Who doesn’t like sex, right? Honestly I think you’d be surprised.
I used to work with a girl who loathed it, said it made her skin crawl. And not just with a certain guy, with any guy. She just couldn’t enjoy it. I, of course, assumed that she’d had some kind of bad experience in the past, but after getting to know her, becoming friends, and point blank asking – I found out that there was no real reason at all. She’s been with the same guy for about five years now and he has to pretty much beg for it, the poor lamb.
I love her to death, but if I were her man, I’d be singing “What’s love got to do with it” as I moonwalked out the door on my way to stick my wang in the first hot chick available. Which might be why she calls me Al instead of Alyson.
I wasn’t always that way. I suppose in some ways I used to be worse.
When I was younger it was quantity over quality – As long as you were getting some, who cared if it was great? Like smoking cigarettes, it was cooler to do it than it was to abstain, even if you weren’t sure you liked it. I don’t know if that attitude was simply peer pressure or more of a combination of things.
My mother never mentioned sex to me. Ever. I figured that I knew the basics well enough anyway from reading the Judy Blume book Forever and watching my cousin Ashley demonstrate with naked, dry humping Barbies. And then there were the scenes in Days of Our Lives. Until the age of 15 I was convinced that if sex was going to be any good at all, it had to be done between purple sheets, in a candlelit room, and he’d better be using his John Black raised eyebrow face right as the over the top saxophone music started playing. Which really made going to that Kenny G concert awkward because I kept looking around in horror, waiting on the other spectators to start arching their eyebrows and touching each other.
My first time was so far away from any of that. I remember thinking, “This is what all the goddamn fuss is about? THIS is what guys want? Psssh, whatever.” There was no pain, no bleeding, nothing. Now that I’m older that doesn’t surprise me. I spent my summers riding horses, jet skis, and tubing on water rougher than two day stubble on a transvestite. My cherry hardly had time to settle in before it was being popped unobtrusively, like just another zit on the collective face of adolescence.
Being introduced to the world of “sexual activity” with so little fanfare had a marked affect on my attitude. There was power to be had, and all I had to do was assume the position and make a bit of noise. A horrible outlook for a teenage girl, but there you go.
After discussing it with my therapist there is, I suppose, a distinct possibility that I was a complete whore bag because my daddy didn’t love me enough. And, of course, a bit later, because sleeping with one person for any length of time brought up that nasty word “commitment”. I couldn’t say exactly how many people told me that most women end up marrying men like their fathers, but it was enough to fuel the fire for quite awhile - better to be safe and dip out in the middle of the night carrying your panties in your purse, than be sorry and have all your hard earned money and your gold wedding band spent on the crack rock.
The sad truth about all of my sexual encounters in the beginning was that they were unremarkable. I accept partial blame for those first however-many-we’re-talking-about-here, because I didn’t know any better and I didn’t care. Sure there were small moments here and there when something was “ah’ight” or “felt kinda nice”, but in general it was just a whirlwind of who really gives a fuck?
Did I tell the guys or my friends that? Absolutely not. Sex was totally awesome and shit. Me? I came all the time. Yep.
The one exception was oral sex. Though I didn’t enjoy receiving it at all, I enjoyed giving it quite a bit. In the beginning because it meant I wasn’t required to demonstrate just how much I was enjoying his sexual prowess and later because of that old ego booster – power. Being good at anything can be a welcome rush. Being good at giving head, having a man bigger and stronger than you trembling under your mouth and your touch, well, it’s twice as welcome.
It was unfortunate that my very first orgasm happened with one of the most revolting men I’ve ever met in my life. My therapist would have taken one look at him and asked, “Is his middle name ‘I Told You So’? Or maybe ‘Predictable’?” He was blonde, lanky, and good looking, but clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. The sort of boy my grandmother would watch from her window with the cordless phone in her hand and a scowl on her face, whether he had a plausible reason for being there or not.
