O, my first orgasm

A collection of personal essays on first orgasm. New stories every Monday and Thursday.

Sunday, May 28, 2006


The editor apologizes for the recent lack of updates. She has been overwhelmed by a new job and internet-deprived.

This entry was found on the Male Sexuality Survey at http://male101.com/faqs/pn/first-orgasm.html. It was submitted by an anonymous heterosexual male.

My first (orgasm) happened shortly before my twelfth birthday. I was really naive and had no idea what masturbation was, but from the time I was a young boy I found a great thrill in pulling down my pajama bottoms in bed. I often fantasized about getting caught with my pants down and that my dad would use the opportunity to spank me as I bent over the edge of the bed. As I pretended I was being spanked, I would thrust my hips against the mattress with each imagined swat. After a few of these, I had an involuntary contraction of my sphyncter muscle and I thought I was going to dump a load right there so I stopped. I thought that was weird so I thrust a few more times and it happened again. I wasn't experiencing anything pleasurable but I decided to see if I could make it happen again. I continued thrusting my penis against the bed, but nothing would happen. Determined to get that sensation again, I kept going until I felt compelled to go faster. After a couple of minutes I felt something building up in my penis and I thought it was getting ready to happen again until there was a sudden rush of extremely intense pleasure in my penis followed by a really self-conscious feeling and an overwheming need to pull up my pj's immediately! I wondered what that was. I thought I had discovered something nobody else could do. Twenty minutes later I was doing it again and it felt every bit as good. Incidentally, to this day, I've never had that same contraction that started the whole thing. It was several weeks before I realized that a tiny bit of clear fluid came out each time.

The first time I had a proper ejaculation was nearly a year later. It was a snow day and I was bored at home. Watching an episode of the old superman series, I challenged myself to see if I could masturbate to an orgasm during the commercial. When the commercial was over, I had to stop and wait for the next commercial. My first couple of attempts were unfruitful. By the third time I was really ready to go for it. I used my preferred method of rubbing against the bedspread. Up to this point I left little wet spots which would evaporate pretty quickly without leaving a stain. I would cover them with a pillow or book and an hour or so later they would be gone with no stain left behind. I really went for it on this commercial and sure enough, I had an extremely long satisfying orgasm. To my surprise as I stood up to pull up my pants, I found a large long puddle of milky white fluid on the bed. I thought I had broken something. I covered it with a dirty towel and thought nothing of it. Over the next few days I repeated the same process until I started notice that where I had left these little puddles, there were elongated spots where the bright red color had began to fade on the bedspread. I also looked at my top sheet where I was leaving similar puddles after bedtime and found that the bright blue had faded in several similar locations. This new stuff left evidence behind and there was no way to hide it. I always hoped nobody noticed, but now it's obvious to me that my parents and especially my older brother who I shared a room with never said a word about it. I actually wish now that my brother had said something so I wouldn't have continued to feel so self-conscious about it. I had that bedspread for another two years with those obvious stains on it. That's when I started to develop my hand technique, and always took a handkerchief to bed with me to clean myself up.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

All About My Masturbation

Sarah wants to share whatever she knows that can help people who have or know vaginas take good care of them, love them, and have fun with them. You can read her informative, fun, and prolific All About My Vagina at http://myvag.net.

Female masturbation seems to intrigue a lot of people, either because they can’t figure out how common it is, or how girls do it at all. Or, of course, for voyeuristic reasons, as has been the case with most of the email anticipating this page.

I don’t really know what proportion of girls masturbate, or how often, but I do it. Sometimes a lot, sometimes not as much. Not very much lately, because I live with my beloved boy and have sex almost every day, but when one of us goes somewhere for any length of time, I masturbate some.

There are lots of reasons that I have masturbated. Most often just because I wanted to, but also occasionally to get to sleep, or to help cramps or a headache, and sometimes to help get aroused, in which case I wouldn’t follow through to orgasm. I didn’t ever masturbate to relax before a date or a party.

