My name is Katie, and I have absolutely no idea how to fuck myself. (This is the part where you all halfheartedly mumble “Hi Katie” while sipping shit coffee).
“But Katie,” one of you interject, “One of the last things you posted was pretty much ABOUT fucking yourself
. What gives?” You’re not wrong, you’re just an asshole. Allow me to explain. (I’m not proud of any of the things I’m about to admit to, by the way, but if I only said the things I was totally comfortable with then this would be a very boring blog.)
I didn’t/don’t use dildos. I didn’t own them, I never bothered. I was always vaguely curious, but just resolved that they wouldn’t get me off anyway so, I mean, what’s the point? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Except for, like, people who do.
It’s not that I wasn’t masturbating in general. Good god no, I’m a fapping fiend, but I remained strictly in external/vibey territory. It worked. But why was I so sure that dildos just weren’t for me? Because standard, run-of-the-mill penis-in-vagina sex just wasn’t for me either. I enjoyed it, sure, but for reasons that had nothing to do with physical sensation. PIV sex, for me, was about feeling connected. You were inside me, you were a part of me, we were taking up the same space. Oh, and also, I’m super fucking lazy, and it was easier to get somebody off by fucking them (or allowing them to fuck me) than anything else.
There’s another element to this though (because it’s me). I want people to fuck me. I want it with an intensity that borders on pathological. But I don’t just want people to fuck me. I want you to fuck me. I want you to want it. I want you to want me. But it’s not about the sex at all. It’s about the wanting. It’s about me making myself feel good about myself by proving that you want me. Because if enough people want me then maybe I’ll finally let in the feeling of being wanted.
You still with me?
Flash forward to that Gonzo-looking g-spot thing I reviewed not too long ago. While sure, I only said I’d review that so I could also review the Magic Wand, I still had to put the fucking thing inside me. Passive indifference is one thing. I never wanted to waste money on something I thought I wouldn’t like. But to actually own an insertable toy and not use it? That seemed silly. I resolved to give it the old college try. What ensued was the most awkward and revelatory masturbatory experience I’ve had since I learned that certain bits feel good when you rub them.
You guys, I tried. I really did. Lack of enthusiasm was not the issue here.
Let’s set the scene:
I get myself off first with the rumbly wonder that is my Tango. I figure that’s a good lead in, and then no matter what happens at least I came, right? So I grab Gonzo (that’s it’s name now) and with the skill and dexterity of a newborn calf, proceed to at least attempt to have at it. It wasn’t until I started thinking about the other stuff I was going to have to get done that day (WHILE STILL USING THE FUCKING TOY) that I realized: I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
As someone who is traditionally terrible at handling being bad at things (and being stumped by things) the experience fucked my brain more than anything else. For all the fucking I’ve done, why isn’t this working? And how can I be good at fucking other people but be so bad at fucking myself? Slowly, then all at once (side note, The Fault in our Stars is fucking amazing), it hit me. I was fucking myself, generally speaking, with the same speed and cadence as most of the other people who had fucked me.
Rather than ever learn what my body responds to and likes, I resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to get much out of being fucked. I completely forfeit ownership of the sex I was having because I didn’t see myself as a haver of sex so much as a giver of it. Instead of teaching the people in my life how to fuck me, I allowed them to teach me what being fucked should feel like.
The logic follows out pretty soundly. If I didn’t enjoy it all that much when I wasn’t even the one doing it, I wasn’t going to like it any better with a sore arm. And really, doing it myself had no defined end point. My toy wasn’t going to orgasm and then flop the fuck over and tell me how awesome it was.
So what now? Square one, I suppose. Fumbling in the dark like a teenager without a clue. Because how can I expect anyone to give me what I want if I can’t tell them what it is?