I don’t want to drunk message you.
So I’m writing this instead
Because I’m sick of using inebriation to tell you what’s on my mind.
I want you to fuck me so hard I see stars.
I want you here, in my arms.
I want you to sneak me away and fuck me against the bathroom stall – with girls coming in seeing my fingers curled around the metal frame, hearing moans and grunts and sighs.
I want you to pin me down, twist my hair in your hand, and tell me I’m not going anywhere.
And then I want you to hold me close- like in that moment I’m the only person that matters.
Because goddammit, I miss you.
I miss you so much it hurts.
And I know full well you don’t feel the same.
You don’t say hi anymore. You don’t call, or message, unless I cave and make the first communication. And it sucks. So fucking much.
But, I also get it. You’re hung up on your ex. You are very, very far away. So, I won’t tell you any of these things that occupy my mind.
But I miss your arms around me. I miss the way you look at me and the way you say my name. I miss the way you smile at me when you haven’t seen me in a while, kiss me and say, “Well, I feel better.”
And I can only say these things when there are stars in the sky, when my breath smells like whisky and life is blurred around the edges.
I hate that you make me feel these things, and that you don’t feel them back.
So that’s why I’ll write them here. I won’t burden you with a message you feel like you have to respond to, and probably won’t know how to, when you’re thousands of miles away.
This is my safe place. To openly feel whatever it is I’m feeling.
I miss you. And I really wish I didn’t.
So in my post on New Year’s Day I mentioned that I wanted to write a book. In truth, I have been working on this already, and parts have been shared with different people.
The book changes POV, and part of the story involves the changing relationship/dynamic between two of the main characters. As simply as possible, they go from outright shouting matches to what is essentially stress relief/hate fucking. It’s not the main part of the story, but it’s in there. It boils down to using sex as a coping mechanism, and it not necessarily mattering who the other person is, but seeking human contact in the closest warm body you can stand touching you. Is it pretty? No. Does it happen? Sure.
Two people have read these parts relating to their relationship through in their entirety. Others have read chunks here and there. And it’s been quite interesting getting the feedback, because the guys that read it send me back much different interpretations than the girls.
I.e., the guys don’t understand the girl character’s agency.
Or, really, that she has agency. They’ve stated that they believe she’s being used.
I had a discussion about this with one of my very close guy friends – and he said it may have been a matter of experience. Have those reading it experienced sex in this way, even second hand? Is it beyond the purview of their experience and, therefore, it makes little to no sense why a character would behave in that way or make those assumptions or do x then y to get to z?
I don’t believe this is a 50-50 split. I don’t think every girl will immediately get it and every guy will immediately not. It’s simply that I’ve never experienced such a clear gender divide in interpreting writing before.
It’s not that this doesn’t happen. Look at the stigma around romance novels/women’s literature, erotica vs. porn, sci-fi, and some graphic novels.
How do we overcome this? Do we overcome this? It’s experience, and preferences, and choices, and life. There are conversations to be had about the differences between Literary Fiction and Women’s Fiction, but how we interpret the book itself? That’s a person to person case.
And this is not to say that the scene in question does not still need editing. It does. Or that I’m not grateful for the feedback. I am.
But when do you, as a writer, say, I’m listening to those comments more than yours? I can’t address your feedback and this feedback and not make it look like I was of a sound mind when this was being created?
Or maybe I’ll just stare at the computer screen until my eyeballs bleed, because writer’s block is just so, so real.
The first time the ‘just close your eyes and think of Europe’ line applied was also the first time a guy ever went down on me.
This had been a long time coming.
Not because of any particular attraction I felt towards this person, but because we’d been explicitly told not to do it.
Another girl he’d been hooking up was a friend of mine, and one night she called me while messaging him – telling me if anything happened between us she could no longer be my friend, while telling him she would not be comfortable with him hooking up with me specifically, but of course their relationship was just casual and of course he could hook up with other girls and of course she was a ‘cool girl’ who could handle it all.
There’s something always fascinating in the forbidden, isn’t there? That desire to touch which can not be touch, to feel which can not be felt. Your imagination builds it up so much in your head, making it into something that will be fantastical and wonderful.
More often than not, it’s mediocre, at best.
