Alec: uh, “self esteem”?
me: uh, too shy?
Alec: yeah. you’re not sexually shy. that’s funny.
me: alec, in your humble opinion, am i too shy to fuck toys in front of guys or, god forbid, touch myself?
Alec: No. No, you are not. In any way. Ever.
me: so, the thing that i find hilarious about this article, besides the fact that i am going to utterly defile self magazine and the writer online as i expose them as frauds, is the usage of the word “mortified.”
because i always wanted to submit an embarrassing sex story to YM that ended in “I was mortified.”
so, thank you, self magazine, for granting me the adult version of this honor.
“one day i was walking around school and my pantiliner fell out of my skirt and just then my crush passed me by in the hallway… and i was mortified!”
I think my male friends, especially the ones I’ve slept with, misjudge me. Because I act sexually uninhibited, more so than any other girls they know, they believe I am entirely sexually unself-conscious. I am not more immune to societal expectations or scrutiny than others, and I am not less perceptive. We all have our hang-ups, well-founded or not. What makes me different from other girls is that I have strong beliefs about how things should be sexually—what should and shouldn’t feel wrong—and I don’t let fleeting, labile feelings get in the way of my logical aspirations.
I suppress feelings in anticipation of better ones, physical ones. I like getting off way too much for it to be any other way. Sure, it’s awkward to take matters into your own hands and to bring up the prospect of incorporating toys with an unsuspecting partner. Usually, the brief emotional discomfort of revealing oneself is swiftly wiped out by the tactile experience as well as the rush attained from captivating an attentive audience. Of course, I always feel a little coy afterwards—coy and smug. Unless a guy likes himself more than he likes vagina, there is joint gratification in complacency.
There is nothing quite as affirming as having a partner enjoy watching you masturbate. I masturbate regularly with no reinforcement, and I don’t exactly consider it applaudable. The whole prospect of spellbound spectatorship is a little funny; it’s like all the hoopla parents go through when they potty train their children. They treat it as if a little poo in a toilet is the most marvelous of sights, cause for celebration. But this is because it was a hard-fought battle to avoid getting poo all over the house.
Oftentimes when I masturbate in front of a new partner, it is treated like a boutique act because female sexuality is still so taboo. Honestly, I wish it would go unnoticed. Sex drive and striving to satisfy it are nothing spectacular. Not that I don’t enjoy adoration, but I feel a little fetishized. And it feels a little gross that a woman being comfortable with her body, or set on sex enough to go out of her way to enjoy it optimally regardless of judgment, is reason to make note.
It’s true that I don’t care about what you say about me sexually because, even though I might make myself a spectacle, I think that that which is spectacular about me is laudable. But I do care that such openness and entitlement is uncommon—that it is noteworthy when women make sexual claims. I am judged more on my presentation than my requests, anyway. What I want isn’t so unusual; the fact that I indicate my preferences is.
Perhaps the esteem in which I hold myself is more akin to relentless grandiosity than self-confidence. It isn’t that I’m smitten with myself or find myself special, so much as that I delight in certain things, which I wholeheartedly and unapologetically allow myself. To everyone who is unable or unwilling to do the same, I say, “Get over yourself.”
If ever I am stricken by shyness or apprehension and consider talking myself down, I draw my inspiration from my orange-semened friend, Allister, whose words are as wise as his semen was aged: “Genie, every time you masturbate in front of a guy, consider it a public service.” Prior to his pronouncement, I had already fucked dildos in front of two of his friends, who affectionately refer to me as “dildo girl,” and I was minutes away from fucking my fingers in front of him. So he, if anyone, would know what a public service I provide. Hey, what can I say: I’m a “generous” girl.
EBF: I have to admit, after reading your article I poked around at Self’s website, and I don’t honestly know what you expected, it’s perhaps the most vapid publication I’ve ever seen
me: ha ha, vapid doesn’t mean fraudulent
i mean, you could think they would be able to find plenty of real, vapid people to interview and not egregiously misquote
i just think it’s funny that they used me as an example of low sexual self-confidence and women failing to be pleased because they do not assert what they want
EBF: very true
generally, I’d think you would need more content than they have to lie
me: yeah or more creativity
not just “oh no, i’m a woman so i find it embarrassing to admit to being sexual”
i wonder about the other two people interviewed
whether that one was really mortified by the thought of admitting to getting really wet
EBF: I get the impression of their general reader as the kind of woman who doesn’t like it when her gynecologist uses the word vagina
me: “omg, my vagina works, so mortifying! what will my husband think!”
ha ha ha
i guess you eat well, exercise a lot, and wear the right makeup, you can get away with being the kind of woman can avoid saying the word vagina
if only i ate well, exercised, and wore make up, i could get laid without ever mentioning the body parts involved
i could reclaim my sexual self-confidence!
