I'm not terribly shy about the fact that I've had a lot of sex with a lot of different people. I haven't hit the 100 mark, and if all goes well with my husband, I won't, but I'm not far off. If my husband were to cheat on me, I'd break 100 on my vengeance fuck-a-thon tour, easy. My ability to rope dudes into banging me isn't really the point here, but well done, me! Pun intended.
In my years of humping, I've learned one thing: men. are. the WORST. In my experience, which admittedly is large (but maybe not large enough to be an adequate sample size), only one man has ever bothered to get consent from me, and every other man has just taken what he wanted from my body without a first, much less a second, thought about how it might make me feel, or what I might want.
Let's see. I lost my virginity at 14, and it's such a pathetic story that I almost don't want to tell it.
ALMOST. But I will, because saying I don't want to tell the story is a lie.
I had been "dating" this guy named Richard, and he sucked in a lot of ways. Chiefly that he fucked around on me because I was too scared to fuck him. I didn't want to lose my virginity yet, and I certainly didn't want to lose it to Richard. Ew. He did this thing when we kissed where he'd like, only close his eyes 8/10ths of the way closed, enough so that you could a) still see the whites of the bottoms of his eyes and 2) be sufficiently creeped out when you could not only see the whites of his eyes, but when he'd flutter his eyelids like a dying butterfly. I may not have known about the hilarity of bad O faces at such a tender and naive stage of my life, but I made the right call, and I know it. I have a feeling his O face is the kind of shit Wes Craven got horror boners over. Ew ew ew. My reasons for thinking he sucked weren't all superficial, he was also ugly on the inside. I got a dig on him after he admitted to doing some serious rubbernecking with one of my closest friends at the time (WHILE I WAS AT A FUNERAL, that's the detail I can't help but throw in there. It's not funny, but it makes me look like more of a victim, and that's my current aesthetic), and I'm pretty sure the immediate Denzel circa Glory tear and the obvious anger and hurt are why I am such a fucking cunty cunt when people hurt me....his reaction was DELICIOUS and I will greedily feed on that shit anytime I have an opportunity. Don't look to me to act like a fucking saint. Richard had made the mistake of being vulnerable with me and telling me his mother had abandoned him when he was a baby, and his grandmother was raising him. When he come over to read me a letter of apology he had written about smooching on my friend (who never apologized for that, it's worth mentioning. I siphoned all of my anger at Richard, and none at Angela, because I misguidedly still considered her a friend, and as a friend, she was blameless. Which is utter horseshit, she went for that shit, too, and she's an ugly cunt for abusing our friendship that way. Unfortunately, all my 14 year old self could do was cry about it. I didn't know how to articulate, "go fuck yourself, your cunt is a dumpster and I hate your face".), I sat and listened to it out of some misplaced obligation, and when he was done, I told him that I understood why his mother had abandoned him, because he was worthless trash.
I wasn't wrong, and I'm pretty sure that's why Richard punched the steps of my house rather than punching me in the face.
Telling someone their mother was right to not love them is rarely enough dealt damage when you have a black hole for a heart, so I needed to compound the matter by going on a vengeful fuck a thon. You know, the virgin way. How I knew this kid, I can't even tell you, but I called up a 19 year old I knew named Alex and asked him if he wanted to fuck me. He said yes (gross. I was 14. MEN ARE FUCKING GROSS, what the fuck is it with all of you??), and came over straight away. He picked me up at my best friend Amber's house, and we left (not before he tried to fuck her, too, because men are gross, and men have always been gross, and men will always be gross because all men think they're the exception to the "men are gross" rule. None of you are), and I just want to catalog the differences between us, so I can really set the scene:
Alex = 19 Drea = 14
Alex = drove an admittedly awesome mustang Drea = 14 and still played with barbies on the DL
Alex = looked cool Drea = had pages from Disney Princess coloring books she had colored hung on her wall (aka not cool)
Alex = CAME TO FUCK A 14 YEAR OLD AS A 19 YEAR OLD Drea = would never.
So Alex comes into my room, which is, I kid you not, covered in colored pages from coloring books I had painstakingly colored and glitter penned into looking what I believed passed for fabulously artistic, but realistically passed for lame. I had stuffed animals all over my bed, I had a Barbie dream house tucked away in the corner of my room with Barbies pooled into a convertible, and probably a few on Barbie's horse (my Barbies were city, but in a very rural kind of way). I had glitter body spray on my headboard, and a large collection of medications for my beautiful, broken brain. I'm taking a long time to say that, had Alex taken stock of his surroundings, there's no fucking way I would have lost my virginity that day. I was very obviously still a child, and bonus, I was a child that needed to be medicated. Sub-optimal fucking material. But Alex had tunnel vision for my inexperienced vagina, and he noticed approximately none of this. Not even my AMAZING colored page of Ariel and the Prince Eric statue, I didn't even get the slightest compliment on how well I outlined the statue in silver glitter glue. Some fucking people, man, I swear.