The first time I masturbated was in grade 8. The idea hadn’t occurred to me until it was discussed in sex education class. The class convinced me that it wasn’t wrong or unhealthy, but I knew that my dork status would be elevated to perverted dork if anyone ever had reason to suspect my habits.

Until about grade 10, I don’t remember having any kind of discussion about masturbation with any of my friends, except in the context of dirty jokes. For the rest of high school, the most myself or my girl friends would say was impersonal and kind of political. Agreeing that masturbation by girls in general should be accepted, the way it was for boys. Stating that it was silly that a masturbating boy was deemed healthy while a masturbating girl should be taken to the doctor. I don’t remember guys getting in on the discussion.

That was all more applicable in a small, redneck town such as we lived in. Some girl once made a comment in health class to the effect that she couldn’t be expected to know what her vagina looked like because she would never, ever look at it. Only my friend and myself were taken aback.

Until I was about 20, I never discussed or referred to masturbation, so I didn't develop any other names for it. I knew various names but didn’t use them. I don’t remember telling a lot of masturbation jokes, and I’m pretty sure I never accused anybody of it or made fun of them for it. Currently, I prefer to refer to my own masturbation as either "availing myself of myself," or as, umm... beating my meat (when I am being silly).

The only girl I have ever witnessed masturbating was at a sleepover in grade nine, when I woke up early. It was nothing graphic (she was still laying in bed), I could just tell what she was doing. All I thought was that she was kind of dumb for not realizing I was awake, as I presumed she didn’t want me to see.

She was proceeding in about the same way I would, as far as I could tell, and the existence of radically different methods didn’t occur to me until like last year, when I was reading a lamely-executed masturbation resource page for entertainment.

What I have always done is (voyeurs get ready but know that I probably wouldn’t get you off on purpose) rub two or three fingertips between the outer labia of my vulva, just above my clitoris. This pulls the skin of the clitoral hood against the erectile nub itself and feels good. I find my clitoris too sensitive to touch directly. I don’t move my fingers in circles or anything, just up and down, fairly quickly. I've never seen another girl masturbate, or had a girl graphically guide me in touching her, so I can't vouch for anyone else's technique.

If I am not concerned about mess on my fingers, I’ll get them slippery with the wetness my vagina makes. If I am especially concerned about mess or smell, I’ll rub through my underwear or clothes. I used to like my long underwear for the waffle texture.

Sometimes I would also insert things in my vagina-- mostly just my own fingers but occasionally small objects, commonly bottles of lotion or bath oil. Also, in high school, if I had somehow mustered up the courage to buy a sexy bra on a shopping trip with my mum, I might put it on while I masturbated. I eventually stopped doing that, maybe after I got used to the idea that I could occasionally be sexy.

The first few times I masturbated, I was too overwhelmed with the discovery of orgasms to fantasize at all. Since then, I’ve fantasized more often than not. Sometimes the masturbating would arise out of the fantasizing, and sometimes I would be masturbating just because I was randomly aroused and end up fantasizing.

The object of my fantasies was more likely to be a specific person if I was fantasizing before I started touching myself. The popular belief seems to be that girls always masturbate about a specific person, with a face etc., but I have had fantasy lovers with no identity. Sometimes my smutty thoughts would just be about an act, not about a particular person, or about a feeling that I didn't put into specific images or words. Sometimes the mental fantasy was more about a sensation or idea than a sex act or person. Oooh, arty me I masturbate about colours and air. Anyway. If I had a serious crush object then they would be the default fantasy lover.

For a couple of years I meditated almost every day in some form or another, and would sometimes focus on sexual energy and get myself all riled up with breathing exercises and the beauty of nature and the universe and end up masturbating because I couldn’t achieve orgasm without touching.

Mostly I masturbated in bed before I went to sleep, but also often in the bath or shower, and sometimes other places (watching tv, camping) if the urge struck me. I don’t remember masturbating anywhere very exciting or public.