I was living with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend at the time and that was a whole new experience in and of itself (threesome number one, in fact), one I’m glad I don’t remember much of. One afternoon I needed to get some things from my parent’s house and decided to take Mr. Bad News with me. My mother was absolutely horrified. She pulled me aside and asked me all sorts of questions about him, most of which I didn’t know the answers to. “You’re going to regret it”, she said. And she was right, though not for the reasons she implied.
I regret it because I hate him. And I hate that the memory of my first really good bout of sex, the one with the big finish, if you will, belongs to him. The sleazy bastard.
But as much as I dislike the man that started it all, I can’t deny that it completely changed my sexual outlook. I went from giving in, to actually wanting it. And if I reached numbers that a woman my age really shouldn’t be reaching, well, I can blame that on him too. Because after the first orgasm, you’re always in search of the next one and the next one. And I found them, sporadically and in between some of the most horrific and amusing sexual encounters likely known to woman, but still, I found them.
The funny thing, though, about those horrific and amusing sexual encounters, is that I started to like them too. Even if I didn’t get the desired result, the story itself was almost as valuable. This has less to do with the sexual aspect of it all and more to do with my love of writing and/or making people laugh. I’m sure the male inspirations behind my stories wouldn’t be too thrilled with my logic, but hey, I didn’t fuck them for the story. That was just a bonus.
For instance, I doubt the Brazilian would be thrilled to know that I made fun of his child molester van and the way he said “I fuck you, yes” repeatedly. Though props must be given for introducing me to being slapped. Well done, Junior.
And I doubt The Shump Daddy would like everyone to know that he sweats more than should be humanly possible, and screams in the faces of the women he’s bestowing his penis upon...at warp speed.
No, I doubt they’d appreciate that at all. And neither, I’m sure, would my family. Which is why I suppose I’ll have to wait until the majority of them are dead before I publish a book entitled: Daddy Issues – How I fucked my way through my fucked up life and enjoyed almost all of it.
And I have enjoyed almost all of it, aside from the first few encounters when I was too young to be enjoying it anyway, though as most of you know I’ve slowed down considerably. Eight months and counting, goddamn it.
It’s frustrating, of course, missing out on one of the things I enjoy so much. But just like all those years of unimpressive practice, all those orgasms, all those clit stabbers, sweaters, and fetishists – being (not completely unwillingly) abstinent is a learning experience. I’m sure I’ll come off of this long stint of inactivity enriched by all the knowledge it’s created. Or, I’ll just accidentally kill the first man that gets there with my super human vagina that’s had eight months of kegels and relatively little else, and end up as a character on the Lifetime Movie Network. Either way I still get laid, so it’s a win.
I haven’t yet decided if I’m still afraid of commitment. It really just depends on what day it is and whether or not I’ve eaten breakfast. I have, however, decided that it’s ok to be a woman with an impressive list of past lovers, no matter what people say. It’s not really shameful if you aren’t ashamed. If I ever do settle down with a nice man, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. And if hell doesn’t freeze over, I’ll always have a valuable life skill.
Now that I’ve finally finished this meme it’s time to pass it on to seven more bloggers. But before I do, let me tell you this:
I thought choosing seven things I like and writing an entire post about each one was going to be cake. It wasn’t quite that way. I made a list of things to write about in the beginning and only two of them actually made the cut. For me, probably like most people, I never really thought beyond the basics of what it means to like something. I like cake because it tastes good or I like reading because it’s a welcome distraction. I realized that if I really wanted to test myself, I needed to approach things a little differently. So I did. Or rather, I tried to. Several of the posts were about things I hadn’t planned on sharing at all, but I think we all know that sometimes blogging takes us in directions we hadn’t before considered. I hope you enjoyed reading my seven things, as unorthodox as some of them were. And I really hope that the bloggers I’m about to name decide to continue this meme in the new tradition.
They don’t have to be seven things you like/love. If you choose to participate, you can do seven things you wish you knew back then, seven influences on your life, seven ways your mother in law tried to ruin your marriage, or seven things the neighbor does that makes you want to shank her in the ovaries. Whatever you want, it’s your choice.
All of these bloggers are favorites of mine and I look forward to seeing what, if anything, they come up with.
Thank you. Come again.