someone else’s story (day 16)
I heard the echoes of the words over here as I settled into getting off yesterday. “One hand on the clit, one on the pen.” Though for me it was more like, right hand squished between my thighs, left hand moving the scroll pad on the laptop. Much less poetic, but still. Related.
Once, long ago, when I was in high school, my oldest dearest bestest friend told me about this website full of dirty writing: literotica. She told me that she read it, with a shy, 17-year old’s smile, and asked me if I did. And I didn’t.
I get off with my own stories now, 90% of the time. My own stories and the ones I write with him, and the ones I remember from other times. But I used to always use other people’s stories, other people’s erotica, sitting at the purple iMac when nobody was home, with my hand between my thighs.
I never got undressed; I’d just sit in my jeans with my hand against my cunt providing the push and grind I needed. I’d read the stories, and I’d squirm and wiggle against my hand until a particularly hot passage would kick my over the edge and I’d burst, panting, grinding against my fist and the seam of my jeans. And sometimes I’d do it again and again.
Yesterday was another day full of frustration and depression that I pulled around me like a shawl. My therapist said not to do that, so I forced myself to leave the house at one point just to be around people. Just to resist the urge to crawl back into bed and sleep and come and cry and sleep until I’d cried enough and slept enough that I didn’t have anything left. This is my usual solution to sad days.
I came back to a cold house and a warm seat in the window in the sun. I was possessed by the urge to be away from me and him and our stories. Away from my body. Away from my feelings and my life and my complicated relationships, and my sexuality and my guilt and my shame. I just wanted to escape into someone else’s story. I just wanted to not be me.
Literotica is old, and it doesn’t have any fancy functions. It doesn’t even have a basic search tool so far as I could tell. You can find stories by topic or by author’s name. There was one particular story I remembered, but I couldn’t remember the title or author’s name to save my life, so I just googled “literotica boarding school” an lo and behold, there it was: Rebecca sent off to a “special” boarding school where the teachers coerce their students into having sex with them, and make them dress like slutty schoolgirls. It’s laughably cliche and yet it works for me on this anonymous level that my own stories and fantasies don’t.
I first got off to this story when I was 21, living in a dorm room (with my first laptop that I had to plug into the ethernet cable to get super slow internet access that I thought was the best thing ever). Rebecca’s story is like a non-consent fairy tale, and that’s why I like it. It’s obviously fictional — fantastical, even. There’s not one realistic part in the whole thing: the the dialogue is terrible; the sex scenes read like bad porn. And this makes it a safe story, a far away story, a totally OK story to enjoy. It’s anonymous, fake, fluffy, porn-y porn.
When I was first getting off to stories like these, I hadn’t discovered the link between my sexual desires and my psyche. Now that I’ve found it, it’s difficult if not impossible to un-know those things. When I get myself off, I’m always the star of my own material, which is often very satisfying, but can also stir up a lot of guilt/shame/weirdness about what it means about me that I get off to (insert fantasy here).
Yesterday I remembered that there is a way to do just that. I can just read someone else’s story, and be safe from my demons, from my tears, from my over thinking, psychoanalytical to the death fucking brain. And it felt wonderful to come so hard without crying or feeling emotional at all. I just felt satisfied and quivery and wet inside my panties inside my jeans. And that was all I could handle yesterday. And that was what I managed to give myself.
Fairy tale about a girl which I catched in a lake behind my house. She had skin cold as crystal which was growing over her body. I layed her in my bed and felt that with the night rising tide comes. by laura makabresku on Flickr.
ok with that (days 10-14)
I broke open Thursday night.
I cried nearly all day Friday, and spent the last few days feeling fragile.
I recognize this cycle. It’s the one where I think to myself, hey look how good we’re doing. When I don’t hate my mother, but can laugh gently at the ways she drives me nuts. When I don’t resent my father, but can appreciate the space he gives me to be myself. Where I start to think, feel, really believe, that maybe I’m getting better and things have calmed down and maybe I don’t need therapy/drugs/psych care anymore. Maybe this calm is gonna last…
And then something new comes up out of the depths, and breaks me wide open, and I can’t believe that I sat through my last therapy session thinking maybe I was done.
I’m struggling with desire. Not sexual desire. But ambition. Goals. Wanting things. Because I have done a really good job of not letting myself want things too seriously. That way, when nothing happens, and I’m still 31 and I still don’t have my shit together, and I don’t get the job I want or the house I want or the life I want, it’s not that surprising because, well, I didn’t really try. And I didn’t want it that badly. And it’s not that big of a deal. So.
