The Odds – Part 2

Our night at the movies goes well and the texting continues to volley endlessly between us. I find myself staying up well past my bedtime just to be kept in good company.


“Really really,” I find myself saying as I try to convince him, as though he needs to hear any more of my secrets. “I’m not even sure how I discovered it, but it was a parody of Kim Possible. You remember that show? Well, it was like a comic strip, only it was – like, I don’t know – an erotic comic strip. And it was totally all about pussy.” I laugh nervously, “Lesbian Disney porn. That was my first exposure to porn. It’s fitting in a way. I guess.”


“I’m still very much into henitai.” He tells me. “So, I won’t judge you. I know what you mean. And I know exactly which strip you’re talking about.”


I laugh. “I loved that strip. I must have been like eighteen when I found it. Who knew my favorite cartoons as a kid would be my favorite cartoon as an adult.”


It’s his turn to laugh. My phone buzzes with an incoming text from him. When I open it, I see what he found so funny, which is how I found myself laughing at 2am in bed. It was an image of Belle from Beauty and the Beast with her legs spread wide, tits out, as Lumiere got creative with the wax. I am instantly grateful he can’t see me blush and I try to keep my voice from giving me away.


“Belle is my favorite!” I reply. “How did you know?”


“Well, figuring how much you love to read, I assumed you could relate.”


“That’s not the only thing about her I can relate to. Clearly.”


I tell him I should be getting to bed, and we hang up, but the exchange of images escalates as we each search for what we know the other will like. I send him a slutty picture of Velma from Scooby Doo with her skirt – much shorter than I remember it originally being – hiked up to show the curve of her thick ass cheek as she sticks her bum out, tits pressed up against a wall looking over her shoulder in an invitation. He retaliates with a lovely collection of illustrations of Disney princesses in various BDSM scenes and I send him an artist’s interpretation of what Beast Boy and Raven can be found doing at various moments of intimacy.


After a few more pictures of I can’t help but let my hand rest against the warmth of my mound legs before letting my fingers slip in and explore the puddle that had accumulated in my slit. I scroll thought the various pictures and pages of cartoons. My fingers pick up the pace and I manage to let the fingers of my other hands slip under my shirt. I look at the picture on my phone again and imitate what I can only image Eric is doing to Ariel’s nipples as I twist and tug, closing my eyes and letting myself near the edge of my orgasm. The finger playing with my cunt is about to go deeper when I am interrupted by a buzz


Did you fall asleep or….


Or. I reply. Definitely or.


LOL. He sends me a few more pictures and tells me to enjoy.


I am going to hate tomorrow I text him shortly after I climax.


Why is that


I am going to want to sleep in.


Then go to sleep.


Why? I argue with him, taking pleasure in the pout. But I know I won’t last long.


Because it’s late.

And you need your sleep.


And that’s it. That’s all it takes. Just a tiny hit of worry. Just the subtitle awareness that someone cares. I feel my body curl into itself, snuggling instinctively although there is nothing to snuggle up to. All at once I feel innocent, vulnerable, and playful. I may be a princess but that makes me no less a brat.


But if I sleep, then it will be tomorrow. And I’m having fun right now.


You need your rest. Go to bed. The unspoken “little one” hangs in the air, implied by the duality of my resistance of his admonition and desire for direction.


YOU need your rest.

I’ll let YOU sleep.


I’m relishing in it. and I feel guilty. I know I am pushing his buttons; coxing his inner caregiver up to the surface in response to my need for the care (affection?). But he is no more to me than a friend. Does this mean I am desperate? I wonder, flirting on the edge of my little space with a man I barely know just because of the way I know he can make me feel?


I send an emoji of a sleepy face


That’s you.


With nothing but a screen connecting us, I can only imagine what it might feel like to lay on his chest and feel the deep chuckle I incite.


 I’m fine. You’re the one who warned me about passing out. Now go and enjoy yourself and head to bed. We will talk in the morning.


I bite my lip, shy again, as I realize what he’s implying.


Silly… I already finished. That’s why I’m so sleepy.

