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Reveling in My Sexuality

June 30th, 2009

So…  Where to start.

I’ve fucked more than thirty people, male and female.  Less females than men.  Most of my relationships with females didn’t involve sex.  And when they did, it was rarely what one would consider fucking.

I love all things sexual.  I hear submissives and masochists say things like “I can’t get off unless I get hurt.” or “Sex just isn’t worth it without pain.” or what-have-you.  But I’ve not found a thing yet that prevents me from cumming.  Except maybe being so angry I’m completely turned off.  But even then, force is a sure-fire way to get me all hot and bothered.  So anger doesn’t stave it off long.

Until recently, that’s made me feel really friggin’ guilty.

I don’t know what my parents tried to teach me about sex.  I can’t say for certain that they intentionally gave me a negative predisposition to it.  But all things sexual were off limits.

My mother thought it better I learn from school what my period and sex were.  And by that time I already knew.

In kindergarten I was fingered by a boy in ninth grade, not knowing enough to even want to stop him, and really liked it.  And then my mom got pregnant and bought me a book called “So that’s where babies come from!” (which I can’t even find on Amazon!).  I thought, “Finally.  I can find out if I’m right about sex.” 

I was five years old and it was the first lie I remember being told by my parents (if you exclude Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, etc.).  And I remember being really sad that something I’d already found out felt really nice was bad enough for them to try to hide it from me.

I remember being caught touching myself and experimenting by putting different dull, cylindrical objects in various holes and getting told no.  That nice girls didn’t do those things.

I remember coming out of my parents bathroom to find my dad talking to my mother in his underwear.  I remember asking to see him.  I remember how angry he got.  And how he never really hugged me or touched me after that except to slap my ass or tickle my thighs.

I remember as a fourteen-year-old virgin, after being fingered in a cornfield, asking my mom what she thought of birth control.  I remember her telling me birth control was for the high school slut and I wasn’t her.

And I remember getting pregnant at 16 and believing, wholeheartedly, without any outside influence, that my mother should help me care for it because she had refused to even talk about getting me birth control though she knew I was sexually active.  Back then you had to have parental permission.

Now that I think about it, I guess I know what my mother thinks of sluts.  Or at least what she thought of sluts before she realized that I was going to be one.  Or maybe she thinks that of me.  Who knows?  Certainly not I.  I’ve never stopped to wonder what my mother thinks of me until just now.  Is that odd?

I know she was disappointed in me for having sex before marriage.  I know she thought I was sleeping with the whole world even before I’d had sex.  But I was so scared to approach her about sex that I couldn’t even bring myself to tell her that she was wrong about me.  That her assumption that the fact that most of my friends were male and I’d been through three dozen boyfriends in my freshman and sophomore year meant I’d slept with all three dozen of them was wrong.

I still haven’t told her.  I never really cared, I guess.

But I’m still so scared to approach her about sex that when she saw the eye bolts in my coffee table and nonchalantly said, “They use them to tie Rayne up and play all kinds of sex games and stuff.” I about died.  I started looking for places to hide.  And that twinkle I hadn’t seen in my father’s eye since I was sixteen came back.

I went through a brief period in the first couple years of our relationship where I was able to throw off my guilt and just be free.  Be happy with my sexuality.  Enjoy the fact that I was comfortable enough with how much of a slut I was.

I really don’t know what happened.  Except suddenly I was embarrassed by it again.  Feeling guilty for it again.  And it’s only been very recently that I’ve been able to shed that.

The reconnection our first mutual masturbation session brought about wasn’t only about being the first time for us to play after I left in October.  It was also about me feeling safe to open up sexually again.  And I have.  And it’s getting better every day.  Baby steps.

I’ve taken a lot of steps toward being comfortable with my sexuality regardless of society’s views.  Just in the past month.  I’ve signed up to review toys.  I’ve begged Master for new toys.  I’m entering every contest I see.

Speaking of which, I just won third place in an erotica contest.  No lie.  I’ll be posting about it soon.  I am quite proud of myself.

I love all things sexual.  Porn.  Erotica.  Toys.  Bodies.  I love it when it’s rough and I love it when it’s sensual.  I love it when He’s bringing me flowers (even feather ones) and lighting candles and I love it when He’s throwing me on the floor and treating me like trash.  I love it when we have multiple partners and I love it when it’s just Him and me sitting on the couch sporadically touching each other and watching with avid interest as we both wank to some skinny bimbo* getting nailed on the screen.

I really don’t think I should be embarrassed by that.  I’m a grown woman.  Isn’t it my choice?  Well, I mean… Wasn’t it before I became His slave?

So anyway.  That’s all I wanted to say.  Oh…  And if you haven’t already, check out SexIs.  I have been.  It was part of this “I have a right to enjoy my sexuality.” epiphany.  The other part was Master telling me I have a right to enjoy my sexuality.  The rest is just cause I’m tired of feeling guilty for who I am.

And!  Uh…  Oh yeah!  There is a picture of me in my about section now.  Or there will be in about five minutes.  I so wasn’t going for the tousled-slave look but He kept pulling my hair and I finally gave up trying to fix it.

*I do not think all porn stars or all skinny women are bimbos.  Matter of fact, I’m willing to bet some, if not many, porn stars and skinny women are actually intelligent.  We just tend to watch porn in which skinny female porn stars are playing the part of the bimbo.  I know the director says cut and they take off their makeup, put on their business suit and go home.  At least, that’s what mom always said about the people on TV.

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  1. July 2nd, 2009 at 12:41 | #1

    I love the pic and congrats on the contest! 🙂

    I remember my dad getting upset when I walked through the living room naked while he was watching the game; I was maybe 5 or 6, perhaps older and I didn’t understand why he was so angry because before then it hadn’t been a big deal for me to go to the laundry room for clothes that way but it made me afraid of him and for the first time ashamed of my body.

    Anyway. Sounds like your parents were sort of clueless as to what was appropriate and what wasn’t as far as sexuality goes. I think you’re much younger than I am, right? I was hoping that that whole “sex is dirty” thing faded with the previous uptight generations. I guess not. 🙁

  2. July 2nd, 2009 at 13:37 | #2

    @Amber I’m 29 and my parents are 53 and 54.

    I think I was four when I came out of the bathroom pulling my pants up like I always did and my dad snatched me up and beat me for it. It’s the first time I remember being beaten. Heh.

    Unfortunately, my ex is raising the kids the same way. I expect to hear that one of my daughters is pregnant in five or six years. He wants to do things his way, though, and won’t listen to me.

  3. Abs
    July 6th, 2009 at 11:02 | #3

    Wow, that actually made me sad…you weren’t fingered as a kindergartener, you were molested. You didn’t know what was going on and that was wrong, whether you knew it or not. I wish the person who did that would have been persecuted.

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