It’s part of why I’ve never understood abstinence only education programs, or programs like D.A.R.E., which, besides being proven more often than not that they don’t work, only make the thing seem more deliciously fascinating.
So one night, when I had friends over, hanging out, beer, pizza, good times, and he came up behind me, I did not say ‘No,’ I said, “We shouldn’t.” I dared him to continue.
And in my tipsy haze, in my sex starved body, he felt warm and smooth.
We didn’t get very far before we passed out. It was late, he was high, and I still had a voice in the back of my head saying, “This is a really bad idea.”
In the morning, he was young and clumsy. He was rough in the wrong places, trying to take control of a situation like he normally would, expecting me to swoon, and I refused. I refused to fake my enjoyment when all I wanted was him out of my room.
Guys, I have already stated that girls will fake orgasms. Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.
If we aren’t moving, if we are enjoying ourselves, you will know.
If we tell you “Keep doing that,” “Don’t stop,” “No, just there,” Or any variation thereof, why would you change what you are doing? Unless you are in a play situation of orgasm denial – why deny us when we are giving you clear cut instructions? If we’re going down on you and you say “Just like that,” “Yeah, faster,” or “Not that hard,” when we’re sucking on your balls, do you want us to go harder and/or bite the damn thing off? No.
(Yes I know that there’s a difference in the harm involved there, but the concept is the same.)
So by the third time I was asking for the incessant drilling of fingers in my pussy to be backed down to a tolerable level/the angle to be changed, when I’d been denied twice already, I gave up. I gave up on instructions. I gave up, and I got irritated.
We both liked biting, and but I had stated that I did not want any marks on my body. He had no such qualms.
I started slow, nips here and there, finding the correct spots. And moans and groans led me further and further.
I understand that this was not the most mature way to handle the situation, but I was rather unhappy. Unhappy that this had built up so high, that I’d been hearing about the amazing, take control skills of this guy for months, how fantastic he was in bed, and how it had been ohso amazing. Unhappy that he’d been flirting so much with me, telling me things he wanted to do, and that none of it was even remotely close to living up to reality.
I was annoyed that this was the first time I’d let anyone sleep in my own bed, stay in my room, invade my personal space, and it was so profoundly disappointing.
So when his tongue started to lick at me like a hyperactive puppy I stared at my ceiling and held out for as long as I felt reasonable – before using his neck like a cat scratch post.
I can’t say that either of us were particularly satisfied that morning, until he came back because he forgot some of his stuff. My flatmate opened the door, I heard them muttering, and buried myself deeper into a blanket cocoon.
“Uh, what the hell happened last night?” If I’m remembering correctly, she didn’t even bother knocking.
“What did he say?”
“He said he felt like he was returning to the scene of the crime,” She tried to suppress a laugh, “Did you mean to maul him?”
“He didn’t seem to mind at the time,” I shrugged.
I will say, that we stayed friendly after that. We fell out of touch due to distance and just simply to not having that much in common. And I’ve since found better ways to channel my slightly sadistic frustrations.
TL;DR – Don’t eat the apple. There’s probably a worm in it.
He’s running late.
I’m sitting in a freezing hotel lobby with a dying computer trying to relax, trying to watch a movie, when I’m nervous and cold and aching all over.
He didn’t tell me he wouldn’t get off work until hours after my flight got in.
He didn’t tell the hotel that I was authorized to check in. So instead, I’m sitting here, beside a fake Holiday Inn fireplace, hoping my laptop battery holds out, trying to keep myself calm.
In truth, I’m not so angry as I am nervous. I haven’t seen him in almost five years. Our history has been…bumpy? We’ll go with bumpy. And we’ve talked about this, built this up. But, it was all fantasy – timing and distance getting in the way of fantasy becoming reality.
So when I said I could potentially have time/money to come up for a weekend, I didn’t know what to expect. He enthusiastically agreed, and I suppose I thought he’d put a semblance of effort in.
I certainly expected him to try to get to where we were staying at around the same time as me, or let me know if advance if there would be a problem, let me know when to try to arrive, but…
He finally comes through the door, and I shove the computer away. He hugs me, and he’s bouncing up and down. A barely closed bottle of happy energy.
I thought we’d talk for a bit. I’d have time to decompress, to relax.
I thought I’d have time to get my hands back to a normal temperature, anyways.