So I’ve always been reluctant to compete, strive, chase the things I’m sure I cannot win. Sex has always been an exception: if there’s one thing in my whole life that I’m confident about, it’s fucking other people/fucking myself. Coming. None of it has ever been scary or hard for me. Although I’ve made my share of young and terrible choices, they have never been about fear of failure. Because with sex I never ever fail.
Is that bragging? I don’t mean it like bragging. Really, I wonder what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I broken in this place, in this particular, ironic, unbelievable way where the rest of me can be so shattered, and seduction/sex/orgasm works just fine? Not just fine, even. Where this part of me is strong and thumping, even as the rest of me falls apart into sobs.
So the last few days have been a struggle in every way. But I’ve been getting off just fine. Everything else might be broken in me, but my clit works. Which is something, I guess, though it feels twisted and unfair. Not that I’m ungrateful. Having one working thing is preferrable to having none.
Thursday night, late. Laying in bed before I fell asleep with my hands under my pubic bone. Grindy.
Friday afternoon when I couldn’t stop crying? I got off of course. It’s my go-to self soothe: coming. Even though I often end up crying again when I’m done. For those few minutes, I’m in my body and it’s all pleasure and pink fuzzy rockets. The crying stops or doesn’t, but it all feels good. It all feels good and simple and so I do it because when I’m like that, nothing else feels good or simple. Nothing.
Saturday/Sunday before bed. Easy. Belly clenching easy. Fall fast asleep still panting easy.
And last night? I fell asleep in my hands. And I didn’t realize it until I woke up in the middle of the night to my partner’s snoring, and realized I hadn’t put my earplugs in. And realized, I hadn’t ever come. And realized. And realized. And realized I was ok with that.
under the table and dreaming (day 9)
I was all alone in the classroom at the end of the hall. It was late afternoon and the door was locked. I was wet. Throbby. Pulsing against my soft soft inner thighs, squeezing them together, crossing, uncrossing. Rocking there.
I was so wet for you. I could feel the edges of my cotton panties (baby pink with lavender lace) sliding against me. Slipping along the inside and the outside. Slipping in the little wet that your words made.
The door was locked.
I was all alone.
I looked at the long table in front of me. A bank of computers, 30 or more, on a long row of tables that ended at my desk. Chairs lined the sides. The door was locked. Who could see under the tables, I wondered. Especially if I pull the chairs in.
I got on the floor. Hands and knees. Even that was sensual: the way my back arched, the way my spine shivered and unwound itself from tail to head. The black pencil skirt didn’t help me to feel like anything less slutty or hungry or throbby or raw. The black pencil skirt that had been hugging my ass all day, wiggling around my hips, reminding me where I’m thick and how you like to sink your hands into me there. Reminding me of your fingers pulling at my flesh, and your hungry hands and mouth.
The door was locked and I was all alone.
I crawled under the table bank. There was room. Plenty of room. I pulled the chairs around me and shimmied my skirt up, spreading my legs for you on the floor. Spreading my legs and tapping at my clit, my panties, my fingers running and tapping.
Here, I said. Right here.
And I closed my eyes as you lowered your head there against my fingers, and your tongue started dancing between. Beneath. All of me slippery with you. The feeling of your breath on my body. Your mouth on my thighs.
Here. Here. Right here.
I pushed my hips up against your mouth. Your tongue. Needy and hungry and grindy all at once. I pushed and my heels lifted out of my patent leather work shoes. The sensible ones I can stand at the front of the classroom in for hours, with their little gold buckle and their square, 2 inch heel. I lifted up, and closer, and pressed against you more.
I knew what I looked like. I knew nobody could see me, but I imagined what they would see if they could. What you saw: hungry girl with her hands between her wide-spread thighs, arching into the air, against the mouth, under the table because she couldn’t couldn’t wait. She had to have it here. Now.
Shuddering and arching. Now.
The door was locked and I was panting on my back. Pink. I closed my eyes and let myself dream for a minute. Just a little minute. And then I came back to my body, to the rug, to the floor of the classroom.
I pulled my legs together and shimmied the pencil skirt back down. I got on my hands and knees and crawled out from beneath the table, pushing the chairs, flushed and breathing hard. I pulled my legs together and I rounded my spine and I wobbled to my feet and I sat back at my desk. Catching my breath. Grinning a little.
It was 10 minutes later that I realized I had rugburn.
lap (day 7)
i had two minutes.
you were ready to go — dressed in your heavy black boots and your jeans. your ropey musculature moving underneath your black t-shirt, your second skin and your skin skin. your second skin and your skin.
i knew what was under that t-shirt — i’d memorized the honey color. the salt on the back of your neck. the place between your shoulder and your armpit that smells the most like you.
the most like you.
the most. like. you.
something about that drives me wild. it makes me want to claw my way up your body. it makes me want to devour you, neck first, mouth and face and clavicle. swallow you down down into me. locked in my belly with my secrets.
locked inside me where you can’t get out.
where you can’t get out, not ever.
not ever. not. ever.
i wiggled my fingers and gasped, making you turn. watching your stride, slow, crossing the distance, coming closer to me.