I remember standing in my room, wearing a yellow and white three quarter sleeve top, and....oh, I wish I were kidding...jean shorts with an elastic waistband and a sewn applique of Garfield. Fucking GARFIELD. Fucking ELASTIC WAIST JEAN SHORTS. I didn't WANT to wear clothes like that, but my mom made me. Everything about this paragraph is terrible.
I stammered nervously that I was a virgin, and I didn't know what to do, and I think that's the most vulnerable I've ever been with a man in my entire life. Alex's instinct was to be 100% predatory, and of course it would be. When you want a wolf, don't be surprised when you get a wolf. Alex wasn't gentle, he wasn't kind, he treated me and my body like I was a 19 year old with experience. It wasn't rape, I wanted to lose my virginity to him in emotionally depraved desperation....but it certainly wasn't consensual. It was sex Alex's way, and even though Drea had no basis for comparison, I could have adequately told Alex that he was hurting me and being too vigorous. My failing was assuming that, as a virgin, I couldn't know what sex should be like, and Alex, as a non-virgin, had every idea what sex was like, and would only do sexing the way sexing was supposed to be done. This, of course, was a stupid idea. But I was 14, and I was allowed to be stupid about sex. I had no input or say in how that sex went down, I just kind of....laid there and handled it as best I could. There was no kissing, no caressing, none of the shit I so enjoy now. I was just a living dick sock to Alex, and that's the theme of my entire sex life.
I am Jack's breathing dick sock.
Alex is not alone in that he did not consider my body, my connection to my body, what I wanted for my body, or any part of me, in the sexual transaction. Alex gets a pass on asking me for consent because I asked HIM, and I never retracted the request. But he's the only guy that gets that pass, except for Gary, and even GARY doesn't get a complete pass.
When I was a more mature and wizened 14, I met a guy I had been talking to online in person. He was a more age appropriate 16. Old enough that he should have been disinterested, but not so old that I'd flirt with the idea of labeling him a low key pedophile. I met him outside, and he came with friends, and I assumed we were both acting in ways that would make us the most safe. I certainly was. He wasn't, though. We had been talking for a little bit when he corned me against a fence and started asking me questions about sex, and I didn't know what to do. Nobody had taught me to be assertive, nobody had taught me to say no, all anybody had taught me was that sex was for adults that wanted gonorrhea. So when he put his hand down my jeans (that had an ACTUAL waistband, thank you very much, and not a single applique of Garfield to be seen) and started fingering me in broad daylight and in front of his friends, I looked away and blushed in embarrassment as his friends egged him on. He noticed he wasn't getting anywhere and stopped after a few minutes, and I remember feeling so relieved, because what he was doing to my vagina was uncomfortable, mostly because he kept fingering the inner fold of my thigh, not my clit, but also because I was a prop, and my sexuality was reduced to little more than a set scene for a man's sexual heroism and bragging rights. Me now loves a good finger rodgering in a public place. It's illicit and naughty and that makes it VERY sexy, and perhaps it's because I want to empower 14 year old me, trapped against that fence, getting fingerbanged in front of four older boys and just taking it like a fucking champion (I am the fucking hero of that story, not him, no matter what he told his cronies as he walked toward all of them and, indignity of indignity, outstretched his fingers for all of them to smell). I cried when I walked away, because I was so embarrassed, and I didn't know what to do or who to talk to about it. I wanted to cry when he kissed me goodbye, because of course he did. He wanted to. He didn't ask if he could, but why would he think he didn't have access to my face when he'd just been knuckle deep in my thigh meat, but I held it together. I didn't know that I could say, "hey, what the fuck, you get your fucking fingers out of my thigh meat, that's not my clitoris, number one, and number two, nobody gave you permission, and number three, I think your face is wide and ugly and covered in pimples and I do not want your pimple fingers near my vagina." or some iteration of that in order to make him stop. I really, really thought this was what sex was like. And for the longest time, I was terrified of it. I didn't have sex again until I was 16, and no other boys touched me sexually until I was 16. I was so scared of being helpless and used and tossed aside. I went up in age again, and when I started dating Matt (who was as stupid as he was stocky. Corn fed country boy in the middle of Vegas, dumb as a brick but somehow the brick edged him out, and agro as fuck), I knew enough about how he made my body feel that I knew I wanted him to touch my thigh meat, but then to touch my vagina. With his penis. Rapidly. And a lot. When Matt and I fucked, I didn't feel ashamed or anything, but I definitely let him take the lead, because I still had no idea what I was doing, or what felt good for me, and I thought Matt did. I assumed he did, because he never asked what I liked, what felt good, how I was feeling, if I liked anything, nothing. He just grunted and humped.