And it’s true. I had sent him a text asking him what he would enjoy doing to a partner if he had free reign. At first, he tells me what he would enjoy relies solely on the reaction and desires of his submissive, but he eventually caves. As I read his list, sprinkled with the illustrations still being sent my way, I let the fantasy take me to the peak of my climax.


So, that’s it? he asks Just once?


…..There was one this morning… I offer as weak an explanation. But I feel the flip my stomach took at the thought of a partner dedicated to producing that level of pleasure; he expected his partner to enjoy that zenith more than once.


Hmmm. I guess. He replies, unsatisfied.


I fight the urge to touch again as a way to please him. But he is not mine. I remind myself. I am not his.


Did you enjoy yourself?


Yed I mistype in my half lucid state

Yrd I try again

Yes* Finally

It was grand. Thanks.


Must have been if you can’t spell.


I roll my eyes, but I know he’s right.




And with that I curl up, heart half cozy, cunny still warm, and fall asleep.


The Odds – Part 1

It’s late. My eyes are burning, begging me to close them and finally give in to sleep. But instead, I’m staring at my phone, impatiently waiting for his reply. I scroll up a bit to check out the selfie he had just sent me, and I have to admit, he is cute. His lips curled up in a goofy half smile and his shaggy skater-boy haircut make him look just like the kind of guy I would have instantly developed an unrelenting crush on in high school. I can’t help but smile right back at him. So, I do the customarily polite thing one does when flirting with a stranger online; I send him a photo back. Nervously, I bite my lip and wait.


Maybe he isn’t a stranger. Not anymore, at least. In the days leading up to this exchange, he politely kept his distance as I confessed kink after dirty kink. He asked me what kinds of things I would like to do when I become sexually active and I admitted that some days it feels like I want to do everything. I crave simple vanilla moments like making out in a car but I also fantasize about going to a sex party and being forced to touch myself in public as an act of humiliation; my straight-laced self wants to be exposed for the dirty slut I am, desperately doing in public something I have only too recently been ashamed to even do in private.


He confessed to me that it had been too long since he had last practiced Shibari with a partner. I cringed at the thought of being bound, but as he described the diverse ropes and binds used in the practice, it sounded enticing. Nothing like the painful looking binds I was used to running into on porn sites. I mentioned how intrigued I was by denied and forced orgasm, and he added that any such scene should be followed by a warm bath. My imagination begins wildly running in directions it had never gone before.


Then I took the risk and confessed that I was a little only to discover that he was a Daddy. We shared a core kink and he openly discussed it with me – a novice – without crossing a single line or offering to show me the (literal) ropes – which is rare. When most men find out I’m submissive, they assume I am automatically their submissive, which is hardly consensual. But he made no such assumptions. I asked every question I had pressing, every single little thing I felt I couldn’t discuss with anyone else. And like a deer, the less I felt hunted, the closer and more trusting I became. I felt comfortable with him. I realized that I had never trusted anyone that much. Most of my friends come from the same stringent religious background as I do, which makes it unlikely to find a confidant. My phone buzzes and brings my attention back as I unlock my screen to finally read his reply.


My stomach drops as I read the text.


One word.


My name. Followed by a question mark.


This is impossible. We haven’t exchanged names. My heart skips a beat at the horror of the implication, and I scroll back up to his picture looking for something, anything really, that would give me a clue as to who this guy is and how he knows me but my mind is drawing nothing but blanks. Who knew such a simple question could complicate things so quickly.


“You there?” he asked.


My fingers hesitate.


“Yep,” I tell him. And he’s right, it is me.


I confess that I don’t recognize him at all. He repeats his name but he might as well be saying it’s John Doe. This embarrasses me more than everything I have confessed thus far. And I confessed a lot. He begins dropping hints and finally, it clicks. He and I attended the same church when we were kids. He left town and I never heard from him afterwards. Memories flood and I erupt in squeals of joy at having found an old friend. I give him my number and I answer his call before the first ring even has had a chance to end.


“You really didn’t recognize me?” he asks.