“i’m going to work,” you whispered, patient and slow.
i nodded. i knew. but i couldn’t wait. i couldn’t stop. i craved. i needed. i caved. i needed you. i pulled your hands, pulling you next to me. i flung my plush thigh over your wiry one.
i pushed my face against your neck. against your neckline, the crew neck of your t-shirt. i pushed my face there, and i opened my mouth and i ran my teeth over it. over you. i wanted to taste everything. i wanted to swallow you whole. i settled for your mouth against mine. your lips between my teeth, my hungry hungry noises. my hips wiggling and grinding.
i pulled you into me again. my hands in your hair. my hands on your neck. your shoulders. holding you still. here. mine. your thigh between mine. and i pushed. took. rubbed harder against you. knowing you were going. knowing you were almost gone.
i had two minutes.
i gasped against your ear, against your face, against your mouth while my pussy took what it needed from the firmness of your thigh. i came in your lap.
i came in. your lap.
two ‘fer one (days 4 and 5)
So aside from the fact that getting off is fun, and aside from that fact that I already do it a lot (not always daily, but…), I hadn’t thought much about this commitment/project/ practice/ whathaveyou. It seemed like a cool idea, and I felt inspired by/ connected to, my rad-ass writing coterie (hi to all 4 of you who read this). I figured I’d at least have something to write about, and besides, I never write about sex anymore. And that was the extent of my Deep Thinking on this matter.
So, I have these particular interests/expectations for myself, and yes this includes expectations for what *should* get me off. And sometimes what I think I should want and what my body actually responds to are almost complete opposites.
For example, yesterday (Friday, day 4). I have been having these really particular waking fantasies about women, and getting off and I have this particular craving to be fucked by this particular kind of woman. So much that even just sitting at my desk, I feel her hands touching me. I wiggle my hips thinking about the way she grabs my flesh, hungry. But she doesn’t hurt me. In my daydream, I’m her babydoll. She wants me to be happy and healthy and really well taken care of. She fucks me just rough enough, but it’s not really dominant. And it’s much sweeter and more caring than the way men fuck me in my fantasies. Or, for that matter, the way I fuck other people. Point is, I have these really elaborate daydreamy, pretty, girly, sweet fantasies, and they turn me on super much. But then.
Then, for example, yesterday, I go to the bedroom to take care of that. Actually, first I tried it in the shower. I took my little JimmyJane Form 2 with me to the shower (btw: I love that fucking thing) and I lay down in the bottom of the tub and just kinda let myself enjoy the feeling of it and the water and the steam. And while it was super relaxing, and I was really excited to be there, being with me, I was also just kinda … not getting off the way I wanted. Like, I wanted my really elaborate fantasy to lead me to this really awesome orgasm and no matter how pretty this fantasy was, or how much I wanted it to be that way, the whole fantasy wasn’t pushing me over the edge the way I wanted. At least, not yesterday.
So I gave up on the shower, and ended up trying again later. In bed. Laying on my belly the way I’ve liked lately. And no matter what, I couldn’t seem to get her there in that bed with me, even though I really wanted her to be there. I wanted to have this really particular orgasm, and I wanted to have it with this particular fantasy. And goddamn it, it wasn’t exactly going the way I wanted. And it was frustrating and I was kinda annoyed because eventually, I did come hard, but the fantasy wasn’t the one I wanted.
In the fantasy, I was so much smaller, and I felt very overwhelmed and … I really had to fall into this unworthiness thing that I sometimes kink on. And it’s one of those “straw into gold” kinda fantasies. Because I know that it comes from this really deep painful place where I felt unworthy and inherently unlovable, and I hate that. Because I don’t believe in that anymore, and I don’t believe that about me anymore. But nevertheless, those wires got crossed in whatever way when I was too young to process any of it, and here I am with this blip in my head where I can feel so small and come so hard. So hard. Thinking about the opposite thing I want to affirm about myself. Thinking, feeling, accepting, an inherent imperfection-y, not good enough-ness that makes me wanna cry, but also for some reason, gets me off so so hard.
So whatever. I don’t like it, but it is what it is. And I’m working, really working, on forgiving myself for this. It’s not even really a choice, it just is. So yeah.
Today (day 5), I was in the shower again. Standing with the showerhead. I was having a really hard time concentrating, and I was leaning against my left arm, which was pressed to the tile while my right hand held the water spray right there. And I had my left leg propped up on the edge of the tub, and goddamn it. I was having that problem again. I just. Wasn’t. Working.