EBF: And if I worked out regularly, followed sports, and wore cardigans while I played with our lab, I’d secretly think you were a slut because you get wet “down there” without help
haha, I just got that last bit
me: ha ha ha
EBF: Be careful, if you tell me what you want, I might think that my extensive porn-based research has left me with the inability to please my partner
so be sure to phrase what you want me to do in a confidence-boosting compliment, such as, “honey, I love it and have multiple orgasms when you quickly and aggressively rub my general clit area, but can we try this tonight?”
me: ha ha, aggressively, gross, i am thinking about rubbing a clit like a lab
EBF: If there’s one thing I’ve learned about rubbing clits, it’s that you should never scratch them as if they were a good, good dog.
me: down boy!
me: okay, so now i must nap
because i am a cat, not a lab with an owner who wears a cardigan and drools at women whose pussies don’t drip
I read the article in its entirety and I realized that the woman who reported embarrassment over her dripping pussy is Deanna, herself. And I quote, “Even though I became sexually active long ago and I’m happily married now, many things still make me feel sexually insecure:…I think I become too lubricated during sex, which I find deeply embarrassing. So embarrassing that writing it down here makes me cringe. (I hope I get points for bravey—or idiocy, I can’t decide which.)”
Idiocy points, indeed. A married woman who is embarrassed by how aroused she gets with her very own husband. Fucking absurd! Could you imagine a guy being like, “Honey, I really love you, but I am just embarrassed by this one minor detail: how rock hard I get when I am around you. I can barely control myself. Do you think I’m gross?” Um, yeah. Get a life. Who would even marry a woman who didn’t feel her wetness and think of it as a barebottomed announcement: Game on! As a compliment to her husband. As a testament to their marriage. As a sign of physical vitality and functionality.
I can think of few things hotter than that moment of mutual acknowledgment when I slip my hands between a girl’s legs and feel how wet she is. Maybe even hotter than feeling a cock through pants, because it is a well-concealed secret until the moment of revelation.
I think of teasing guys the morning after and that devilish glean I get in my eyes when the moment of truth rings slippery and clear: When they realize that, with my resistance, I am torturing myself just as much as, if not more than, I am torturing them. That is the most satisfaction they can get. Other than the satisfaction of knowing how wet they make me.
I would like to announce to the world (okay, to those few members of the world who haven’t been lucky enough to touch my vagina) that I get wetter than average. “Says who?” you ask. A sizeable proportion of the guys I’ve been with have noted how wet I get—they seem visibly surprised—and two out of three of the girls I’ve been with have noted the same. I’d say the later is almost a more reliable indication. And this is only accounting for my regular wetness, not the g-spot fluid I sometimes gush with gusto.
I am proud of my vaginal slip-‘n-slide. I consider it the female equivalent of propelling power. And we all know how I feel about the power of propulsion.
It can, however, be inconvenient sometimes. There is such a thing as “too lubricated.” It comes in the form of body parts slipping and sliding two much, detracting from the friction. But it is nothing a towel, or even soggy underwear, can’t cure. And besides, I like leaving my snail trail on legs and sheets. It’s a charming thank you note.
My favorite sexual magic trick is humping a guy’s legs while I am sucking his dick. The thought of his feeling my wetness on his thigh while his penis is submerged in my mouth is absolutely divine. I make it seem like it is accidental. As if the humping motion is a byproduct of the bobbing motion—evidence of a full-body effort.
Which brings me to concrete form of evidence: One thing I am sexually self-conscious about is that people will think I am a fraud. I do not lack sexual self-confidence so much as fear that unseasoned imbeciles have the inability to recognize it and might mistake it for desperation. So if I announce that I love giving blow jobs, people might consider that I am just a dumb slut looking to get attention and that I don’t love blow jobs so much as I love the praise from men.
Ah, but then there is my vaginal lubrication that I have to thank for making its timely and abundant appearances. No one whose dick I have sucked and have enjoyed sucking would ever dare make a claim that I’m not into it. Because, if he did, I would call to the stand my prime witness: yes folks, my very own vaginal lubrication. On the issue of semen, the jury is not out; once again, my vaginal lubrication would testify that it appears in direct proportion to amount of semen or anticipation of semen release. Let there be no ambiguity on occasions where vaginal secretions speak louder than detractors.
“I do a cool thing when I’m meeting a boy and want to fuck him. To prove that I’m the one who initiated the fuck that night. To show that what happens later on is no coincidence. A night like that always starts out uncertain. You know how it is. Do you both want the same thing? Will you manage to have sex at the end of the night? Or was the date all for nothing? To make totally clear what I wanted from the get-go, I cut a big hole in my underwear so you can see the hair and the lips. Basically, the whole peach should peek out. Obviously I wear a skirt. I start to make out with him and we grab at each other. After he’s stroked my breasts for long enough, at some point his finger wanders down to my thigh. He thinks he has to painstakingly work his way into my underwear and is worrying whether I want to go that far. You’re not going to discuss that kind of thing when you haven’t known each other long. Then, with no warning, his finger comes into direct contact with my dripping wet pussy.”
– Wetlands by Charlotte Roche, Pg. 100