“Well,” I tell him, “in my defense, the last time you and I saw each other, you didn’t have a full-grown beard nor were you a grown ass man.”


His laugh catches me of guard. His voice doesn’t belong to the little boy I played with once upon a time. He’s a man now. A man I now know better than I ever knew the boy.


What are the odds?


Somewhere between gossip and nostalgia we make plans to meet for dinner and a movie in a few days’ time. We finally hang up and I fall asleep smiling, still squealing with joy. I can’t help but laugh at myself. My silly little heart is bursting with gratitude. I feel just a little less alone.

The Scandal


I try to catch my breath as the rain pelts my windshield. My heart races as I turn the key in the ignition. I can’t tell if my skin is wet with rain or sweat. I can’t tell if my stomach is going insane over something I ate or just responding to adrenaline. I purse my lips to hold in the nervous laughter I can feel threatening to explode from my belly. I let out a yelp instead, startled by my phone ringing. I grip the steering wheel to pull myself together before answering.

“What the actual fuck?!” my best friend would like to know. And it’s true, after the text I sent her I owe her an explanation.

“It’s not a big deal dude, I was on a date.”

“With who?! And why would you not tell me about this guy way back when you started talking to him?”

I know why I didn’t tell her. Only two hours had passed since I had let her know he even existed. I told her his name, sent a selfie of him, told her where he was from, and sent a screenshot of the text he had sent me earlier telling me where to meet and at what time. I included his phone number and told my friend to text me no later than 9:30pm to check in. I remind her that those are simply the smart dating habits of a modern millennial.

“Ok,” she concedes, “can you please catch me up?”

As I pull out of my parking spot in front of the coffee shop, I begin telling her the story that lead up to me pulling into that spot in the first place.


The café was almost empty when I walked in, so I really don’t know who I was trying to fool as I opened my laptop in an attempt to appear inconspicuous. I spy on the guy at the table in front of me. I couldn’t help but think that I should be at a table with a guy like him. He was cute. Hipster cute. A little nerdy. Probably my age. Working on a novel, a dissertation, or a collection of poems about the types of barley used in beer. But I’m wasn’t there to sit at tables with guys like him. Not tonight.

I was so nervous that my hands were trembling too much to type so I quickly gave up and wrapped them around the coffee mug for warmth before taking another sip. Caffeine was probably not the best idea.

As I closed my laptop I decided eavesdrop on the girls sitting at the table beside me. One of them was crying on her friend’s shoulder because her boyfriend dumped her for voting for Trump. Two years of her life, wasted. Her sympathetic friend sips coffee, listens, and nods as she whines. He could have been the one she says.

Again, I couldn’t help but wonder if that should be me. I should be having the same problem. I should be heart-broken. I should be dating. But I am not. Not really. I am sitting at the coffee shop trying and failing to look at ease.

I was going to keep him a secret, but at the last minute every single Lifetime Original Movie I had ever seen came flooding back to me. I realized that if I didn’t want to be found in a ditch somewhere it would be wise to tell someone – anyone – where I was going to be. So, I texted my bestie. I lie. I tell her I am going on a date with a man I met online. I tell her he and I have been talking for a while. What I don’t tell her is that he’s more ten years my senior. I don’t tell her our conversations still make my cheeks burn. I don’t tell her that he –


“Whoa. Hold the phone. He’s how old?” she interrupts to ask when she finally hears me confess the number.


“Forty-one? And you don’t feel like that’s a little bit out of our age range? Just a bit?”

But I didn’t. If anything, the more we got to know one another, the more I realized that I liked the difference. At the same time, the bestie had a point. I’m supposed to be dating to find the elusive “one.” You know “the one.” The one I’m going to marry, start a life with, pop out a few kids for, get into debt with, fight about our in-laws over, and live happily ever after forever and ever amen.

But he wasn’t The One. Maybe the hipster boy in the corner could be, but the man I was meeting was only – one. And I liked it. His age wasn’t the only thing that stood in the way of a fairy tale ending. There were other factors I wasn’t ready to divulge.

