Saturday, December 18, 2010

Sex, I Think

A few days ago, my boyfriend and I had sex for the first time in... let's just say that it's been far too long. It was beautiful. It was wonderful. It made us feel closer, and it smoothed the tensions, and it helped us forgive the small stuff.

And yet, while I unreservedly call it sex, there was no penis-in-vagina. There wasn't even any strapon-in-ass. Just two people, partially nekkid, making out and groping and sharing a vibrator and orgasming our fool heads off.

Most people would look at what we were doing and call it mutual masturbation. After all, there was no oral sex, no anal sex, no vaginal sex. Therefore, it couldn't have been sex, right? But it wasn't until today that I even questioned calling what we did sex. We went into it knowing that my vagina was not going to be open for business, but wanting to have the pleasure, the emotional connection, the intimacy of sex. We went in treating this as fucking, as making love, as everything we usually call sex. Even though his penis never gained entry to my poor, forgotten vagina, on some deeper level it FELT like sex.

I'm not sure if I can explain it any better than that. By most people's definition, what we had the other night wasn't sex. By this culture's standard definitions, it was mutual masturbation, it was grinding, it was frottage, it was heavy petting with weapons-grade vibrators. As far as we're concerned, it was sex.

This whole thing has forced me to really look at my definition of sex. I'm realizing that when I really dig, I don't have such a hard and fast answer to "what is sex, and what isn't?" Yes, it's fucking (with or without any emotional component). Yes, it's oral or anal or vaginal or any combination of genital-to-genital(s)/orifice(s). It's also the nebulus region of stuff like this, that doesn't have a cut-and-dry category. In this case, it's the emotions and intent that make it sex, not what was actually done.

(As I'm writing this, I'm struck by how truly absurd the modern concept of Virginity is. That, however, is a subject for another time.)

I am just so, so glad that we had sex again. I missed the closeness. I missed the intimacy. I missed being able to appreciate his body and mine. When we're not having sex, the diseased corners of my brain decide that if we're not having sex, I must not be attracted to him anymore, and that I'm not attractive. Great self-fulfilling prophecy right there. One of the many ways that an anxiety disorder can completely fuck up lives and relationships.

Besides, until this happened, we'd never realized how awesomely sexy it can be to share a super-powerful massager-style vibrator. Share as in making a boy glans-vibrator-girl glans sandwich. Actually, he'd never realized just why vibrators are so fucking awesome until he got off on just my Fairy wand against his glans.

He's insanely quiet during sex... I'd never HEARD most of the noises he made that night. With porn, I get off most on the sounds people make when they're having a damn good time. I can, and have, masturbated to just the moaning and panting and other lovely noises in good porn. For me, suddenly getting all of these noises out of the man I love was quite possibly the hottest thing he's ever done.

Even though this is an insanely stressful and busy time for me, I'm also in a wonderful place because of this. I'm still not quite sure what happened, but it made me happy. And right now, that means a lot.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

This is your brain...

Because I'm on Vicodin for my badly strained back, I do not have the coherence nor the attention span to write a true blog post today. Instead, you will get an assortment of the crazy things that have floated through my drugged mind today.

My Loki-loving Druid friend is awesome, but needs to ask her deities to keep their hands to themselves. No, I will not even try to explain that statement.

My friend made me a Yule CD! I may not celebrate that particular variant of the midwinter holiday, but I greatly appreciate it. Yay pretty music!

A hug from the right stuffed animal just makes everything better. Well, maybe that's a hug TO the right stuffed animal, because an inanimate object can't really give a hug. And it doesn't make EVERYTHING better, obviously. It makes me feel better, but it's not like it's going to cure cancer or bring world peace or anything. It's a stuffed dog, damn it, not fucking Superman. Though a stuffed dog that could cure cancer would be pretty badass.

I have discovered that having my dorm room at 75*F seems to be a perfect temperature for hanging around in just PJs, without needing to cuddle under a blanket. I like lounging around in pj-shorts, so this is a nice discovery. Still a bit chilly for just bein' nekkid, though.

I have also discovered that having my dorm at about 80*F is about the right temperature for just wandering around my room naked all day.

Pretending to be a nudist behind closed doors has some drawbacks when you've got G-cup boobs. Those bitches are heavy. I have three choices - deal with my chest and back and neck hurting as they hang there all day, get very little done because I'm always using one arm to hold up my boobs, or getting nothing done because I made the mistake of asking my boyfriend to follow me around holding up my boobs all day (he is quite distracting when he gets his hands on my boobs).

Today, I missed my hip-length hair more than I have in a long time. There's something incredibly sensuous about spending the day all but naked, and feeling your own soft, soft hair rippling across your back and butt all day.

I adored the feeling of my own hair against my skin. I miss it like crazy. I'm afraid that even if I started growing my hair back out today, by the time it was long enough again I would have forgotten what the big deal was. Or gotten fed up with the crazy WORK the hair is when the roots ain't healthy. Which they won't be until we resolve my mystery health issue.

Huh. The bodies of the stylized dragonflies on my wall hanging look a LOT like penises. As in, holy shit why are there flying green penises on my wall. I may never look at dragonflies the same way again.

I have deleted the next set of thoughts about 5 times now. Each time, it was something that seemed like an awesome idea to share, that I then censored out. I guess it's good to know that I still have a modicum of good judgment left to me in my drugged state.

I kinda hate how codeine and its related drugs (esp hydrocodone) seem to make me an insomniac. I take them, and then I'm gonna be up until about half an hour before they wear off. Kinda sucks when you're sick, or injured, and need to heal.

And this is just my brain on half of the smaller Vicodin dose (the doc's having me break the pills in half to get a good dose for my body weight and stomach issues). Imagine what nonsense I'd be spouting if they made me take the whole pill? Or upped the dose? I might start babbling about schizophrenic ninja octopi again.

Sunday, December 5, 2010


Sometimes I wonder if my relationship with my boyfriend started too quickly - or at least the sexual aspects of it. I went from completely untouched, never-been-kissed virgin to fuck-like-bunnies nympho in under a year. I had never even dated before he came into my life. He was... quite experienced for his age, all of 16 at the time. He's admitted that he pushed me, because he thought loosening up and bringing some sexuality into our relationship would make me happy. And for a long time, it did make me happy, wonderfully happy.