By Anonymouse
My first sex toy was my hairbrush. Too big, too dry, but I tried. My second one was my own hand. Couldn’t really reach down enough: short arms. Another girl’s hand: ideal, but clumsy as per ignorance but mind-hot with J and me, not quite synchronized between body (we were so ready) and hand (just what to do with it – place it down, but no idea of any adverbs like back and forth). High school: sex fascinating, boys fascinating, and at the end, after endless petting in a VW bug in the woods overlooking the Pacific, a lovely little twinge come. Boyfriend as hand toy.
Did it work with happy Italian college boy? Very pretty but dumb. Dumb as anti-toy. Exeunt older man, older but not better. Worse. Violent. Nothing for me, thank you. Explored the open group marriage (Harry gets Tuesday night, Ted takes out the garbage, Saturday night, swinging). Two out of my three spouses called me a cab to get out of it. Feminists took me in, opening up a chaste cot in their dining room.
Threesome post-divorce, discover the pleasures of acting upon (and not being the acted upon). Idea of sexual liberty: out to see Women in Love movie with a shrink who carried a pager and got a call in the middle. Movie interruptus. Overwork-nik just like daddy. Not good with people.
Best pal turned lover but no promises becomes a move-in marriage with sumptuous cooking; erotic equality, and the patience of the man who was bi and boring. I’m into women too and sold my soul to masochistically prove I was a candidate for rejection. The obsessed mind as a sex tool. Multiple orgasms but coming back to earth: nada (nothing) such as love. Definite improvement with highly boring girl: mild S/M – crawling and hands tied with rope – that sort of thing. Possibly a zucchini or two.
Official dyke receptive to the geography of a woman but so falling short of wiring up. My brain froze on “searching” and stayed that way until I got sober and then my real insanity prevailed and a lover with wise hands – or four women, none remotely wife material knew how to give a good time.
By now I knew the requirements: size (a little too big); slick easily applied; a good solid B plus for a lady recalibrating for the end of empty calories. And pop: a boy entered (so to speak), mindful of generosity, so nonthreatening, his nonthreatening was threatening. Also on a strict regime of one metaphor per year. A clutter addict never gonna get serious cause he’s still hitched to a schizophrenic and you’re hypomanic.
Then I kicked the people habit and went back to my dead idols Woolf and Colette. And Sappho, of course. Beautiful prose so very exotic. And perfect grammar. And talk. Talk me to death, darling.
Cut away from the chaste; I devised the best recipe: one ridged metal flashlight, one condom over that, switch somehow reaching a direct hit on the G spot, so a crayon bit affixed inside the rubber amplified that bliss, and I was good to go in two ways, success always guaranteed.
Have a roommate. Have no space. Haven’t touched my sacred area for so long, but there were men and women I look at and ask: are they witty, are they cute? Yes, one went to Harvard, this girl pink-cheeked with a long blond pigtail; a couple of boys face beautiful but then died or got girlfriends say it ain’t so I sit in my therapy group and say I’m open for funny business.
Then a guy turns up, flirts, ever garrulous clutching books I would read, flirted with me twice. It felt so naughty and nice – this talker with giant pretty hands and I know that these and maybe a candle or the one word of erectus and while they’re occupied, he could definitely mutter many insane things to me. And if you’re out of practice like me, Carnegie Hall chants: practice, practice, practice. And stay away from STDs, AIDS, other communicable misfortunes. The body is sacred. Pleasure belongs to all of us, playing nicely alone or with others. It’s a gift of its gODDs and gODDesses. Oh, little flashlight shine on. You’re the best.
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