He’s on me, kissing me, holding me, and it’s almost like I remember but at the same time entirely different. I remind myself I wanted this. I remind myself I came here. Of course this would happen immediately.
And he’s tearing off my shirt and my pants and I’m so, so nervous.
It’d been a while since I’d had sex. Too long. But my previous experiences with it had been a combination of both wonderful and exceedingly painful. This was height of ‘the time of vag hell.’ I had halfheartedly tried dating, but this wasn’t exactly a time in my life when I would call myself “happy,” I was struggling in my city, between moves again, and finding someone to just relax with, while it would’ve been nice, was just another stress I didn’t need.
So while his foreplay might’ve worked for some, for me, no, it was not enough.
It was pain. Tense, terrifying, horrible pain.
We try a different way, and it helps. And he manages to make me orgasm, for the first and only time that weekend, but far from a release it feels like agony. Like tearing something from me that didn’t want to give.
He stands up, still that happy energetic ball, and leaves me to pull myself together. I’m a mess of emotions, with a steel mask in place.
Will it be like that for the rest of the weekend?
Well, he hadn’t seen you, he was probably excited, maybe he’ll take more time, you’ll be ready next time?
Oh God, what if he does take longer next time?
Maybe booze will help? Can you find a bar near here?
Maybe you won’t have to again tonight?
He’d mentioned going to a concert, when we were sort of planning this weekend, saying things we might want to do.
He’s pulling out some sort of drug, he calls it a supplement, but it a drug, just the kind a test won’t care about, and I say fine, but I’m driving back.
It’s not until I’m in the passenger seat of the pickup truck that he says it’s a three hour drive. Because why wouldn’t it be?
We grab dinner before the show, and talk about old friends, old memories. I say how much I want to travel, don’t want to settle in one place. He’s saying he wants to come with, if I need a travel ‘companion’, he’s there, and I don’t know how to respond.
The concert, as it turns out, doesn’t start until 1AM. It’s not really a concert, though, it’s part rave, part club night, and this would be fine, but I’m so tired already, and looking forward to a three hour ride back in a truck I’m not sure how to drive with a guy taking uppers and drinking. If we could just get a cab and go home, I wouldn’t care.
And then I go to the bathroom and see blood.
Because he’d torn me.
I come back, and he’s whispering in my ear that he wants to fuck me again when we get back.
I don’t know how to deal with this; deal with him. I don’t know how to yell at him and tell him he’s acting like an asshole when he’s been in my physical presence for less than eight hours, and I don’t have a flight away for two more days. I don’t know how to deal with a body that at that point, I had no other explanation for than sheer hatred of dicks.
So I took a deep breath, and said, no, I’ll be too tired. I got his ass in the car, got my ass in the car, made him stay awake long enough to help me figure out the controls, and got us back.
And I’m exhausted, and he’s rolling over to me, and trying to touch me, and it burns. I tell him the Reader’s Digest version of the truth. That he tore me, I need the night to recover, he can fuck me in the morning. He groans, and falls asleep.
It’s not so bad, in the morning. There’s no foreplay, at all, but I’m so tired my body gives up resistance, and I convince him he doesn’t need to try for anything but his own pleasure because I’m still sore.
We have a nice day, go explore his city. I take him to a very nice dinner for his birthday. We don’t run out of things to talk about, and it’s nice, and easy. He makes me smile.
I’m relaxed again.
We go to the hotel and watch TV, and eventually, he kisses me. 2 seconds of foreplay and he’s in me and I want to scream. I’m trying to adjust, to take him, not even to enjoy it, just to make it through. I want it to be okay more than anything. But he pulls away, and there’s blood on the sheets.
And he doesn’t get it. I’m upset, and I call down to the desk to get fresh ones. He says it’s just my period.
No, it’s not. It was too rough and you tore me. He gives me a raised eyebrow.
I understand that wasn’t rough for you, but that was for me. Why am I justifying myself? I’m the one in pain. I’m the one bleeding. I’m the one trying to deal with this.
We don’t mention it again that night. In the morning, he has to give the car he was borrowing back, and get a different one. He gives me a kiss, and I pack my stuff. I debate. Do I want to try again? Do I want to leave it like that?
He calls me. To get me to the airport, he was borrowing another car. This car has a girl attached.
