and kiss my clitoris. I had been rubbing it myself, to orgasm, for four years. The one time JP made me come, we were in my bed, and I struggled to keep quiet. My parents probably heard, and probably they cared, concerned. But I felt little shame. He fingered me, but I didn’t know what a G-spot was, but he hit it, over and over. I was crying out and shaking and clutching the sheets and I came and I came and I came, and I didn’t realize I was. Or I may be remembering it wrong.
I used to not understand if I had a G-spot orgasm, because it didn’t feel like my clitoral ones. I used to not understand that my clitoral orgasms “counted” as well as a G-spot one. I knew I was coming, but I thought I was coming “wrong.” I wanted to feel the “Big O” everyone was talking about, but could only achieve the “little” ones. I should have had JP stroke me to orgasm, and then he would have understood how to do it with his mouth, and we wouldn’t have humiliated ourselves on that bed that night. I feel ashamed. I had wanted so much to have someone pleasure me orally, ever since I was first told about it, back when I was molested, back when I was still just a child. A preteen. But anyway, who doesn’t learn that way? Normal kids. But then again, many normal girls get pressured into performing hand jobs and blow jobs by a dumpster behind the middle school anyway.
People used to shame me for masturbating, but I did it anyway, almost every night, if not every night, and I didn’t know my orgasms counted for something. I didn’t know until I was in college, when I realized, surely, they counted. I used to do it with [the Stoner], and we would watch each other, and that was the first time I did it in front of someone. Yes, I did it in front of JP, but my pussy was obscured by clothing. It wasn’t the same as spreading my legs and letting someone see all of me. The only other person before then to see my pussy exposed, my legs open to him, was JP, and it was a humiliating experience. I considered it losing my virginity, in fact, even though we were taught, always taught, oral “didn’t count.” My shrink recently smirked when I told her I had 21 lovers. 21 penises. Surely that counted as sex. Actually no, ma’am, it was 20 penises. Does a pussy not count?
I considered that pussy the true loss of my virginity.
subject: Mark this as a day in history…. (formerly private entry)
eventtime: 2001-12-20 23:44:00
….[Eris] had seeeeeeeeeeexxxxx.
No, not really, but pretty damn close.
This is major. Majorly major. Majorly majorly majorly major.
subject: Mark this as a day in history…part two (formerly private entry)
eventtime: 2001-12-20 23:47:00
And today is the day of me and [JP]’s two month anniversary. Two months! Two fucking months! What the fuck are we THINKING? But it was so nice, ya know?
Aw man, the real deal is going to be sooooo much more frightening.
But also what bothers me is that I don’t feel any different.
Heh, I met him almost four months ago.
I met him
Four months ago
subject: Mark this as a the day after a day in history… (formerly private entry)
eventtime: 2001-12-21 16:28:00
Man, the whole..ya know…impact of the whole, ya know, *thing* just hit me today. And I cried. And I called [JP] and I cried at him. And I made him feel shitty with my feeling shitty. And it’s all shitty.
But everything will be alright. It’s also going to be “that time of the month”, so I’m extra emotional. But still, it’s crazy. It’s crazy, I’m growing up, and I’m going crazy, but I’m really not, and [JP]’s scared, and I’m scared, and my grandmother is inadvertantly making me feel really guilty because she “trusts me”.
I don’t know what to do. Nothing, I guess.
2003 was the next time I got physical with someone. And then me and [the Stoner] decided to go all the way.
subject: Come on, let’s hear that laugh before I make a sound again
eventtime: 2003-10-03 20:03:00
Is this love? Let’s call it really strong like.
subject: devirginized (formerly private entry)
eventtime: 2003-10-03 20:38:00
It’s, like, not registering that I’m no longer a virgin.
I got a cold shortly after.
Then I got a yeast infection.
Then I got a urinary track infection.
Then I wrote about missing my high school boyfriends and missing JP’s kisses and the way he smelled. But then I said…
Except from October 19, 2003. Emphasis mine (now).
…Despite the fact that [the Stoner] and I fuck like bunnies, I doubt I’ll ever have the same feeling I had for [JP].
Funny, though, since I wasn’t actually in love with him (at least not enough to not openly lust after his best friend [Ernie] and fight with my former best friend [Emma] over the boy) and told him so. But then when I lost him….maybe it was the little spoiled princess in me coming out. Probably. But I remember I couldn’t keep my fuckin hands off him. Kissing [JP] was so great. But I remember we had trouble with the whole friendly peck thing. It was always tongues and such. I can friendly peck with [the Stoner] no problem and get just as much fulfillment. What does that mean?
subject: [The Stoner]
eventtime: 2003-10-20 18:31:00
Music: Charmed, apparently
I’ll admit it, sometimes I want to just grab that boy and never let him go. Most of the time I barely tolerate the boy. And he strikes me far too much (though not surprising for the shut-in of the last summer) as being Dave, fromAn Eternity In Cheese Country. He even does that whole “Ya know ya love me” thing. His immaturity and seemingly unrelenting sex drive attract me and repel me all at once. Fuck. I’m Veronica.
I’ve found some old Livejournal entries that pretty much prove I was in love with [the Stoner]. Nooo, I don’t chalk that up, merely, to the fact I never cheated on him, or even considered doing so. /whistles innocently
Okay, okay, so my standard for “In love with” right now is pretty much “Don’t want to cheat on.” And despite what I said to his S.O. on Thanksgiving, I really don’t give two shits about what ever happened to him.
