Glitter. Real Stories About Sexual Desire From Real Women (6 page)

The Learning Curve of

The Learning Curve of
 

Jenn

Jenn is a 20-something writer and wife who rocks harder than she rolls, sharing her stories about marriage, infertility, and life as a physically handicapped woman in the (not always so) accessible world on her blog, CrippledGirl.com.

If I wrote out a scene from my sex life, it would probably sound like an assault:

His breath was heavy as he hovered over me, using his rough hands to pull the clothes off my motionless body. Grabbing the back of my knees, he dragged me across the sheets towards the center of the bed. He put me exactly where he wanted me; I just laid there.

But it’s not a horrific rape flashback or even some raunchy role play. It’s just an average Tuesday night quickie, with my husband getting me into position for sex because I don’t have the strength to move my body on my own.

Having a progressive, degenerative muscular disease has taken me from a wobbly-walking teenager to a fully wheelchair-bound, twenty-six-year-old woman. Although my disability has been challenging at times, the wheelchair certainly hasn’t killed my libido. It may have even increased it, considering my sexuality is sometimes the only aspect of my body over which I have full control.

Adjusting sex to the physical limitations of my body definitely isn’t always an easy thing. I’d be a liar if I said I was totally comfortable in my own skin or confident in my skill. I worry about how my lack of movement will impact my marriage almost every day.

Is he happy with our sex life? Is he frustrated at having to do all the work? Is he bored? Will he get bored and look for someone who can do the things I can’t?

But by far, the worst fear comes from the worry that the stigma of abandoning his handicapped spouse will guilt him into staying, even if he truly isn’t happy.

Since my condition is progressive, there are things I used to be able to do that I can’t anymore. It also means that in five or ten years, I may not be able to do half of what I can do now. That fact is more than worry – it terrifies me. Will he still get a thrill of taking my clothes off when he has to help me put them on every morning? Will he still see the curves of my shape, and not just the cold, boxy, metal wheelchair?

My husband thinks I’m crazy for worrying about all this; and most days he’s probably right. I really couldn’t ask for a more devoted guy, who has been supportive and dedicated to every single minute of this learning curve, as we try to figure out how the hell to make ‘crippled sex’ work for the both of us.

When you get down to the core of it, our learning curve isn’t really any different than any other couple’s process of trial-and-error. We’ve had to explore and adapt to each other, figure out the sensations, places, and positions that are successful and rule out what doesn’t work. The mobility issue just means we experiment on a different scale. Sometimes it’s normal things, like placement of pillows and “my leg doesn’t move that way, buddy,” and other times we’re discussing how a Hoyer lift or the angle tilt/recline feature on my wheelchair could work for bumpin’ uglies.

Like all things in life, there are disguised blessings, beyond the ability to joke about manipulating medical equipment for sex. We’ve learned to laugh when something goes wrong, but more importantly, how to talk to each other to make it better. When your body doesn’t move, you learn in a hurry just how important it is to vocalize what you need want and need.

In that sense, maybe everyone needs to have a little crippled sex.

The Others

Sweet Cheeks

Just a simple southern housewife with a naughty side.

On the surface I'm a conservative, minivan-driving housewife who's been happily married to her high school sweetheart for fourteen years. In reality, I'm proof that it really is "always the quiet ones."

My husband was my first, but by no means my last. How is that possible since we've been together since I was sixteen? During the latter part of college he decided that I should be with at least one other person before we got married in the next few years. The (first) other person? One of his best friends with whom who I'd shared obvious sexual tension for years. I'm not sure when the tension started, I just remember being attracted to him shortly after meeting him. He was one of those guys who knows exactly how to smile, look at, and talk to girls in a way that makes them melt. Often he'd openly flirt with me right in front of my boyfriend. One night he came to my boyfriend's apartment and had a movie for us to watch:
"
Threesom
e
! I have never felt so much sexual tension. I was nineteen, terribly inexperienced, and very shy, so there was no way I was making a move or even letting on how much I wanted him.

Sometime in the next year he got a Prince Albert and afterwards felt the need to pull it out frequently just to make me blush. Finally after several years of flirting my boyfriend decided his friend and I should have sex. I never knew or wanted to know what their conversation arranging this entailed. It was a Saturday afternoon and my boyfriend left for the afternoon and left us alone, making it clear we should have fun. We did. We then hooked up on a few other occasions before he moved four hours away.

After not seeing him for over two years he moved back and needed a place to stay so my boyfriend let him stay there. The day he got in to town my boyfriend was gone, having to entertain some people from work who'd come to visit, so I was there to let him in. From the moment he arrived it was clear the sexual attraction was to pick up right where we left off. After flirting all afternoon he finally kissed me. He'd decided that we shouldn't have sex since he was living there. That didn't stop him from getting me off almost daily for the next few months. He ended up moving again but would return in a couple of months when my boyfriend and I got married.