“Ok ok ok.” She interrupts me, “Whatever. We get it. But you mentioned pictures. Please don’t tell me you’ve sexted this guy.”


The first thing I noticed when he walked in was that he was easily the tallest man in the coffee shop. I sipped on the latte in my hands to regain a sense of composure. I had no idea what to do. Should I stand up and wave? Shout hello? Did he see me? Could he tell that I was me? Did I look like my pictures?

My picture! My stomach turned lurched again at the memory. The butterflies and nerves I had been battling all day resurrected. I knew the coffee wasn’t helping, but I took another sip.

Sending a nude or two never feels like a bad idea until you realize you will be meeting the person you sent it to face to face. As if meeting for a simple date isn’t stressful enough. I had spent so much time focused on that I had forgotten that this man had actually seen my cunny. I know it may not sound like a big deal. But it is.

Technology had offered me a wonderful safety net up until this point. I had spent so much time sitting on the sidelines that I don’t know the first thing about playing the field that is our postmodern sexual society. Most people figure this shit out in high school or college. It’s a little awkward learning these ropes as an adult. There is a lack of composure people are more prone to forgive when you’re both sixteen. But the internet has provided a way for me to express and discover my sexuality without the pressures and expectations that could come if I were to be so uninhibited in person. It can be such a relief to confess my multitude of sins to someone – anyone really – and know that they have are in the same space to make a few confessions of their own.

The conversation with this eveing’s date eventually crossed the line from objectively sexual to subjectively so. Words, desires, lusts, orgasms, and eventually, well-posed nudes were exchanged. I didn’t think much of it until he asked to meet me in person a few days later.

I realized he would have to meet me. Not online me. Not uninhibited me who has no problem telling strangers that I occasionally like to hide in the bathroom at work with my hand down my pants and rub my clit. No, he was going to have to meet the me who hides her vibrator behind the most boring books on the bottom of her bookshelf in the hopes that no one ever has reason to look behind those books.

I began to retrace every word I had ever sent in order to outline a disclaimer. No matter what I had said in the heat of the moment under the safety of distanced, I knew there was no way I was actually going to do anything with this guy, no matter how much I liked him. No, there would be no sex. No making out of any kind. He was not welcome use his fingers to gently tease and pinch my clit, no matter how wonderful it sounded.

He promised to be the perfect gentlemen, but I know better. People are rarely that altruistic in the face of sexual tension. And so, although I was a nervous wreck, I agreed to meet.

“Hi” he greeted me with a smile.

“Hi” I replied with the nervous chuckle necessary to make this moment the perfect cliché. I stood up to give him a hug, at once both intimidated and comforted by the size of him. I’m a pretty big girl. There are nice names for it like thick or curvy, but in reality I’m just goddamn fat. When he hugged me though, he managed to make me feel – well – little. And there is no feeling in the world that I love as much as I love feeling little.

As he set his mug on the table he moved the chair that had been across the table from to an angle that allowed him to sit by my side and took my hand in both of his large ones, I felt a little bit of me give in. just a little. And the conversation began.


“What did you guys talk about?” My friend interrupts to ask, adamant about getting in every one of the details she had asked me for.

“Stupid shit honestly. Nothing of interest. Work. His plans for the weekend. Small talk. He asked me how my day went and what color panties I was wearing. Stuff like that. I did ask him how he was introduced into the kink lifestyle though.”

“I hate that you call it that.”

“Dude,” I replay with a sign, “that’s what it’s called”

“Anyway, what did he say? When you asked about his ‘origins.’”

“He said a woman he was sleeping with suggested he read Fifty Shades of Grey.”

“I love that book!”

“I hate that book.” I replied as I waited for the traffic light for turn green. The rain had not let up “Anyway, according to him, he reminded her of the main character”

“You’ve never even read the book. Anyway, you’re telling me you two talked about nothing and you did nothing. How eventful.” I could almost hear her rolling her eyes.

“Well, something kind of happened but its relatively nothing, you know? I feel like such a prude for even feeling like it was more than nothing.”

“Just tell me!”