So I stopped pushing. Stopped trying. Stopped thinking about anything or making a story for myself, and I just felt the water and my body and the inherent pleasure in that. No, it wasn’t an orgasm. No, it wasn’t even close really. It wasn’t hot or full of sexy imagery. It was just me, leaning against my arm against the tile in the steamy bathroom, pushing everything out out out of my brain except me. Mine. This body. This feeling. The warmth and the buzzing and the goodness that is pleasure, even if it’s small.
And I felt a little wave. Like, a tickle of pleasure, of heat. Of yesness. And I got excited and lost my focus, but then I let it go. I’m not thinking about coming, I told myself. I’m just feeling. Just here. Just this body, just for me. Just the water and your tongue and my hands and … I felt another little wave. And then another one. And then another and another and another until I emptied my head, pushed every expectation out and just let myself…
And goddamn it, it came out of nowhere. I came out of nowhere. Like, really really really came and quivered and shook in the steam and the damp. And I lost myself there. Lost the fantasy. Lost everything except the throbbing pinkness and the contraction and the slippery wet yayness that was pulsing through me then. Right then. And it was really, really good. So good I actually giggled into my arm and had to move slowly to put the showerhead back in its holder.
And I realized that I couldn’t really pick anything up because the muscles in my hands were still too trembly to get a good grip and…
I think what I need to say is that there’s some…some split between what I want to want and what I sometimes do want. And I’m judging myself too harshly (surprise!) and making up ridiculous hoops that I tell myself I need to get through. I’m setting expectations for myself, and then I feel bad when I don’t meet them. And I think what yesterday and today mean for me, together, is that it’s worth it to work on getting through that. That I gotta keep working on letting go. Not letting go of the stuff that gets me off. Letting go of my judgement about the stuff that gets me off. Because really, that’s the part that hurts and makes this hard. It’s not the fantasy, really. It’s not the feeling. It’s the way I feel afterward, like I just betrayed myself. And I gotta stop that. I’m going to stop that. I’m going to stop that for myself. And for you. And for this project.
ghost (day 3)
today was a big day. i had a big job interview which meant i spent most of my morning prepping and worrying about how to best talk about all the things i do, and why i do them, and how i love my job. in other words, not super sexy.
unless brainy girls studying make you all hot and bothered. which, now that i think about it…
anyway. i didn’t come this morning because i figured i’d keep my energy for my interview.
i came home this afternoon kinda… dropped. i think because i hadn’t eaten enough. i think because whenever something that i’ve worked really hard on is over, i get a little wistful/emo/droppy. so i was just slightly down and i figured that i’d use that as an opportunity to love myself up. love on myself anyway. make myself feel tingly and hot and good at something. because god knows, sex is one of those things i’m good at. that includes selfsex, obvs.
so i went to my bedroom. to my bed, which i hadn’t made this morning. i pulled off my gray wool skirt and my matching gray wool jacket. i pulled of my suit, and i pulled my blouse over my head, and i crawled onto the bed in my bright yellow boyshorts with the hot pink flowers (because that’s the kind of undies i wear to an interview, obvs).
i lay on my belly. i never used to do it on my belly, but lately, it’s what i crave. i like that i can get grindy. i like that i can imagine you there, on top of me, behind me. i like that i feel your hands in my hands. i could feel you rocking your weight against my ass. hands pulling, greedy, grabbing like you do.
you were warm against my back. you were close to my ear, and you were whispering. your voice fierce. your breath warm and running running. it ran itself around the pale places where my tiny white hairs lie. your breath touched me there. and there. and in those other places where nobody else can reach.
you dragged your teeth against my shoulder. you sucked on my neck, and bit the places i like to be bit. your mouth flicked over those places that make the hair on my arms stand on end. the places that make me feel electric and buzzy and undulant. those places that make open my mouth, and sigh a little and grind my hips against you. against my palm. against your palm.
i pushed against you. you against me. clenching and thumping. i opened my mouth, breathing heavy, slow. i pushed my fingers into my mouth, and tasted you. tasted your fingers, your spit, my pussy, our fucking.
“give it,” i gasped. and then the wordless words. the sounds of coming. the breathing and the sighing. the good sounds. the ones i worry that my neighbors might hear, but i don’t care in the moment. i never care in the moment.
i shuddered good. hard. shuddered good and hard and shuddery. i shook and i felt you lift, go. i felt your ghost floating off. and then there was one. just me. my hand. my mouth. alone. tangled in the blankets. tangled in selfsex.
i opened my mouth. i tasted me. my fingers. my spit. my fucking.
i closed my eyes.