Cool.
Matt and I stopped dating when he tried to use tarot cards to get my friend Steffie to sleep with him, and neither she nor Miss Cleo had had any visions of that happening. Matt got the emotional curb stomping. We only fucked once. I dated Gary shortly after, and he asked if he could kiss me. I was repulsed. Can you taste the irony? It turned me off that he didn't just kiss me. So I told him as much. I said something to the effect of, ew, don't be weird, just fucking kiss me if you want to kiss me, and if you think I want to kiss you back.
H ah aha, yeah, Gary, what an asshole, treating my body like it's attached to a woman that deserves to make decisions about who touches her, and in what ways!
Gary and I fucked, and he heeded my advice well. He just did what he wanted. I was merely there to be warm, wet, and moaning. A receptacle with no input on what was going on. This is why Gary doesn't get a whole pass. He only asked about kissing me, and everything else after that was out of my control, I guess.
Steven and I fucked for a little bit. Not long, but long enough for me to have what is now referred to as "the wheelbarrow incident" in my story telling repertoire. Steven and I were fucking, and I ASSUMED we were having a grand time, because auditory cues were pointing me in that direction, when Steven grabs my hips and flips me over, quite deftly, by the way. If I were anybody but me, I would have been exceptionally impressed by his lady handling maneuver. Nothing seems awry to me yet, because getting fucked from behind is hot, and I like it, so there's no cause for alarm. And then lightning strikes my eyeballs and my asshole at precisely the same time, and the waves of pain are so unexpected and alarming and vicious that I might have actually died for a few seconds. I died momentarily of uninvited dick to asshole contact. I remember screaming in pain and looking to Steven for an apology, as is customary, but instead, he grabbed my hips and doubled down the dick in the butt action. I yelled. I yelled the whole time it lasted, which to me, felt like a Dante's Inferno of eternity. In reality, it was probably about fifteen seconds. He finally stopped and instead of offering up an apology, told me his ex-girlfriend really liked it. I had found a note in his wallet from his ex-girlfriend, and she spelled would "woold" and Steffie and I made fun of her forever for it. I cannot expect much from someone like that. Jokes aside, Steven was just like everybody else.
I didn't want to fuck my daughter's dad, because I thought he was kinda gross. He was charming, but he wasn't terribly attractive to me, and the thought of having his penis near my delicate sexy parts was eh...less than desirable. He put the sex sex moves on me one night, and I squirmed out of his grabbers and told him I needed to go home, and he said, "you're not leaving here until you have sex with me." HUNKER DOWN, BITCH, I'M MOVING IN. Was what I should have said. But I didn't. I panicked and just did it, because I wanted to leave. While a man reading this, or even an assertive woman, may think to themselves, "obviously that's an idle threat, she should have just left", I think most women will understand the urge to just do it and leave, because if you keep saying no, you're probably going to find yourself in a situation that's worse than uncomfortable, unwanted, vaginal contact with a dick you're unenthused about. I was in his apartment, on his turf, who knows what he might have done to me if I kept insisting it was time to leave? I only insisted on leaving twice, and then I relented. And boom, there goes my prop body.
I am Jack's buxom, voiceless cum dumpster.
After Chris, there are dozens and dozens of stories of other men just taking what they want from me and not bothering to see if I am offering what they want. Dozens and dozens and dozens. Every man I've ever slept with. Every last one of them has found some hidden way to take advantage of a sexual situation, mostly by forgetting that my enjoyment counts, that I have a sexuality and I'm capable of inserting my desires into a sexual encounter, or that I'm saying "I don't like that, do it differently" to be some kind of coy bitch. Because I DID eventually find a way to chime in with what I wanted.
