Glitter. Real Stories About Sexual Desire From Real Women (2 page)

The Snow Storm
 

Christy Summer

I'm a thirty-something wife and mom who previously partied like a rock star and has all the memories to prove it. I had a strict religious upbringing and let it all go when I hit my twenties. I can currently be found reading books to my toddlers, relaxing at a local bar or writing about my previous party life.

I knew what I wanted when I drove to the mall that night. I didn't care that it was snowing like hell outside and that the parking lots were iced over. I wanted him and I wasn't sure when I'd see him again.

We both knew that it was risky, but I for one did not care. All I wanted was to experience his hands on me, sense his tongue tracing the inside of my lips and to feel him inside me again. It was all I'd thought about that afternoon at work, after he'd brought lunch to me and I'd sat next to him, having to control myself when all I had wanted was to fuck him, right there, in his truck.

Later I found out that originally his intentions for that night had not included sex, but of course he didn't protest when I got on top of him. I could not help myself. Five minutes of kissing him, feeling his hands touch me, first over my skirt, then pushing my skirt up and out of the way so that he could grab my hip, and then finally slide his fingers inside me, where I was already so wet and so ready that I was moaning - I simply couldn't wait any longer.

I had to have him, right there in the parking lot, in a snow storm, in his truck. I got on top of him and positioned myself so that I could feel every inch of him.

I still remember everything about that night: how amazing he felt inside me, the scent of his sweat mixed with mine, his hands, grabbing my hips to pull himself deeper into me; the feel of his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, finally my own mouth, kissing me with a passionate but controlled need. The excitement of possibly getting caught made everything more intense. The look in his eyes when we came up for air, the sound of his voice and the feeling of his breath on my neck: he's a vocal lover, something that turns me on so incredibly quickly. I never had to wonder if I felt good to him, his words and moans told me everything.

We completely fogged up his truck that night and were both left dripping, covered with the sweet smell of sex. I had come three times and was blissfully exhausted. There were more times between us after that, but something about that particular time was different. Maybe it was the contrast of the cold outside and the hot, sweaty sex inside the truck. Perhaps it was the intensity with which I had to have him. Whatever it was, that night is now one that I will never forget.

If I’m Going To Be Honest…

Courtney

I’m in my thirties and I’m studying for my masters in psychology. I am also a homeschooling single mother.

I’m going to go ahead and say it; I like to watch gay male porn. I mea
n
reall
y
like it. Nothing gets me as turned on as seeing a ripped, sweaty man taking it from another hot man.

I wasn’t always this way, although I have always been a little
…
outsid
e
of the normal bounds of sexuality. I have had a history of experimenting with some lite BDSM, always in role as the submissive. Long ago I discovered, while wrestling with a male friend, that it really turned me on to be pinned down and helpless. I got so wet from that experience, it was embarrassing. I have always played the subservient, docile woman. Even when watching porn, it was always of some submissive, busty blonde being subjugated by a strict, dominant man.

I have been tied up, had sensory deprivation, been spanked and whipped, and been called a ‘dirty little slut’ more times than I can count.

However, after recently ending a particularly difficult long-term romantic relationship that was borderline emotionally abusive, it suddenly repulsed me to see women being taken advantage of in porn, regardless of whether or not it is fictional. I could not imagine playing the submissive role ever again, even knowing that it is just a role I am playing. My whole sexual viewpoint has been flipped upside down. But, instead of feeling lost and being upset at this upheaval, I am embracing the prospect and using it to explore the multitudes of other options that are out there for me in the sexual rainbow.

I might expand my porn viewing to women fucking men with strap-ons or women fucking women with strap-ons. I love that there are so many options to express sexuality and vow never to limit myself to the submissive box again. The idea that men can be the submissive or even just the bottom excites the hell out of me. I might even give domination a go in my next sexual relationship.

For now, I will enjoy watching hot men fucking, and I will do so without shame!

After School Special

Alicia Wolfe

A wine connoisseur with an amazing rack and a dog of an ex-husband. She leads a pretty normal life as a number cruncher, wife and mom/slave to three cats.

Apparently I was rather young the first time I had sex. That's what people tell me when they hear 'my number' anyway. It didn't feel that young to me at the time. I was fourteen. It was 1988.