But, girl attached is girl attached.
I think it’s been established by now that I really could give a rat’s ass about commitment. But, there’s a difference between ‘we’re not committed’ and ‘here’s the other girl I’m fucking let me dangle her in front of your face as you’re on your way out the door.’
So he comes in to get me, and we kiss goodbye then, because it’s an unspoken fact that from that moment, I am the ‘friend,’ and not the fuckbuddy. That’s her role now.
We spend a lunch with them on one side of the table sharing their own inside jokes and old memories and secret glances. I smile and laugh when appropriate, and let them get on with it, not showing how upset I am.
They drive me to the airport and he gives me a hug.
My flight won’t leave for seven hours.
He said he’d check in on me later, we’d talk once my flight got in, but we haven’t spoken since. I’m okay with this. I haven’t felt the urge to reach out, to like any pictures, to say hello, to know even cursory details of what’s happening in this guy’s life.
I understand that from his perspective, this story will look different. That he may have expected something much more enjoyable. That he may have wanted some crazy off the walls fuck machine and a destroyed hotel room. And that’s fine. At that point in my life, I never advertised that. He knew full well the extent of my experience. From my perspective, it was a fucked up weekend where my emotions and physical limits were pushed far beyond what I ever would have hoped, and I was left alone in the airport terminal feeling sore with a queasy stomach half full of thai vegetables.
We can’t know how these things will play out before hand. No one knows the future. And sometimes it takes stupidly shitty couple of days to figure out whether or not your gut instincts on a person/situation were right all along.
Some of these stories will take place during what I like to call “the time of vag hell fire.”
This is, quite literally, the time when sex felt like terrible, horrible pain, because of the medication I was on at the time.
See, when I first heard about male birth control, and the fact that trials would stop due to side effects, I was a little ticked off.
Scratch that, I was pissed as hell.
For seven years, I was passed from birth control pill to birth control pill, and spent five years on a pill with dangerously high estrogen levels that put me at higher risk of a stroke, (even more dangerous because of my family medical history) put me at a higher risk of infection, and caused severe damage to the nerve endings in my vagina.
Also, because I kept trying to have sex while I was in pain, my body tried to defend itself against said painful sex, and started causing muscular contractions that still existed up until this year.
There’s actually physical therapy for people who need to work their way through stuff like this.
Essentially, because of ineffective doctors, lack of information, and myths perpetuated about how sex is supposed to be for those who possess a vagina, I suffered for years when I didn’t have to.
I don’t know how to describe it except for the feeling of ‘out, out, I want this out right the fuck now.’
And that’s not how it should feel.
Even if you’re doing it wrong.
Which brings us back to this idea of male birth control.
My first reaction was that of, “So they can’t handle a few mood swings? Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
I then recognized my pettiness, and felt guilty. I wasn’t angry at the guys in the trial, I was angry at an industry that for decades has refused to recognize the very real complaints of people suffering from depression, from nausea, from weight gain and loss, from very serious side effects, and has done nothing to improve their products.
But, just because we have suffered doesn’t mean others should as well.
I am lucky. It took multiple doctors appointments to sort it out, but eventually I moved to a different city, saw a different doctor, and received competent treatment. They recognized what the meds were doing to me, prescribed medication to help heal the damage done to my nerves, and got me on Mirena – the plastic version of the IUD that I will advocate until my dying days.
I say this not only to bring attention to it, but because this era of ‘the time of vag hell fire’ played a role in stories I will tell. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but knew that something wasn’t right, and when it was fixed, that played its role as well.
For so many reasons, this should no longer be an issue.
- We should not be demonizing feminine sexuality – turning feminine virginity into something that can be ‘taken away.’ If we could begin to dispel this myth on hymens and sex ‘supposed’ to be painful the first time, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me such a long time to sort it out. (see above video)
- I feel this goes into the stigma attached not only to the health care of women and transwomen, but also to mental health care and sexuality in general. When you’re taking a hormonal contraceptive, you’re taking just that – hormones. You are altering your body chemistry. If we, as a society, were more open to talking about mental health and cis and trans women sexual health, maybe we could get better at sorting out which medication was right for us.
We have to be better at recognizing this is real, and acknowledging that cis & trans women who are saying something is wrong are probably more aware of their bodies than men are.