I felt silly for loving how nice it felt to simply hold hands. It didn’t take long for me to realize that he had no idea how to read a palm nor did he have any genuine interest in my manicure. He only laughed when I said as much.

“I care about your manicure.” He said, slowly bringing the pads of my fingers up to his lips and kissing them. “I will admit, I am more of a fan of how you showed it to me.” He continued kissing my hands as the memory of my picture added to the heat between my thighs. I had thought it would be coy to ask if he would like to see my manicure last week when I had first gotten my nails done. Of course, my fingers were occupied holding the lips of my labia open when I sent him the picture.

“You’re blushing” he whispered. I hadn’t even noticed that he had gotten close enough to whisper. He tugged on a curl the hung over my shoulder on the rise of my breast. “Did you not like the picture you sent me?”

I bit my lip as I looked down. There was no point in hiding the blush.

“Little girl, are you avoiding me?”

I shook my head no without looking up.

“Then look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I hesitated only for a breath of a second, but that was long enough. Within that second his hand slipped under the edge of my dress and his long fingers gripped my thigh. My head shot up and I grabbed his hand but he didn’t miss the smile his little game left on my face. Instantly I both regretted and loved that I had chosen to wear that dress.

“You’re cheating,” I muttered as I grabbed his hand from my thigh and placed it on the table.

“And how am I cheating?”

“You agreed to be the perfect gentleman this evening. That was far from gentleman-like. Keep both hands here. Visible. Where I can see them. That’s the rules.”

“So now you’re the one making rules?” he asked, grinning like the Cheshire as he picked his hand up off the table and began to play with mine again.

“I’ve always been the one making the rules.”

He set the game aside for second to agree with me and to remind me that if at any point during the visit he really truly did cross a line, I should let him know; because he had no intention  of doing me harm. “I’m sorry. I should not have squeezed your thigh.”

“Well,” I looked up at him, reassured that although I was playing with fire I had nothing to fear, and confessed. “It wasn’t so much that you were touching my thigh. It’s just that,” I hesitated, once again slipping into a flirt, “I know this may sound weird by my knees are really ticklish.”

As his laughter died down he gently slid his chair back from the table to look down. I followed his gaze and noticed the large budge in his pants. I couldn’t help but feel excited at the thought that I had seen that dick before. I knew exactly what was happening and It was all my fault. I felt his fingers graze my inner thigh as he rested his hand on me again. “I won’t squeeze this time. I promise.”

I tried to cover my grin with my hand but he stopped me before kissing me on the cheek. Our conversation continued as we lightly cuddled on the coffee house bench. I could feel him shift in his seat from time to time as he attempted to rearrange the boner growing in his pants. It all at once scared me know I could do this to a man and at the same time it made me only more giddy and happy.

I grew more comfortable with him as the night went on. I had always known that there was no longevity between him and I. This, whatever it was, could never be more than occasional clandestine meetings in search for a fix, so maybe that’s why I did it. I had nothing to lose. I had never really said the word aloud to anyone before.

I turned to him and asked, “Daddy?”

He looked at me directly in the eyes and with smile asked, “Yes, kitten?”

“Would you get me a glass of water?”

That was it. That was all I wanted. Water. He stood up, somewhat stiffly, and went to the counter to order my glass. As he walked back I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just me or it the bulge had grown. He played  my hair and tickled my legs as I enjoyed the water.

“Is Daddy making you hot kitten?” I blushed again, so there was no point in lying. I looked at him and nodded my head. “Then there is something I would like you to do for me.” he smiled when he felt me shiver as he whispered his request; his breath making the skin on my neck both cool and hot at once.

When he finished giving me my instructions I placed my cup of water back on the table. I could feel him watching me as I stood up and made my way to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me and wondered what the fuck I was thinking as I pulled down my panties and let my fingers slide into my slick slit. It felt so good. I had been aroused by him long before we sat down together in that café, but to be so close to him while I was this hot was deliciously dangerous.