What did I know about sex at the time? Plenty. A friend had given m
e
The Joy of Se
x
as a gag gift. And I had studied it. Prior to that, aside from the basic mechanics, the only instruction I had had on sex I'd gotten "on the street" because all my mother had to say was "Sex is a very wonderful and beautiful thing between two married people."

I put that in quotes because I remember it verbatim. Because she said it in those exact words over and over again.
 It was actually more like, “SexIsAVery-WonderfulAndBeautifulThingBetweenTwoMarried-People.”

Spoken in monotone.

That was it.

Unlike other first time stories I've heard, I wasn't pressured by the guy to do it, at least not in the traditional sense of "C'mon, baby, let's do it. You're giving me blue balls." It was my idea.

In retrospect, it was not one of my better ideas.

But I don't regret it. I have always been one to go my own way and this experience was no exception.

My boyfriend at the time, let's call him Mike to protect the stupid, was clearly more...um...‘experienced’ than me. I suppose I was "the good girl" to his "bad boy," he did have a mohawk after all. But he actually didn't try much with me when we would make out. I do remember him once trying to finger me while we were kissing and I gently moved his hand away ... because I had my period.

Ew, gross!

But I didn't tell him that. How embarrassing.

He never tried anything else ‘underneath clothing’. He behaved like a gentleman in that regard. I remember thinking that was odd. I wanted to try more, experience more. Or find out that I didn't by saying ‘no’ if he tried something I wasn't ready for. But that one act of pushing his hand away had apparently sealed my fate.

Then came a time, perhaps a month or two later, when I didn't see him for a week or two. I think I was grounded. I was pretty much always grounded because my crazy mothe
r
though
t
I was out partying, boozing and having sex. It probably had something to do with the fact that she had found that book hidden in my dresser. But I wasn't doing any of that. My mother drove me everywhere I went. She called parents before I went wherever she drove me. She was completely delusional in her accusations.

I can't remember which came first, the rumor about Mike and another girl or a close friend telling me she had lost her cherry. I don't think it really matters which. The point was, I now had a really good friend who had 'done it.' And I had a boyfriend who apparentl
y
wante
d
to do ‘it’ and was perhaps doing ‘it’ with someone else because he thought I wouldn't do ‘it’.

I decided to find out what ‘it’ was all about. Being a fourteen-year-old girl, of course, I also did
 ‘it’ thinking ‘it’ would help me keep my man. That reason makes me want to kick my former self now. That is the stupidest reason possible and if my mother had only had a real conversation with me about sex...

I told him I wanted to do ‘it’ and I conspired to be somewhere I wasn't supposed to be (divorced parents can be useful that way: “didn't she stay a
t
you
r
house last night?”). And we did it.

It was...painful, I guess. I've heard many describe it as traumatic. Not for me. It just...was. It hurt. He tried to back out of it because it was hard to um...ya know...insert tab A into slot B. Especially with a condom on (I may have been young and naïve but I sure wasn't stupid). There was pretty much zero foreplay. I'm sure there must have been blood but I don't specifically remember that. He was nice enough about it. And he clearly wa
s
no
t
as experienced as I had thought he was. He might have done it before but it was clear he hadn't had much practice.

There was quite a lot of fumbling around. We were in someone's empty spare room. I think we just had blankets and a sleeping bag, maybe. I don't think there was even a mattress on the floor. Romantic it was not. A tender moment? Nope. It was more like research.

For my part, I just wanted to do it. Get it over with. Find out what was the big deal. And what I found out was...it wasn't that big a deal. I didn't love it. I didn't hate it.

He didn't speak to me after that.

I got away with that rendezvous as far as my mother was concerned but then I think I was punished for some other made up transgression. And so I finally came to the (inevitable) conclusion that if I was gonna do the time, I might as well do the crime. Especially since I had already committed one.

So it was just the next logical step that I went to a kegger. There, I met that other girl he had been with. He hadn't spoken to her since either. We became fast friends and gave him so much shit for being an asshole t
o
bot
h
of us that he left in a hurry.

And that was that.

The whole thing really was all very matter of fact.

I wish I had known better than to try and use sex to keep a man. I wish that that experience had actually taught me that lesson. What I learned, unfortunately, from that lesson was that men (boys) want sex. And if you want a man, you have to give him sex. But you can do it on your own terms. But you have to do it.