When I first started, I masturbated quite a lot, and then would try to cut down, and not succeed, and then forget for awhile and slow down, and then masturbate a lot again, etc etc. Usually the more I did it the more I wanted to. Every once in awhile I would make myself sore with rubbing and have to give it a rest for a couple of days. This pace tapered off as I got older, but I would still have bouts of frequent masturbation.

Having a regular sex life does not make me stop masturbating, although I think it does reduce the frequency a bit. Right now I reckon I take myself to bed (or wherever) once a week or so (?have not paid much attention).

Friday, May 05, 2006

What if it falls off?

According to a recent article in Maxim, when Overeducated Nympho was fifteen her mother sat her down for a chat. "You know it’s true that boys only want one thing, right? So watch out for them, OK?" She grinned to herself, thinking, "Whatever–boys had better watch out for me!” Her exploits can be explored at http://overeducatednypho.com. Enjoy!

The first time I masturbated I was six years old.

I didn’t really understand what I had done, even years later in science class when we learned about masturbation I didn’t quite make the connection. Since it concerned “my private place” (what my mother called it), I understood it was something to keep to myself, to keep secret. I didn’t see it as wrong or sinful, just… well… my secret. So I only did it at night when I was in bed waiting to fall asleep. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I had just started a new school and didn’t want to be known as The Weirdo.

I first began noticing “happy feelings” whenever I had to pee and would sit on one leg so I could wait until the end of class to use the restroom. If I started kinda rubbing myself on my leg, it would help ease the need to pee. If I rubbed a little differently, it felt nice. One day I put my little hand there and things felt really nice. From then on, if I was having trouble sleeping, I would rub myself until I sighed and I would fall asleep easily.

But I was worried.

What about Mom, when she did the laundry and saw my underpants, could she tell? Could she see anything that would suggest what I’d been doing? When I did it during the day and came to the kitchen for dinner, could anyone tell by my face? What about at school (although I never did it at school), could anyone tell I touched myself? Did I look naughty? Was it obvious?

As I got older I worried more and more. My friends didn’t talk about it, my older cousins didn’t talk about it and they even knew penis jokes, it wasn’t on tv or in any of my books. What if what I was doing was bad? Was I doing it too often? Was I doing it too hard? What if I broke something? What if the next time I went to the doctor and he looked and it looked wrong? Then what? “I’ve been rubbing myself for years, doctor, I kept trying to stop because I worried it would fall off but it felt so good I started doing it every day”? Surely the doctor would tell Mom and she’d be mad because she’d have to find a new one for me and I knew she didn’t like spending money.

I really did try to stop. I was more concerned about the thing itself and not so much morality. What if I like, used it up? How did it work? If you used it too much did it stop growing? If you did it too hard, would it get worn and fall off? Why wasn’t this mentioned any where, it seemed pretty important to me!

It was still quite some time before I put together my sighs and masturbation. I only kinda got it during the reproduction unit in science class, but the teacher avoided details because we were still kinda young and laughed every time she said “penis” or “vagina” (come on, those words still sound absurd).

I didn’t really get it until one of my friends from long ago came to visit. Christopher was always getting in trouble, but I was friends with him anyway. Mom told me it was good to be friends with everyone, even if they were mean or low-class or in the dumb reading group. Christopher was always in trouble with his mom, but we had fun. We saw each other for the first time in eight years and he introduced me to Truth or Dare. He dared me to eat a dog biscuit (not as gross as I thought, just bland), I asked him if he had kissed a girl yet, he asked me if I masturbated. I paused on that one. I actually recall cocking my head to one side and thinking really hard.

“Don’t you know what that means?” he asked

“Yeah, I learned it in school.”

“So….. do you or don’t you? Masturbate?”

I thought some more and finally said “Yes. I do. Masturbate. Huh.”

And I thought some more.

That’s when everything started clicking together for me. I was already a horny little thing, but now things were processing much much faster. I started paying MUCH more attention to boys as they went through puberty. They began to be taller than me, they got hard biceps, they got long lean legs, they started dressing better. I noticed it ALL. At night I’d go over my newest findings, a huge file cabinet of images of boys from school and what they looked like and what I wanted to do to them. I started talking to my friends and we pooled our information into a beautiful vat of knowledge over which we’d giggle and make fun of each other and say Ewwww to all the things we heard about from older kids, but secretly I really really wanted to find things out for myself.

