A Place To Draw Blood Laughing

It’s supposed to be a sex blog, right? So let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about sex. Let’s begin with one of those down-and-dirty girl talk confessions that you only say to your girlfriends, behind closed doors, after three or more chocolate martinis. Ready for it? Here it is:

I don’t like sex.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I am a supposedly “sexually liberated” woman who does not enjoy the act of sexual intercourse.

“Sex” in the context of this blog post will hereafter be defined as vaginal penetration by a penis, i.e. intercourse. Let me not attempt to put the knock on foreplay, cunnilingus, any of those delightful pursuits that might involve me being kissed all over my body. No, I’m talking the sex act that middle school boys hallucinate about and high school boys snigger over. You know what I mean. Chances are you’ve been there yourself.

I’ve been there, in many different ways with a moderate handful of partners. And I’m here to tell you, it just doesn’t do it for me. It’s nice and all for a while, but eventually boring and entirely pointless, if the orgasm is the point. I am not usually the kind of girl who’ll climb on up just to enjoy the ride. Eventually, I want to get somewhere.

Arousal for me is goal focused. When I’m sexually aroused, orgasm is the goal. I don’t edge often, I don’t tolerate hours of foreplay, I don’t go six rounds in the sack. I’m a busy girl, and I don’t need a lot of time to get where I want to go. Given the right circumstances, I can achieve an orgasm in less than thirty seconds of masturbation. I’m faster than a speeding orgasmic bullet.

In the end, I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing man can do in the sack that machine cannot do better, except moan. Usually when I climb on to enjoy the ride, it’s because I just want to see him moan. Sexually psyched or not, I have Kegel muscles that can make a grown man cry. Sex, therefore, transmutes from the traditional understanding as a action taken for orgasmic gratification to a weapon that I use to sate far darker, more complex, kinky needs.

In the meantime, I have very little sex, and I would rather curl up in bed with my Hitachi Magic Wand than my achingly eager boyfriend. I’d say it’s a very good thing I ended up with a boy with a fetish for pleasure control.

The following paragraph is very important. You absolutely must read it.

If you would like to explain away, imply or claim outright that my conclusions on the relative pleasures of the sexual act imply a deficiency in my past or current partners, or to put it more bluntly, that I’d like it if only I were with the right penis, tried it with a girl, changed my position, lube, attitude, this that or the other thing, etc. I will personally invent an electronic violence delivery system the sole purpose of which will be to hunt you down and smack you six ways from Sunday. I will have my boyfriend code the interface for me. He is both brilliant and great in bed.
This is not an opinion that I will allow to be explained away. I just wrote a whole post about how much I hate it when people explain away my choices because they think they know more than me. This is a stupid way to treat people’s opinions, not to mention a stupid way to treat people.

Read that? Good. Moving on.

Only a very small percentage of the female population is capable of achieving an orgasmic state from the act of intercourse. That fact is actually better known these days, but leads to the unfortunate mindset that a clumsy finger or two, ill-placed and with bitingly long fingernails, will solve all such problems in a magical poof of sexual prowess. I’ve experienced the results of this mindset firsthand, and I’m here to tell you, that just makes it worse. Instead of focusing on the sensations, the friction, the tingly pressures that sex can give me, I’m instead racking my brain for a way to politely tell the man I’m with that although I appreciate their efforts in my direction, they’re actually pinning my clitoris down with their thumbnail and I’m about to punch them in the side of the head.

And you know what? Even if I do eventually find a method of pinning down the elusive experience I’ve occasionally found of having an orgasm during sex, I probably won’t care. It’s nice, and all, but better orgasms, mind altering, cold sweat inducing, tunnel visioned and back arched, screaming-at-the-top-of-my-lungs multiple chain burst orgasms already exist in my world. I don’t need that particular cherry on top, and see no reason to struggle after that particular goal. I’m good, really. I’m doing just fine.

So why is this a down and dirty secret? Because it’s embarrassing.

Do you realize how ironically backwards it is that this is something to be embarrassed about? Imagine the supreme awkwardness of the situation of trying to explain to a very nice man that although you think he’s quite the charmer you really aren’t interested in hopping in bed with him, and he really shouldn’t take that personally, and no, you’re really not frigid and you are actually sex positive and do think that sexual liberation’s a wonderful thing, it’s just not your cup of tea is all, and damnit, you don’t see why this should all be so hard to explain.

I’m occasionally found at parties with sex positive people, and I’m a willing spokesperson for the advantages of BDSM, sex, pleasure and the essential need to accept and embrace all kinds of sex as a part of our culture and our lives. But as is always the case when opinions get paper-clipped to cardboard-cutout ideas, having these opinions somehow transmutes me into some kind of wild woman, basking in a hedonist life of promiscuity and lots of awesome, awesome sex. Even people from the very communities I try to support hold this opinion. It’s sexually liberated, people! Not sexually eager!

So there’s the idea that I’m not a good little activist if I stand up for the idea that hey, maybe sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And then let’s add on top of that bullshit the guilt that then inevitably crashes down when I have to say, “I’m sorry, I just don’t like sex that much.” Before I was blunt enough to come out and say such things to people’s faces I would go to extreme lengths to avoid sex. I would give blow jobs to head off the idea of intercourse, or occasionally fake orgasms to bring sexual encounters to a more timely end. I had no idea how to communicate this idea, and that led to all kinds of fuckupery. I still have a hard time trying to communicate this idea, and it can still lead to all kinds of fuckupery. I still to this day feel guilty over the fact that May has never gotten to feel one of my orgasms during sex, because I know that’s an experience he’d treasure.

I’m currently being asked out on a series of dates by a nice older man from the sex-positive/swinger crowd, and I’m avoiding him in part because I can predict the way the relationship’s going to end. I’ll explain to him that sex isn’t really what I’m looking for, and he’ll either try to convert me to his sex-positive viewpoint in a misguided attempt to “liberate” me, or he’ll dismiss my opinion offhand and throw in some supposedly sexy innuendoes about having a go at that problem himself. Maybe he’ll be nice and sensitive about it. Maybe he’ll just shrug it off. We’re never going to fuck, because I don’t want to fuck people who don’t get that I don’t necessarily want to always be fucking them. That I don’t climb off and finish the job because they’re not doing it well enough, but because I’ve had enough waiting around. That my Magic Wand is a threat to their sex time, and I like it that way.