With that being said, stay tuned for some more stories about terrible sex.
She’s just gone to pop into her room and you’ve stumbled into me, and your hands are in my hair, your lips on mine. My arms knot around your neck, and we sway from side to side.
“Christ,” She mutters, just loud enough for us to hear, “Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds, can I?”
No, she can’t. Because we’re at this point in our lives where we can’t be trusted to be alone, with booze, and single.
We stumble into my room, and even though you’re drunk, you’re in control. It’s like a high, whenever we do this. You know exactly where to touch, where to kiss, where to be firm, where to be soft.
But I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to fuck you when you’re this drunk. It’s held me back before, and it’s holding me back now. I couldn’t put it into words. I could never talk to you, not about this. We never actually talked about anything remotely serious, nothing about ‘us,’ not that there ever really was an ‘us.’ There was just this, when you got drunk enough to find me at or after parties, and I let you every time.
But in the morning, you’re sober, and even though all I want to do is ask you to fuck me, I say nothing when you say you’ve got to get home. I say nothing when you stay for another two hours, talking about books, movies, the friends that have disappointed you. I’m sprawled on the bed in a tank that just barely covers me, hoping you’ll kiss me and from there…from there I could take you to where I want to.
But you don’t. You eventually realize the time. And it’s okay. The night was enough. It was fun. A part of me knows that it will probably be the last time it happens, we’re just in two different places now. So you give me a hug, and walk out the door.
Three years later, and we’re sitting with tea, and once again talking about all the books and movies. You read more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s so nice, the way we flow into these conversations. It’s natural, and easy and light.
Which is why I don’t even try to bring up the questions that I’ve wanted to ask you for so very long.
You briefly mention your girlfriend, and I’ve seen her in pictures. She’s pretty, and you brighten when you mention her. I’m so happy for you.
You say goodbye, and give me another hug. We make the perfunctory statements of keeping in touch, but I know we won’t.
I wish we would, because you’re smart, and funny, and someone I want to be friends with.
The first night you took me back to your place, I was so young, and I was scared. I asked if it could be private. I still haven’t decided if I either shouldn’t have said that, or should have told you why. I had reasons, but they would’ve swayed you away even more. Who wants to get into that deep of shit when they first try to fuck someone?
I feel like it set the tone of everything after that. These are the things I’ve thought about since. I doubt you have.
I want you to be happy. I want you to successful, and to find whatever it is you’re looking for.
After you left, I ordered another pot of tea, and finished a book.
You really wouldn’t have liked it.
My friend just sent me a message.
“Hey babe are you a fitted sheet?
Because you’re complicated and hard to manage but I definitely want you on this mattress.
And I don’t mind having to wrestle for it ;)”
-“Ahhh. Omg. I love it.”
“That last bit I made up especially for you!”
There’s an old stereotype that men think about sex every 7-8 seconds.
That would be 8,000 times a day.
Why do we continually think that men are more sexual beings than women? Because
I’m so grateful to shows like Grace and Frankie which have unapologetically put women’s sexual desires front and center – saying to the world yeah, our libido doesn’t die. We may have to make adjustments based on health and age, but, yeah, this is real and we can be open and honest about it.
My friend and I – same one from above – are both cis women, who, while we fail spectacularly in the ‘getting a guy to actually go home with us’ department, do pretty well in coming up with creative lines that might get them there (I use ‘might’ loosely.) To the point that we recently spent an afternoon coming up with (mostly nerd inspired) pick up lines.
“Daredevil’s not the only one who can perform well with a blindfold on.”
“…Yeah I don’t know if I can handle that Iron Fist.”
“Can I introduce you to Jessica Jones? She’s smart, sassy, super strong, and can really take a pounding.”
(In context of conversation of turn ons….)
“Seriously, can you turn off this faucet?”
“Washington’s not the only swamp that needs draining.”
“I thought you’d be running like a well oiled machine by now.”
My point, beyond revealing just how much we are not going to get laid in the near future, is to say that girls talk about sex all the damn time.
This has nothing to do with pleasing cis, hetero guys, making you want to like us, that you and you alone are making us explode with never before seen cock greed, or that we’re these weird hybrid alien creatures of hormone induced lust.
We are human beings and therefore capable of desire.