My lovely manicured fingers found my clit and I began rubbing my sweet wet pussy as I had been instructed to. My fingers quickened at the thought of him only a few feet way. I hungrily thrust my hips in search of pressure as I remembered how close his hand on my though had been to my hot little lips. I pressed my fingers against my cunt as I remembered the swell I had left in his pants.

My phone interrupted me as it vibrated with an incoming text.


I stopped and pulled my panties and tights up without wiping, knowing I would more than likely finish playing with it later.

As I sat back down he gingerly took both of my hands in his again and held them up for inspection. He looked at me before opening his mouth and sucking on the same two fingers I had just used to pleasure myself. I whimpered and then let out a small “Fuck.”

He responded by sucking on my fingers once again and letting me know I tasted heavenly.

I looked at him, regretting the end of the night as I noticed the barista turning off lights and locking doors. “I think they are about to kick us out of here,” I said.

“Then let’s go.” He took my hand and helped me into my coat before leading my out into the cold. He faced me as we stood on the side walk, his hands on my waist pulling me toward his ever-hardening cock; before kissing my ears, my neck, and as much as he could of my shoulders. I had never been touched like that in my entire life and it was divine. The adrenaline made everything much more wonderful as I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and let him devour what he could of me. I wanted this. This was too good to be missing out on. My god, I thought, why they fuck have I waited this long to let myself be kissed? He pulled away and took my face in his hands. He leaned in for the kiss, but despite the wonder his mouth had just graced me with, I held my  hand to his chest to stop him.

“No?” he asked.

“No.” I confirmed.

“Ok.” And without so much as a second missed beat he kissed my neck again, letting his wet lips linger along my earlobe before we parted ways.



“And now I’m calling you to tell you about it.”

“That’s it? No plans to meet again?”

“We’ll see I guess. Next weekend is his wife’s turn to go out, and a lot can change between now and –“

“Wait. Wait wait wait. His what?”

“Wife. His wife. He married. Which two kids.”

I could hear my friend erupt into laughter. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. I love that you’re innocent enough to think that him touching your thigh is like this huge motherfucking deal but you don’t seem to think twice about the fact that he’s married. That’s the scandal here. Not that you almost went to first base, but the fact that you almost bypassed it for second with a married man!”

“He’s my only source, but he says they are in an open relationship that may soon be ending. That’s why I didn’t kiss him. I had a great time with him and all, but I’m not exactly trying to bring him home to my mother. I’d kind of hate for that to be my first.”

“So, you’ll let this man suck the pussy juice from your fingers, but kissing is a no go. Got it. Makes perfect sense. Sounds ligit. I am so glad we’re friends.

I hang up the phone shortly after making plans to meet up with her for brunch and pull into my driveway. As I check my phone I see a new text message. It’s him.

so, are you finally going to tell me what color panties you’re wearing?

As I get ready for bed I pull down my panties and show him the rather large and lovely wet spot that had accumulated during our date.

I answer the phone when he calls only seconds after having received my photo

“I knew it.” He gloats, “I just knew they were black.”

“What are you up to?” I ask.

“Well, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our evening, so…” I feel my phone vibrate as it receives a message from him. I open it up to find he’s sent me shot of his cock; large and leaking. I smile as I finish removing my undies and crawl into bed. I let my hand find its way back to the swollen tender lips of my pussy.

“Ditto.” I say, before licking my fingers and letting him know he’s right. I do taste rather heavenly.


The Little Space

A part of me felt a little guilty; and bit sad I guess. I was frustrated. I couldn’t help but think to myself that a girl my age should be doing any number of fun things on a Friday night. I should be out with friends. I should be on a date with a nice boy my age. I should be drinking. I should go to a diner and work on my writing. I should go to the living room and read a book. But I was very much not doing any of those things. I was in my bed. One hand scrolling though porn on my phone and the other enjoying the sensation of gently spreading my own wet all over my labia. My fingers found the slit and dove in. I ran to fingers over my clit and felt my body jerk back a bit; clearly still sensitive from the last two orgasms. I continued down and played with my inner labia. My phone vibrated with a new massage alert. It was Daddy. I bit my lip in anticipation.