Because of the way we'd left things it just made sense that we'd somehow hook up when he was here for the wedding. After the wedding we came back to our house as we weren't leaving town until the next day. He was staying there too. There were lots of drinks so I'm not clear how it came about but I think we'd gone to bed and my new husband went and asked him to join us. This was all new territory for all of us. I made out with him while my husband fondled me. My husband then fucked me while he watched me suck his friend's dick. It was the hottest thing he'd ever seen. Sadly, I never got off that night. I'm not sure why. Nerves, maybe? One of the ironies of my ‘wedding night’ being a threesome? My mom had bought me a white sequined nightgown, complete with bed jacket that she thought was perfect for a bride on her wedding night.

My boyfriend/fiancé's friend wasn't my only indiscretion. During grad school I ran into an old high school crush who happened to be working at the copy center near campus. He was fascinated by my feminist theory coursework and eager to get together to talk about books (yeah, I think we both knew that was BS). He called me late that night and we talked a while and at some point he told me he gave a great vulva massage (I couldn't make that up if I tried). We got together the following night and talking led to him giving me a foot massage (he admitted to a foot fetish), which led to massaging everywhere, which quickly led to making out in our underwear. This night was and still is the most turned on I've ever been. He slid his hand down my panties, barely touching me, and I immediately came. It was late and I went home soon afterward. I was dying to fuck him but being a good southern girl I felt that would be slutty.

He was one of those artsy creative types who are very attentive sexually. We got together pretty regularly for a while over the summer before I got married (yes, I was also fooling around with my fiancé's friend at the same time). My fiancé was extremely turned on by the thought of me being with someone else so on nights I'd go see my high school crush I'd then go to his house because he loved to fuck me knowing I was so wet because of what someone else had done. I didn't enjoy that part. I liked pleasing him but I felt that what I was doing with anyone else was mine to be enjoyed by only me. Retelling what I'd done earlier with someone else just made me feel dirty and whore-ish.

This pattern would carry over into the first two years of our marriage. We'd agreed at the time that we both wanted to be with other people in addition to each other. I went on to have a fling with another creative (great in bed) type and later a boring guy with the smallest dick I've experienced. I didn't like being with other people and sharing it with him. I went on to have a few other flings and keep them to myself but none of them were satisfying for long, I only felt dirty and often regretted getting married. I went on to gain & lose weight, become overall less sexual, and leave that life behind. Even up until a few years ago my husband would ask me to tell him stories from back then while we were having sex. It ruined sex for me and after being told numerous times how dirty it made me feel he stopped asking for the stories.

These days our sex life (or rather lack thereof thanks to parenting a small child) is just us, as ‘vanilla’ as can be.

The Fear

Lexie

I'm a dog walker by day, and a sexual deviant by night, although I've worn many different hats throughout the years. I live with my girlfriend of just over two years. I'm still trying to work out the sexual hiccups that come with being with someone faithfully for this long.

I came of age when I was eleven or twelve, about fifteen years ago. I remember being horrified when I had to tell my mom why I was late for the bus. I spent the entire day bleeding at school, wanting to crawl into a hole and die. That night I made her swear not to tell anyone. The next Christmas, I got a kaboodle filled with pads. Thanks, Mom. Four years later I lost my virginity and haven't stopped since.

I can’t tell you much about the first time I was with a woman, I was swept up in a blizzard of booze and thrown against a bathroom countertop. Shampoo and hair products rolling to the ground, my mind hazed over and the next day I was barely able to remember the night before. The only thing lingering and making it real was the slight soreness between my legs. Not to mention the recurring phrase “You have a beautiful pussy” playing on repeat in my head, in her voice.

I had this fear inside my chest. The kind of fear that would tighten and cause my pale skin to turn seven different shades of red if ever confronted with it. That fear? Women. More specifically, women that were gay.

It was the end of a toxic relationship, the culmination of four years of hell. I moved out of the apartment with barely any notice and left my then ex-boyfriend to deal with the shambles. I was free! With the end of any romantic entanglement, I was left to sort out my self-esteem and my sex drive that was now in shambles.

My new roommate was an openly gay woman, about eight years my senior, that I knew through work. I wasn’t attracted to her, but looked up to her strong attitude towards her sexuality. I needed to get that back in my life. I took a deep breath and told her to give her friend my number.