And so it began.

My First Wank

In the words on the wanker, "I wank, therefore I blog". Check him out at http://wanklog.blogspot.com/

Unlike many people I am unable to accurately say the first time I masturbated, I have a bunch of memories about things relating to masturbation though.

The first year I had sex ed at school was year 6. Masturbation was mentioned. Every year through until year 12 we had the same in health class. I remember trying it out when I was around 12 - 13. But I don't think I had ever managed to orgasm as such.

Until only recently (last 5 years or so), my foreskin was tight and stayed around the head of my penis, so that limited the standard stroke most people use.

I remember using the flat of my hand the flick across the small part of exposed glans penis that I did have, but never an orgasm. One night stands out in particular in that I had "wanked" a fair bit, but I did not realize what an orgasm felt like, so being ignorant, I thought I may have been pissing myself, so I held it in. That could very well be the first "complete" wank, but without ejaculation, I feel it doesn't count.

Another night around 14 years old sticks out in that I was determined to see what happens if I go further. I grabbed a length of toilet roll and set myself up in bed, thinking of Pamela Anderson (what else was there at 14 years old? :P). After a while and by a while I mean at most a minute, I felt the familiar urination urge, but all the health books at school said this what was supposed to happen. Faster, Faster, Faster still. Bam! Ejaculation. Now it wasn't a load anyone would be proud of, but those few millilitres of semen are the first time I remember ejaculating.

Of course after that I was hooked! You couldn't get me to bed soon enough.

By about 17, I then decided it was time to see what this foreskin thing was all about. I read that it could be pulled back, mine wouldn't go very far. I also read that it was best to see a doctor, no thanks. I would be so embarrassed about asking the man who delivered me to get my dick to work.

I had read that with gentle stretching, it would eventually allow for retraction. So I started, pulling it back as far as it would go, comfortably, and holding for 5 minutes, which I would repeat twice. This went on for about 9 - 12 months.

One night I was lying on the couch, doing the same when I could see the foreskin rising away from my penis, the ridge! Was I almost there?! I gave my foreskin another tug and it fell down the cliff and I was there. My foreskin retracts.

This opened up a whole new world to me. I was no longer limited to my rather basic technique of masturbation. But first thing's first. I had to make it a little more mobile. At that stage it was quite an effort getting it that far. So i kept up the stretching, getting it ever more looser. The best part was unlike doing something like fixing your car where the pay off is having one of the most important tools you own work, the payoff for this was sheer ecstasy. If only real work could be like that!

Like I said it wasn't until a very few years ago that I had complete and unrestricted retraction of my foreskin. And boy do I love it. Sometimes I do not have the time (or privacy :( ) for a real good, slow jerk. So in that situation, I don't bother with the foreskin.But, when I got the time and inclination, it is great. Watching that first drop of pre-cum roll down the head, using it to lubricate things. I fear to look at my pants right now for fear of having to go with what my brain is telling me ;)

So that is pretty much the history of my masturbating career.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Finding the Words

This excerpt by Martha Coventry was originally published on the Intersex Society of North America's website in 1997. It can be viewed in its entirety at http://www.isna.org/books/chrysalis/coventry

"When I was growing up, and well into adulthood, I used to have a waking nightmare that a squad of men in uniforms would arrive at my door, take me into the night and execute me for not being a real woman. In my mind, they were always justified and I never raised my voice in protest. When my youngest daughter was two and I was 35, I was incapacitated nearly to the point of self-destruction by some unknown shame. I began intensive therapy, desperate to discover why I felt so bad, so tainted, so wrong. One Sunday morning, feeling inches away from disaster, I called my therapist. “I don’t know if this is important,” I told her, “but I had this operation.” There. I had said it out loud, and in that instant a tiny sliver of light appeared.