But I chalk that up to two things:
1) We got our closure when we sat next to each other at Graduation (5 years ago!)
2) We slept together 9 years ago.
As for why I think it’s significant that he was Dave and I was Veronica, I think that just proves how immature the whole love affair was, but also why it was so powerful. He was Dave and I was Veronica. My two misfit OC’s are the nearest and dearest to my heart. They’re, technically, the only original characters I ever wrote about. So it’s no surprise I’d want to fuck the real life Dave. Yeah, it’s messed up. But we were young.
I shouldn’t gloss over the stupidity and pain of freshman year. But the GOOD things were quite similar to the good things during the love affair with [The Englishman]. It was the same sort of feeling. The same exact feeling. The same circumstances, in fact. And the boys were the same age, and I was, basically, the same age mentally. I was only much more fucked up and damaged by that point, however, to the point I thought cheating wasn’t wrong. I always had this thought in my head that maybe the love affair with [the Englishman] wasn’t as meaningful as it really was. That we weren’t “really” in love. I had become distrustful of love, at that point. I hadn’t said the words “I love you” and meant them since freshman year. Since [the Stoner].
Me and [the Gambler] never said “I love you,” and I only shouted “I love you” at [the Musician] and [Jack] from rooftops, as more shocking statement than sincere expression of affection. [The Gambler] revealed he was in love with me when we broke up. [The Englishman] revealed he was in love with me when we were leaving [the city].
The only people I said “I love you” with on a regular basis were JP, [the Stoner], and [the Mechanic]. I said it with JP because I was infatuated, deeply infatuated, and horny and confused. Desperate to lose my virginity, more than likely, and for a hero on a white horse. I said it with [the Stoner] because I loved him and he loved me, although he protested that it wasn’t real. But just because it was fleeting doesn’t make it not real, does it? I forget our problems, and I’m sure there were many. I shouldn’t, though. But the “not real” part is surely the fact we held onto each other like…We needed anchors. We needed companionship and we were young and frightened and didn’t know our place at college. That’s the “only” reason. He’s right, of course. It wasn’t some lasting love affair that would lead to marriage or even much commitment. It was affected by every petty little fight, which spiraled me into angry outbursts every two seconds. But when I look back with a hazy, gossamer perspective, it looks pretty nice, all in all. I was loyal, for one thing.
[The Gambler] and I were not in love, but he was in love with ME. I was not in love with anybody until [the Englishman], and even then I had convinced myself love didn’t exist, so I didn’t tell him so. I cheated on him multiple times and knew, okay, this proves it’s not real. But did it? And I thought, I’m just replaying the affair with [the Stoner]. We are lost and don’t know what to do, curious about sex, and we live together. Those things combine and make us lovers. [The Englishman] and [the Stoner] aren’t very different, in relation to me, in that regard. But then again, is there anything wrong with that?
[The Mechanic] told me he loved me, but I didn’t believe it until he told me years later with a fresh, objective perspective on the past. He told me I didn’t realize that he loved me, even though he said it so many times. Apparently I had forgotten. I told him I loved him while making love in the back of a car. And whether I meant it or not, he did love me back. You CAN love two people at the same time. Surely, with so many more lovers than he, I knew that much.
[The Teacher] fell in love with me. He told me that many times. That brings it up to five.
[CB] recently propositioned me for sex, mainly because I brought him back down memory lane talking about the sex we had. Which was a mistake, but interesting, and to assuage my boredom, instead of getting a job or writing anything marketable, I do shit like that. He wondered if I would have sex with him again, and honestly I wouldn’t. The idea is repulsive to me. I only had sex with him drunk, and only to get over [the Mechanic].
But I didn’t tell him that. I merely told him a polite no. Ah, he asked, then why are you discussing, quite graphically, sex with me over chat, then? And I replied, truthfully, it’s not because I want to fuck you, it’s because I want to fuck everyone.
And that’s true. It’s really true. And I can’t fuck at all.
Mainly because I haven’t been doing my exercises. And tomorrow I see my physical therapist and she’s going to be able to tell I haven’t been doing my exercises. She’s going to provoke my pussy into painful stretches with her fingers, and it won’t be sexy like my fantasies, it will just hurt like a bitch.
One thing she did that was nice was massage my thighs, and I had to try very hard not to become aroused. That’s not allowed, and that’s creepy. When I asked her about masturbation, I had the biofeedback stick inside me, and my embarrassment shot my muscle tension to the roof and wouldn’t come back down. (Ha!) She told me to ask my psychologist.
So I’ll go tomorrow and not think of how nice it feels for someone to touch my thighs, and hope she doesn’t notice my pussy is too tight for someone who should be doing her exercises every day! The biofeedback monitor will reveal my lack of initiative, surely, because my muscles will be too tight, and my drops and kegels all wrong, my muscles resistant to manipulation, and my whining about no progress despite the fact it’s my own damn fault there’s no progress. She is just there as a guide. And also, the pelvic massage, in this case, in THIS day in age, is not supposed to be pleasurable. And certainly, with my condition, it is not. Doctors avoid your clitoris, understandably, and this doctor, of course, is hurting me because she’s provoking those fucked up muscles and nerves. I’m broken, quite frankly. I’m tight as a drum and a woman’s body isn’t supposed to be. I could be fit and stretched and happy, and that has nothing to do with arousal or orgasm or sex at all. My whole body is tense. I’m cramped and hunched over all the time. Why? Own damn fault. Hrmph.
So those are my sex stories for today. Hope you enjoy them and that they’re illuminating, future![Eris]…