I’m too young to be this jaded.

It’s amazing that I’m able to enjoy sex like a normal1 human being.

Though I’m currently a godless heathen, I’m still Baptist-raised and Catholic-educated, leaving me with a nasty film of Judeo-Christian sexual guilt that wasn’t easy to wash off. I’ve also dealt with my fair share of repulsive male relatives; and what’s more, for years, I had an intense phobia of penetration – I wasn’t even able to use junior tampons2, and I was too frightened to even visit the gynecologist for a pap smear, for fear of being injured with some creepy male doctor’s cold, hard speculum.

Most of my formative years were pretty typically suburban – weekly allowances blown on half-price, wannabe fetish gear at Hot Topic; awkward school dances in which no one ever really danced; giggly, pseudo-sexual cuddlefests at all-girl sleepovers – all lived within the same five-block radius. Above all, I was pathetically sheltered – I didn’t even know that female orgasms existed until age 13 or so.

As you can guess, this all had a pretty substantial effect on my first real sexual relationship at age 18, when I didn’t know how to enjoy sex and didn’t have the words to tell my boyfriend that I wasn’t enjoying it.
At the time, I blamed myself; but the fact that I was an 18-year-old virgin and still seemed to know more about sexual pleasure than he did should have pointed the finger elsewhere.

I remember lying on my back with my then-boyfriend hovering over me with this incredibly intense look on his face, poking awkwardly at my clit as though it were a joy buzzer and asking, “Does this feel good?”

And you know, I should have protested, I should have told him that he was absolutely abhorrent in bed and needed basic anatomy lessons before being allowed anywhere near a live woman’s happy bits.
But, no. I hemmed and hawed, I feigned a sort of half-pleasure while he ineptly jabbed away at my dry-as-sand vulva with blunt fingers, discretely peeking at the clock to gauge when it’d be politest to tell him I’d had enough3.

And you can fast forward 3 years. You can picture me at a smarter, more aware 21, lying on my back again and amazingly awake to the beautiful, sweaty boy body entwined with mine, his muscled legs pressing against my inner thighs as he thrusts deep, filling me deliciously full.

He nibbles at the skin of my neck as he playfully tugs at my erect nipples. As I tremble and moan with pleasure for more, more, more, he explores the soft ridges of my ear with his tongue, whispering that I’d better be a good girl and take that cock.

And if I were alone in my bed imagining this scene, breathing raggedly with a few fingers buried in my cunt, it would end differently.
If I were masturbating, I’d start coming right then, my cunt tightening in delicious waves for minutes on end.

..but for whatever reason, Mr. Beautiful Boy doesn’t make me cum. …and neither does the next one, or the next one, or the next one.
..and I’m mostly fine4 with that. The irritating moments come (teehee) when the dude realizes I haven’t gotten off and takes it personally. And the worst thing is, I’ve been pickier about men since The Ex5; so the men I screw are all very feminist and sweet.
So, the disappointment isn’t of the, “oh noes! I must not be a studly dudebro anymore; the little lady didn’t scream loud enough during my inept jackhammering session.” variety.

It’s often more like, “I must be a selfish asshole because she didn’t have as much fun as I did.”

..and that makes me feel guilty, which really does chip away at my sexual enjoyment.
I feel pressured to get aroused very quickly, which makes me nervous. ..which makes me less aroused. …which makes me more nervous about getting aroused. ..which… You get the idea.

This has resulted in more than a few not-so-fun, painful6 encounters, which often leave me wondering why I didn’t just save myself the energy and masturbate, instead.

I’m in a funk of sorts, I guess; but I should (maybe) come out fine soon.

1. Anyone who knows me really well would laugh at the use of the word ‘normal’ in relation to my sexuality. But really, I’m just using the word ‘normal’ to mean shameless, fearless enjoyment of pleasure. In that sense, few people are ‘normal’, even the vanilla-est of the vanilla.

2. To get an idea of size, I’m a woman with fingers of average length; and junior tampons are slightly smaller than my pinkie, maybe.

3. I never faked an orgasm, though. Ever. It was something I simply refused to do, especially after I started to get the sense that his dismay over my lack of pleasure had more to do with his own fragile male ego than my own happiness.

4. By ‘fine’, I don’t mean ‘totally content’. Of course, I’d prefer it if I orgasmed as often during sex as I do during masturbation. Interestingly enough, though, I cum every time I touch myself; and if I didn’t, it would irk me. The same isn’t true during sex, though. I think the hugs and kisses from a warm body more than make up for it.

5. Pretty much everyone has a past lover that stands out from the rest as ‘the ex’, for all sorts of reasons. Whenever I mention ‘my ex’ to anyone, I’m always referring to the same guy. Granted, he’s the only guy I’ve ever had a committed relationship with; but he was still quite the character.

6. Even though I’m always excited during sex, I still feel as though vestiges of the penetration phobia are still there – if I get even the slightest bit nervous (and sometimes when I’m not nervous), my cunt sort of closes in and makes penetration feel awkward (at best) or simply painful.


~ by fistfulofsunshine on June 10, 2009.

4 Responses to “I’m too young to be this jaded.”

  1. I’ve had my own share of ups and downs with penetration; it usually is unpleasant (or at least not pleasant) unless I am just ridiculously turned on, and sometimes even then it hurts. (The last time I was penetrated I banged some sort of interior muscle and it hurt slightly to walk for two days after, not to mention I had to stop having sex, which was a shame.) Also orgasms have long been an “issue” although that has had the positive side-effect of allowing me to see orgasm as only part of the point. (A nice part, granted, but if it doesn’t happen I don’t get too upset.) Anyway, I’m going to write more about this sometime, but I guess I’m just saying I sympathize and that things for me tend to go in cycles, so let us know what happens next 😉

  2. “happy bits”! oh my god, happy bits! i can just imagine a shirt that says, “i ❤ my happy bits" patent it.

    own sex blog on the way soon…

  3. p.s. “i’m too young to be this jaded” reminds me of this kid i saw on a bus in ecuador with a shirt that said “young and gone.” that spoke volumes to me, and i almost cried.

  4. “…poking awkwardly at my clit as though it were a joy buzzer and asking, ‘Does this feel good?'”

    Eek. My boy-clit hurts just reading that.

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