I knew nothing of what had been done to me when I was six years old. One evening, my mother came into the bathroom where I was playing in the tub. She told me that the next day I would have to go to the hospital for an operation. I remember something rushing out of me at that moment, like wind through a closing door. Did I put my hands down to protect the clit that stuck out innocently from between my labia? Not a word of explanation was ever given for the surgery, and when they cut out my clit, they cut out my tongue. I could not cry out to save myself, and that stifled scream wedged in my throat, blocking my voice. Endless fears about who and what I was took the place of words and they settled like darkness over me.

At age eleven or twelve, I had my first orgasm. Somehow I had brought myself to the edge and I just touched the opening to my vagina and it happened. Shockingly. Perhaps it was this new and powerful experience of pleasure from a place that held so much pain that made me determined to find out the truth about my body. A few nights later I crossed the living room, my bare feet on the cool cork squares carrying me towards my parents, the two people who were my only safety. They sat at the dining room table. Big black and white photos of my sisters and me were laid out under the light. My mother picked mine up and I heard the word “boy” come out of her mouth. Fear heaved in me. I was a boy. I was supposed to be a boy. It was too late to stop myself. “What was that operation I had?” I blurted, as my gut tightened against the blow of the answer. My father, a surgeon, looked at me. The father I loved with abandon. The father who agreed to let this be done to me. The father who cherished me above all else, turned and, with no idea of what his words would do to the rest of my life, said, “Don’t be so self-examining.” The moment of silence that followed that brusque dismissal lasted for almost twenty-five years.

In warfare there is a technique called sapping. Saps are trenches that are dug underground, unseen, silently, beneath an enemy’s fortifications. Eventually the walls collapse under their own weight. To be lied to as a child about your own body, to have your life as a sexual being so ignored that you are not even given the decency of an answer to your questions, is to have your heart and soul relentlessly undermined. The thing that makes you wild and free is insidiously crippled. To reclaim that childhood state of wildness, you have to rescue your own life and learn to speak about who you are. The life you had no power to save when you were three weeks, or eighteen months, or six years old, or thirteen, you have to save at twenty-eight, or thirty-six or fifty-five. You have endless chances. And it is never too late."

The editor encourages you to read the rest of this powerful memoir at http://www.isna.org/books/chrysalis/coventry

Monday, April 24, 2006

slippery when

Chelsea Girl lives in Chelsea, where she enjoys hobbies like writing, reading, fucking, and mocking, not necessarily in that order. Other enjoyments include her right to free assembly, oxygen, and full use of her opposable thumbs. Born under Scorpio in the Year of the Tiger, Chelsea is suffused with animal magnetism. Her turn-ons include long walks on the beach, cold nights by a blazing fire, leather pants, and cinematic decapitations. Her turn-offs include phony people, sociopaths, poor personal hygiene, and Vegans. She blogs at http://www.prettydumbthings.typepad.com/. This post was originally published at http://prettydumbthings.typepad.com/chelseagirl/2006/04/slippery_when.html/.

…His cruelty could have drilled holes for Swiss watches.

It may not be a testament to my best self, but cruelty holds a page in my erotic self. I respond to a bit of cruelty, especially if it’s well-timed and well-placed. These days, the cruelty that makes me melty-drippy is assumed, not real. It takes its form in a kiss that bites, a caress that pinches, a word that commands. It is a fuck with force. It is not the kind of cruelty that leaves me with invisible scars.

That was not always the case.

Armand got handed to me like a baton. I got a phone number. I called it. We made a date to fuck. It shocks me now that I was that pragmatic then about sex. But my friend Gen told me that Armand gave amazing head. I wanted amazing head. I made a date with him in order to receive said amazing head. I’d dreamt of head, imagined head, stroked myself in the gasping cold of night under eiderdowns in a nun-wide bed to rococo speculations of amazing head, and I wanted nothing more than to experience it, right then, right there, on that hard little wet knot between my thighs.

So I called him. I went over to his tiny apartment. I rang the buzzer. I was let in. I was pleasantly surprised by his looks, and within a few tens of minutes, I found myself on his bed fucking him.