That previous Christmas I had met one of her best friends at our work’s Christmas party. I was there with my now ex, but the instant I met her my chest tightened and I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She was a bit shorter than me, even more so since I had three-inch wedges on. Her eyes were dark, only matched by her hair. When she smiled her face glowed and one small dimple graced her cheek.

Her name was Manny.

Within hours we had a date set for the very next day. My head was spinning. What was I doing? How would I face her? What if she tried to kiss me?

We picked a place that was right down the street from my work. A local hipster hangout that had pitchers of beer and a great vegan BLT. I took my time walking over, smoking enough cigarettes to make me look like a chimney. An amazing accomplishment considering it was a four-minute walk from my work.

I get to the café and see her standing outside next to her scooter. A little red thing with a black leather seat. She hugs me and says how great it is to see me. I smile, feeling my face turn red and my lungs turning black from all those damn cigarettes. I decide to take the “I’m too cool to say much” approach with her, when really my knees are knocking, my throat has closed up, my palms are sweating and my panties are only just beginning to get wet.

We find the place relatively empty and pick a seat up in the balcony. A table for four, she sits on the side with a cushiony bench, I sit across from her in a chair with my back to the café forcing me to have to keep direct eye contact.

I’m so nervous I can barely finish a sentence. I don’t let her know this. I play it cool and quiet. She’s charming, and I can see trouble written all over her face. We can smell our own kind. Her hands are small and delicate yet have a roughness about them. She’s dressed in unlaced combat boots and jeans with a hoody. I can tell she has large breasts but hides them well. I start wondering what I could do to her body, and even better what she can do to mine.

After a couple of beers, she asks if I want to head back to her place. Why not? It’s still daylight and I’m not accustomed to turning in early.

She hands me the second helmet to her scooter, and I just stand there staring. I give her a look, and she helps me put the helmet on. Getting close enough to me so I can smell her skin. My heart stops.

One terrifying scooter ride later and I’m standing in her living room getting the full tour of her apartment. She lives with a few roommates and I meet a couple of them. We get a few more beers and sit in her living room.

Her roommate sits with us chatting for a while, which I’m almost thankful for. I’m getting ever closer to facing my fear, and my body is all too aware.

He leaves.

She turns to me and forms a half smile, pulling the middle of her top lip into her mouth and wetting it with her tongue.

She puts her beer down on the coffee table, leaning in to kiss me. Her lips meet mine and I’m thankful I’m sitting down. Her lips are soft, with just the right amount of stickiness. She tastes like vanilla.

I hold my breath, unable to think of my next move. I feel like someone has grabbed onto my waist and pulled me hurtling backwards. I feel her hand on my face and know I haven’t moved.

She pushes herself on top of me, never once parting her lips from mine. Her left leg moves to the outside of my right thigh, pushing her thigh against the crotch of my pants. My leg, I realize is doing the same to her.

Her hands have found their way onto my breast, her lips just hovering slightly over my ear. Soft moans coming from deep inside her.

We move into her bedroom. I find myself standing in front of her in just my panties, and she in panties and a sports bra. We resume the position we had been in on the couch, with less clothing to get in our way. I start understanding the logistics of it and don’t feel as lost. Her bra falls off in the shuffle and I feel her warm large breasts against me. My panties get lost in the sheets, replaced quickly by her hand: soft and delicate yet firm and determined. I don’t know if I had ever been this wet before. I want to giggle to myself at how effortlessly her fingers slide inside me.

She pulls back suddenly and says she’d really like to fuck me with a strap-on. I prop myself up on one elbow and look at her sheepishly. I still have to play coy, don’t I?

I smile and say “What’s keeping you, then?” She returns the smile and pulls out a purple strap-on. Fumbling for what feels like seconds, it’s now attached to her in a black harness, condom on it, and she’s ready to go.

I push her down on the bed and straddle her, the strap-on hitting the back of my ass. Leaning in to taste what vanilla still lingers on her lips, I grab hold of the strap-on and effortlessly slide it inside of me.

Her hands find their way up to my breasts, then down to my waist. In a low tone she tells me to fuck her like it’s her dick. I start rocking my hips into her, picking up speed once I’m used to the hard feel inside of me.

Soon after, I witness my first female orgasm.

At that moment, I became an addict.

The next morning she gives me a ride to work on the same red scooter. Loaning me an ex-girlfriend’s brown leather jacket, then deciding I should keep it. She pulls over outside my work and helps me off. She takes the helmet off of my head and kisses me. The vanilla is back and stronger than yesterday. I feel intoxicated from it.

I start to walk away. Turning around I catch the one-sided, dimpled smile. My own smile barely leaves my lips for the remainder of the day. My fear of women still lingers in my chest, but the throbbing between my thighs deafens it. Sometimes what scares us the most is what’s hidden inside of us.