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It started with a waterproof vibrator. It was affordable and looked something like modern art, so I figured it would be a pretty good tool to start with. Personally, I’m not a huge fan of being penetrated. I’ve spent the last couple of months studying the body, and doing my best to understand my own spots of sensation, and I’m using ‘studying’ loosely. I’m sure that sounds academic, but what I really mean is I started reading a bunch of things I found on the internet and putting every question I had into a YouTube search engine.  This proved strangely helpful considering you aren’t supposed to trust things that you find on the internet.

A couple of articles and a little less than 20 bucks later, I’m standing in the shower holding the silver colored vibrating plastic bit. Long enough to properly do the job, but not long enough to alter the way my body should operate afterwards.

After learning a bit about my own body, I’m convinced some guys really just don’t like their anus. Nothing 20 inches in length and 14 inches in girth should be going into your rectum. Yes. That one pornstar in that one video does it. But I am not him, he is not me. Our goals our so entirely different. Our backstories and narratives are far removed from one another. Also, it is his job to entertain you for a living by creating FANTASY.

That is not my ministry. That is not my anointing, nor is it my divine calling.

It is my duty to understand how MY body works so that I can make sure I am as pleased as possible.

To the man who can take a solid 12 inches without so much as a whimper: more power (bottom) to you, sis. Thankfully, you are not my standard.

And on that note I begin to explore. Gently at first. Just an inch or two keeping the vibration on low, partly because I’d hate to be electrocuted here in my own shower and be found with a vibrator sticking out of my rectum.

Maybe an inch or two more. The toy is slim. The tip is narrow and it widens as you move down the shaft, but not by much. It’s gentle, it’s not invasive and obnoxious. I’ve seen those. Silicone sex toys with the size and shape of a forearm and a fist. I’m not here to yuck anybody’s yum, but what in the hell have you experienced in your own life in which that toy is the requirement for your own pleasure?

The toy is in there pretty good. I’m alive. I’m filled. I’m comfortable. I slowly increase the vibration.

The sensation of the toy and the warmth of the water team up together. The rising steam whispered in my ear, this is how it should be done.

Pull it out, push it in. Slow at first. Feel every sensation of the slow rhythm. Understand what’s happening while it’s all happening. Do it kinda like you love yourself, and just want to please you real good. Fuck what you’ve seen. This ain’t about what you’ve seen. It’s about what you feel.

How do you feel?

I moan, just a little. Not that fake ass, keep going daddy bullshit we say to our partners when we want them to feel good about themselves so they don’t have sex with other people, but as an instinctual reaction to something that felt entirely new. This was pleasure.

And with pleasure, you breath deep, you hold, you release. You try your hardest to capture every sensation you can knowing that when you’re done it’s right back to the real, sensationless world.

With a slight turn of the wrist, I began to hit a place in myself that felt literally and figuratively untapped.

May I be dramatic for a second?

Suddenly sex made complete sense. Life in all it’s dullness was made into something remarkable. I picked up the pace, and moved my wrist around vigorously and explored as if I was just a motion away from discovery. I moaned trough the steam of the shower. I cursed myself for never requiring my previous partners to help me feel this way; I didn’t know any better. I repented for not understanding what this place felt like when I made love to other men. I felt everything in absolute order, balance, and perfection. I felt amazing, I felt messy, I felt empowered, my legs felt weak. I felt deeply selfish. I felt deeply grateful. I felt deeply.

And right when everything in this wild world aligned itself into perfection, I released myself. And yes, I’m talking about ejaculation, but for a second I felt as if my soul clocked out and parted with me knowing it had done it’s job for the day.

The water worked its way over me. For a minute I questioned what reality actually was. In the past, after I spent the moment pleasing myself (and now I use pleasing so loosely), I returned to real life only more frustrated, mostly at myself. To have literally engaged motions but not felt many sensations at all.

This time felt new. I let me understand myself. I listened closely to my body, and obeyed it’s every request.

I finished washing me off or maybe I started washing me off.

I felt as if I started to know myself.

Let Us Put An End To The Corny Shit

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So you know that picture of Julie Andrew’s spinning in the Swiss Alps among the vibrant green fields and the mountains?

That was pretty much me leaving the sex shop the other day almost a hundred and fifty dollars poorer, but excited about making what is clearly an investment in my own sexuality. We are comfortably into 2017. I turn 27 in just a couple of months and I decided having sex and not trying to understand the sensation is officially corny shit.

Having sex with guys who kinda don’t know what they’re doing or how they enjoy their own sexual experiences is officially corny shit.

Having sex with guys whose primary understanding of sex comes from pornhub videos is officially corny shit.

We don’t do corny shit anymore in 2017. We leaving corny shit behind with the electoral college process, right in 2016 where it belongs, forever.

Guys that don’t know how to communicate what they want sexually, that’s corny shirt.

Guys that think penetration includes shoving your boys parts as far into another human being as possible, that’s corny shit. It’s also anatomically a terrible idea.

Deciding that you’re going to be the partner who tops and I’m going to be the receiver JUST because you think you act more masculine is corny shit.

Saying you don’t like being eaten out because you prefer to top is corny shit. I’d argue it’s the CORNIEST shit. It’s 2017. Relax. Get your booty eaten out. It’s all good. I think no less of you.

NOT BEING HONEST ABOUT YOUR SEXUAL EXPERIENCE IS CORNY SHIT. If you’re new to trying something, it’s totally fine to admit you have NO IDEA what a new position, a new place of stimulation or a new dynamic feels like. In fact, get this: NOT knowing could make the experience more exciting. And in the time you’re pretending you’ve done it all, you could just as easily be enjoying the experience of trying something completely new.

Acting like sex and love for another person are synonymous is corny shit. They’re different. They’re extremely different. I’d argue that they don’t even live in the same neighborhood. Acting like we’re going to keep having sex until we fall in love will TRULY and ONLY set yourself up for disappointment in your own life, and I have nothing to do with that. I’m clear upfront. Sex involves sensation, stimulation, I’m not PARTICULARLY sure love for another person makes sex any better or worse. Plenty of people love each other and don’t have great or regular sex. I have had PHENOMENAL sex with men whose names I can’t quite remember. I’ve had bad sex with men I’ve sworn myself to.

Telling me there’s no sex without love is like saying The Number 7 is only good with scrambled eggs. Please, beloved; Leave that corny shit behind.

I left that sex shop with a new determination. It’s 2017. I’m ready to get uncompromising with understanding how my body registers pleasure

And at the ABSOLUTE least, I want to get to the end of a sexual experience and not think about all the things I could have written in that time.