But he didn’t give me head.

I gave him head. I gave him plenty of head. I fucked him in every possible position I knew. I worked and worked at pleasing him.

...Behold, the cruelty: once, after fucking me, Armand gazed at my naked prone body. “You have a big ass,” he commented, and added, “but it’s round, though.” And then he looked levelly in my eyes for a reaction. I like to think I didn’t give him one, but I’m sure I betrayed myself.

I would go back to that tiny apartment again and again. I’m not sure how many times, exactly, that I fucked Armand, but it was probably a handful. It wasn’t like I had a boyfriend, and it was like I wanted head. I wanted to know what felt like to have a warm, wet, human tongue buried in my girl bits, licking and sucking and tenderly teasing me into the glistening pinkwet surrender that I’d only experienced from my hand and my vibrator.

I wanted to come with a person. I wanted, for reasons still not entirely explicable to me, that person to be Armand.

… in part I picked Armand because he came with recommendations, dammit. My friend had assured me he was, in our parlance, very considerate. He would eat me like a five-course meal, she said, and I would come like a rocket.

Neither happened. Again and again neither was I eaten nor did I come. Until finally I summoned the courage and I talked to him about it (we never did much talking. It was not a meeting of the minds, Armand and me).

Gen said you gave her head, I said. He mumbled an assent.

Why won’t you give me head? I asked.

He stared at me for a moment, and then he said, “You get too wet.”

Too wet. I got too wet. My pussy dripped and it was too much. My body betrayed me with my desire. Not only did my desire make itself present, but it was too much, too loud, too voluminous, too wet. It was a prodigious, off-putting desire, a slippery wetness of veering tire tracks and dented galvanized railings. It was a clamoring, needy wetness, a wetness that announced itself and demanded unspeakable, unlickable, disgusting acts. It was, like me, excessive.

“But I’ll make you come,” he said, and he went to his dresser and pulled out a yellowed appliance that resembled my dad’s blow-dryer. Looking kind of like a rectangle on a handle, it had a big suction-cup attachment square in the center of the rectangle and a long plug extending from the handle.

Armand told me to lie on my belly. He plugged the appliance on, and he started a long vibratory journey down my shoulder blades, over the valley of back, around the cleft of my big and round ass. Then he told me to roll over; I did.

He parted my thighs and set the vibrator to work on my clit. Predictably I came. My first orgasm with another human being was also with a machine. He watched me come and then he smoked a cigarette. I got dressed and left, noting a big wet spot on the bed where I had been lying.

I never saw Armand again after that. It seemed pointless, really. He wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. More importantly, his cruelty had lost its charm for me.

While I wish I could say I never felt self-conscious about my wetness, my palpable and viscous desire, I can say this: at that moment I knew Armand was a dick. It was one thing to say my ass was big. It was, however, another thing altogether to insult my pussy.

Thursday, April 20, 2006


Primal Goddess ( previously blogger111) is a big beautiful radical feminist who is just discovering the Goddess within and feeling her return to human awareness. She studies the paleolithic/neolithic Goddess cultures and lives with her love and their many wonderful beasts. You can read her words at http://www.xanga.com/PrimalGoddess.

My Grandmother never had an orgasm. That is the way it is told in my family. On her wedding night, she did not believe it was okay to have intercourse; she did not believe my Grandfather-when he said what was supposed to happen. So, he precedes to buy a book; and show her that penis into the vagina, is completely normal.

She had never seen a penis, except on a baby; maybe. And had no idea about sex or men; and nothing about her own body. This is just my Mother's mother, that is not many generations ago. I found this all quite shocking, even as a kid, hearing this.

I had my first orgasm when I was in the sixth grade. I was alone. I did wonder if God was "ok" with what I was doing, I remember making some kind of deal with him about giving me a sign if it was wrong. I don't remember what God said, but needless to say-I never stopped giving myself orgasms.

