Borrowed from Elsewhere: Everything I Wish I’d Known During a Decade of Painful Sex

Painful sex — when you’re not into pain — is a devastating reality about which far too few of us are talking. Ladies, we need to start speaking up to each other, our partners, and ourselves.

“It’s sure as hell not getting any better, is it? You’ve slept with four men now — three of them long-term boyfriends — and it’s hurt every time. Every single time. With condoms, without condoms, with lube, without lube. It doesn’t matter how turned on you are, how badly you want them, or how badly you want it to just please, for the love of God, work. It hurts every time. When he puts it in, when he thrusts, when he pulls it out, and for a half hour afterward. Sometimes it feels like your body just won’t let him in; the muscles that should be soft and giving, that shouldn’t feel like muscles, are tight and tense. You want to give him sex. You have no give. It’s like trying to dig change out of firm and tightly packed couch cushions, getting him in, and when you push him through the tension, you’d swear he’s tearing a hole in you.”

https://medium.com/@chloeangyal/what-s-the-worst-sex-you-ever-had-101c6eeb0404

(Also shared on The Huffington Post)

My First Fuck

I don’t have any secrets, at least not my own. I prefer to live my life as an open book, with relatively few exceptions (looking at you, current employer). I do, however, consider myself a collector of the secrets of others, which is especially fun when I can partake in those secrets.

Most of my friends don’t know what I’m about to share with the world. Tonight’s juice is about the first time I had penetrative sex. It was during my college years with a trusted partner, and despite the college norm, my first time was actually anal sex, not vaginal. If you want to get technical, the more common name for what I transacted is pegging. (more…)

…And Now It Burns When I Pee.

I decided to try something new at the dungeon this week. I was looking for a stimulating change to my usual routine, and despite my terror of the unknown, I took the plunge. Wednesdays are good days for new things.

When I arrived, I asked the attendant how long the sessions usually last. “An hour,” she said. “Would you like a pass?”

My heart raced. I hadn’t planned for this; I didn’t know I needed a pass. Luckily, she smiled sweetly and tendered a laminated slip my way. Then, off I went to undress. (more…)

The Perfect Body? Cut the Facade, Not the Pounds.

My yoga buddy, a sixty-something-year-old engineer from an affluent family, told me this week that I have a perfect body. He meant it as a compliment because I’m thin with socially privileged body measurements, but his statement left me wondering about its deeper implications. The perfect body… what does that mean? (more…)

An Open Letter to My Dead Brother, June 2015

Dear Connor,

I had another dream about you last night, this time that I pushed you against the upstairs banister, causing you to fall through the bars, face first down to ground level. You were dead, it was all my fault, and you looked a lot like you did when I found your unconscious, damp body in real life. I woke up shaking and wide-eyed. Needless to say, it was a rough morning.

Mom just vividly described Gran’s gaudy, pink-nightmare of a casket to Aaron and, in doing so, reminded me that she and Dad couldn’t bear to put your ashes in the ground. Your cremated remains are held in a polished, wooden, latched box in your room. (more…)

Simplifying Your Nine-to-Five: Meet the Work Uniform, Ladies.

My friends know that my ideal daily uniform would be absolutely nothing, followed by nothing but my favorite sweatpants, followed by nothing but my favorite sweatpants and my favorite flip flops. But alas, I’m not rich enough (read: at all) to be able to afford to not work, so the next best thing is making my daily outfits as comfortable as possible. It’s not that I don’t care about how I look these days, because I do, but I care much, much less than when I was younger. Why? … because have learned to value myself as both a person and a woman even when I’m not my most conventionally attractive, despite my years of relentless social programming. Go figure that I’m the only one not self-fat-shaming at the office happy hour. SHOCKER.

In my office, the women dress quite differently from one another, based on their roles. Everyone wears makeup, but the non-attorney staff wear pants, sweaters, and general business-casual comfort-wear. The attorneys, however, wear dresses, pencil skirts, and high heels every single day — the stale, trite essence of professional hyperfemininity branded many decades ago.  (more…)