I can tell stories like this about every single man I've fucked. Most of them I don't remember, because they're as innocuous as something in this vein can be. A lot of it is fairly benign, like just not considering my sexual wants and needs, even when asked if I liked something and responding with a no. Not asking me for permission to touch me. Not asking for permission to kiss me. Telling me what I need to do with zero reciprocity. Fucking my face despite me gagging and saying stop. A whole lot of that, that's probably the most common one.
The first time Dan and I fucked, he also pulled a "you're not leaving here until we fuck" line on me, and it was both gross and exactly the push I needed. I had wanted to fuck him, but it put me in a moral quandary, so I needed a sign that I could. Dan disrespecting my no was, apparently, just the correct amount of force. Thanks, universe, for making men repulsive and inconsiderate!
The first guy I fucked AFTER Dan and I split up took his dick out of my mouth and slapped me across the face with it, said oops, and then put it back in my mouth, only to take it out of my mouth two minutes later to whack me with it, repeatedly and in amazingly fast succession. Like a jackhammer, but a fleshy penis. On my cheek. I didn't want it. I didn't like it. I told him so, and he rewarded my frankness by doing it again.
The hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of dick pics I've gotten that I've NEVER asked for. The nudes men think they can demand from me and call me a frigid bitch for not delivering. The dating world is a surplus of men that are actually canker sores in clothing.
The first time my now husband and I fucked, which was the first date because I am a champion goddess of my desires, thank you very much, we went from consensual kissing (we had discussed this prior to our first date, as we just wanted to get it over with and see if there was chemistry. The whole thing was pre-planned) to his hand down my pants, and he hadn't asked me if it was ok. He was lucky that it was. But that's been the prevailing story: all of the men I've fucked have been lucky that I've wanted them to do the things they've done to me, because not a one of them asked to do the things they did.
For instance, an amazing sesh of oral from my husband turned into an entire fist in my pussy, and I can tell you that I never asked for that, not even on the most fucked up and depraved of Christmases. He just did it. You almost want to applaud his moxy and his dedication to treating my pussy like an audition prop for Sesame Street, or like some kind of human turkey. I'm pretty sure any Gynecologist would have seen my husband and been like, "Buddy, you DEFINITELY need a degree to have your hand that far up a woman". Making matters worse, it took three separate shouts of STOP before he did. And when he did, he told me that I just needed to stretch it out so it wouldn't hurt.
Let's get one thing straight here:
I understand that there is an almost complete blanket of consent once you get married, and that the safeword is something along the lines of "no" or "I'm not in the mood" or "get your fucking fist out of my vagina, Derek, I am not a bowling ball". This goes for relationships, for dates that are going well. In a small way, it's ALMOST understandable that men don't ask for permission. They get mixed signals about it, but there's a reason for that.
Women have been taught to be demure and to defer to men's whims, even when they want it, and men have been taught to take what they want because they're men. We live in an aggressively ignorant rape culture that's fueled by a pornography industry that gives as little fucks about women as I do about eating a live cow as its still living that's further driven by a patriarchy that teaches little girls that they are incompetent and only good for incubating babies, and teaches little boys that power is theirs for the taking, and that that power is forgiving if you want to, say, fuck teenagers and run for congress, or take pictures of yourself air grabbing a pair of titties on the woman that's sleeping and oblivious to your behavior. It teaches men that they can brag about grabbing women by the pussy and still be president, and that, if you're a woman, your character and fairly immaculate history is worth less than a predator's lack thereof. The glass ceiling is meant for women to press their tits against so the men standing on top of it can look down at us and ogle while simultaneously telling us bitches that show their titties don't deserve respect, but also you have to show us your titties because we are men and we want to see your titties.
Women know this. We all do. We know that men are never going to ask for our consent with our bodies, they're just going to treat us like a sex toy that comes with the aggravating feature of nagging about the dishes and various other chores. Men are going to figuratively and literally fist us and then make us responsible for why it hurts. I've learned this my entire life. Romantically, professionally, socially, as a parent, as a student. Every facet of my life as a woman slaps this in my face over and over and over again. It's weird understanding how I've been slightly party to this kind of thing, though, and even more weird that it took an evening of my husband being wrist deep in my uterus to recognize it. This is not to say that he, or any other man, gets a pass for this bullshit. The clock is ticking down to the time when men will no longer be the sexist juggernaut of unfettered power they are now.
The clock is also ticking down to my husband getting three of my fingers jammed into his asshole, because if he thinks that I'm not going to try and fist his anus so he can maybe get a small glimpse of appreciation for how much he harmed, shamed, and embarrassed me, he's more naive than I was at 14, thinking that fucking a 19 year old would make Richard sorry for hurting me.
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