I remember getting that "fuzzy feeling" "down there" when I would see soap operas, with people kissing and being romantic. Really, anytime I saw people kissing I got that feeling. Still around the sixth grade, I found the joys of Jackie Collins. She is Joan Collins sister and she writes quality smut! Lucky, Chance, Hollywood Wives, Rock Star; she has many more. They are very explicit in sexual details and situations. Reading one of her books was my first introduction to homosexual sex being described. Gay and Lesbian. I was not unfamiliar with the idea of women together; I had seen my dad's "dirty magazine" collection when I was in the third grade and one featured the Landers' Sisters. To this day, I find it strange that officially we shun incest as a crime against nature and god-yet, the idea of men desiring and it being normal to fulfill the act of being with two sisters, mother and daughter, aunt and niece, etc. is what is really expected.

I really have always read. I read my dad's Hustler, two Penthouses and few Playboys; over and over again. Cover to cover. When we moved, which was many times; I always marked and noticed where they got packed and where they were put in the new house. To this day, I enjoy adult magazines and movies. I don't know if seeing "porn" as a child is why I enjoy it or I am just that way. Either way, I don't see anything wrong with it, as long as you have a healthy mind, heart and soul; when it comes to sex/life. I would suppose that as we open more awareness to universal consciousness; we would be stimulated by finer things.

I am still just flying by the seat of my pants with the whole sex thing. I would be called naive, though. I was a virgin till eighteen, did not kiss a boy till late teens. Did not date. Even in my twenties, celibate for the most part. I had only had awkward teen age encounters before I met Randy and only a few times. Sex still makes me feel uncomfortable talking about it, I can intellectualize it all day; understand that our naked bodies and all of our functions-most of all sex, are perfectly normal and right. But, I am just now coming into my own sexuality; as a person-as a woman. I was brought up with words to describe sex like: smut, slut, hussy, filthy, men only want one thing, to want sex as a woman was to be a whore, and pre-marital sex was not only a sin but the sign of a bad woman.

If it is true that my Grandmother lived eighty years, fifty or more with her husband and never had the joy of coming; that is very sad. I looked up in Louise Hay a physical issue I have and she recommends that I have "shame and guilt" about sex. That is true. Just the things I have done and desired so far, would cause the female line of mine to lose their minds. And, by society standards I would be considered quite mild in experience of sex. I want to write about all of this so that I do not have those feelings about sexuality; mine or anyone else's.

I envy those who freely express their selves sexually. I believe this is the natural state of human sexuality. Because of our confusion of sex, being taught that it is wrong, so much of it is wrong- that we feel-we have created a "dark" use for sex that also keeps us apart. My understanding of sex on a spiritual level is, it's expression was meant and is meant to be our highest act of love. It should never been seen as dirty or wrong.

I have these lessons to unlearn, there is a part of me that wishes to be expressed and it is the Goddess. I have called her into my life and it is powerful and scary in the most exciting way. Kind of like sex. I think the Goddess is sex. Can I say that? I find it holds true as long as you don't pick it apart. A man is sex too, just not like a woman.

Monday, April 17, 2006

post humper

Jessie writes of men, sex, and her bird. You can read her writings about cocks, cock, and cockatoos at http://genuinejessie.blogspot.com/.

I don't remember when I had my first orgasm. It came naturally to self-pleasure. The only thing my parents ever said was. "Keep your bedroom door closed when you do that, dear!"

I've probably had an "orgasm", as classically defined by Masters and Johnson, the day I became physically sexually mature enough to have one. Sometime around the age of 13 or 14.

I was always a "pillow humper", getting off on the indirect simulation from silky and textured pillows. I could easily be a "post humper", though.

At a summer job, I found a metal post with a screw sticking out in just the right place. Lucky, or not, it happened to be close to where I had to stand, keeping score for kiddie baseball games! No one noticed how I held myself, and I pretended to be SO concerned and involved with the game! If I made a slight error in the score, everyone knows that they don't teach Math very well in school these days. All the parents kept score, anyway.

I wouldn't usually have the concentration needed to climax that way, but at night, before bed, I always did. I know I probably had orgasms before I was 15, but none are so remarkable.