I also wish that my friend, the one who had told me she lost her virginity, had included the part about how it was rape. She didn't tell me that until about six years later. I still want to punch that guy.

Has my attitude toward sex changed since then? Of course.

Has my attitude toward my mother? No.

Talk to your kids about sex! Openly! Honestly! Encourage them to wait but don’t make it taboo! Teach them how to respect the opposite sex! Instill in them a healthy attitude towards sex!

I didn't have a horrible first time. But I could have. And I did have a long road of reprogramming my brain, relearning what I needed to know and think about sex.

P is for Pleasure

Polly Priss

Acceptable outside, freaky inside. Hoping to one day merge the two and take over the world.

When I was five, I broke the star that sat upon the Christmas tree. I felt bad. I was angry with myself and wanted to be punished to help alleviate that guilt. My parents weren’t around much, and even when home, they were not disciplinarians. So I sat myself in a corner. And I liked it. Age play has been in my pleasure pocket ever since.

For my seventh birthday I got a Cabbage Patch Kid and a package of real baby diapers for her. Everyone at the party laughed. They teased me, saying the diapers were for me. Well, there’s an idea! I took them home and loved them. They smelled like powder. They crinkled softly. I was intrigued. I tucked them into my panties and used them. Afterwards they were warm and squishy. I masturbated. Then I snuck the used diapers to the trashcan and buried them, terrified of being caught. I seem to have attached shame to sexual feelings from the very beginning.

My teenage years were full of kink, but not age play. Some kinks are hard to share, because they are rare, or less accepted. And high school is a fairly uncertain time as it is. I didn’t share these parts of myself because they were too intimate. I hid these things away. Shame grew.

I graduated, moved out, married young, and had kids. I mentioned slight age play, like spanking, to my husband, but he wasn’t into that at all, which furthered my shame. I avoided age play entirely during my early adult years. Perhaps I had enough diapers to worry about with my babies, but I also knew I wasn’t with a supportive partner. I was certain my diaper fetish would go with me to the grave!

When I divorced and began dating an older man, I felt something awaken within me. I wanted to be little again. I was developing a new power, a desire to go after life. I wanted the things I’d always dreamed about to come true. My boyfriend and I had an organic D/s dynamic. Age play came quite naturally to us. I called him ‘Daddy’ from early on. He spanked me and teased me and I purred. But it took some time before I revealed my diaper fetish to him.

I prepared by writing about it on an anonymous LiveJournal, diving deep into my past, my needs, my reasons, my fears, my shame. I looked at it from all angles. Was I unloved as an infant? Potty trained too early? Why did I love the smell and the feel of diapers as an adult woman? Why did that get me off? What was wrong with me? I joined LiveJournal groups, and met other people who got off in diapers! I let them support me as I came to terms with my desires. I drew inspiration from these other journeys and I gained the confidence to go after what I wanted.

After months of journaling, I decided to let my boyfriend read it all. I was scared sick. But he was so amazing! He ordered diapers for me! Powdery-smelling crinkly ones! And thick white cotton ones! And pins! The first time we played with them I was an emotional wreck. I felt so bad about myself. Shame made my face hot, and tears rolled. For something that turned me on so much, my first time being diapered wasn’t sexy at all! It was more of an intense therapy session that ended with pee running down my legs, forming a puddle at my feet as I sobbed! But we got through it!

The more we played, the less control shame had over me. It helped seeing how much my boyfriend enjoyed diapering me. I had built up these walls over my life, certain that something was wrong with me, embarrassed by sexual desires that were also deep emotional needs. I am still fighting with those feelings. In fact, just writing this piece has caused me some turmoil. It seems I’m still battling the shame that comes when seeking pleasure from outside the widely acceptable menu.

I may never be fully comfortable with my diaper fetish. Most of my diaper play is still in private, and not always due to shame. I know I can share it with my partner, but that doesn’t mean I always want to. From the beginning, my diaper play was part of my masturbation ritual, and that is how I like it the most. I find pleasure holding it in until my bladder is dangerously full, then letting it go, just before I orgasm.

I am lucky to have an accepting and supportive partner, something I really worked for and went after. But it is also okay to embrace kinks on a private, personal level. It doesn’t matter why I want this, why I like this, or when it began. What matters is that I’m living an authentic life and learning to embrace myself. I’m continually beating back the shame, replacing it with pleasur
e
.