How are you feeling princess?

Good. But I’m still playing… I should cum again soon though. May I?

Hmmm… I think you should. Yes. You may cum for Daddy my precious little cum slut.

I held back a squeal.

But not yet. You must do it in exactly one minute.

I felt the adrenaline quicken again. I loved this game. There was something about the pressure, the desire to obey and satisfy Daddy. It’s my kryptonite.

And also, my little girl, I want you to fuck your cunny for me. That’s right. I know you’re tight. I know it hurts you. But be gentle. You may enjoy your clit. But I want one finger deep in that pussy that you got so nice and wet for daddy. Ok?

I hesitate. I can feel the playfulness leaving me. I cringe in fear and I hold back those god awful tears. But I know myself.  I know I want to try. I would try anything. Anything at all. For Daddy.

Yes Daddy.


The pads of my fingers find the comfortable grooves on either side of my clitoris as I distinctly remember the first time a man asked me to call him Daddy. I think every Little does. I was thoroughly disgusted at the concept. But if there is anything you might have learned from this blog thus far it’s that I am not opposed to trying most new things at least once.

So I did it.

I called him Daddy.

And it wasn’t that magical. Nothing happened. My soul didn’t sing. I didn’t reach for the stars. It didn’t make sense.

Until he called me his dirty little princess.

When he called me his princess, I instantly knew that I was. I was Princess. I was Kitten. I was Muffin. I was Baby Doll. I was Good Little Girl. I was all these things and more. I was a thirsty little slut. I was cum whore. I was his fuck toy. I was its dirty little girl. I was naughty. I was sassy. I was everything. At once. It felt like heaven. All the parts of who I am found themselves perfectly knit together.


Faster Princess

And so it began. I soon found out it had a name. I was a Little. And the moments I shared with my Daddy were called my Little Space. And it was perfect. For anyone else who happens to be a part of this community, you will understand that it can be a very intimate subject. Psychologically speaking, sex always is. I have a very rational fear of falling in love the perfect guy one day and then having to confess to him that I really like calling men Daddy in bed. Would he be willing to try it? Will he think I am a mentally deranged? Will he be relieved I admitted it because he enjoys being called Daddy? I can’t tell you how often people are disgusted by it although it is never the incestuous fantasy that most people think the terms imply. That’s not how it works.


This is how it works.

I happen to be a very busy person. I am very demanding of myself on levels that are so high that I let myself down at least once a day. And I like it like that that. I am ambitions. I am detailed. I am organized. I am controlling. I am in charge. I am taking care of a lot of issues in my life that I did not have planned on dealing with. I may be good at it. But the secret here is that I don’t necessarily love it. There are so many moments when my heart and my head and my dreams and ambitions just want a break. There are moments when I need to disconnect from the amazing woman I know I am on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t want to be the caption of my ship. For a few minutes, I want someone else to be the master of my fate. I want to hand over the reins.


Stop my love. I don’t think you’re really ready. Now slap your thirsty naughty clit for me with the back of a brush. Five times. Harder with every slap.

I grab my brush. I begin my penance. I gasp and wince after the first smack. I pull back the brush and see my clear honey leave a mark as long slick strand of it stretches back to the opening of my cunt.

And that’s why I love my sacred little Little Space. I get to take off my tightly laced boxing gloves. I get to put down my battle ax. I don’t have to be efficient. I don’t have to get shit done. I get to simply be. For those few precious blessed moments I am gentle. I am vulnerable I am soft. I am docile, delicate, obedient, present. I am filthy. I am risky. I am desperate. I am demanding. I am taken care of. I am satiated. I am satisfied. I am worshiped. I am desired. I am little.


It’s time to fuck your cunny for me lil one. Ready? Squeeze a finger into the tight pussy for daddy. Deep. Feel that wrinkly tissue? That spot? Rub it.

I know he wants me find my g spot. And I swear to you, I try. But I can’t locate it. I decided to simply enjoy the pressure of my finger inside of me as I continue to rub my swollen pulsing clit, patiently waiting for permission to cum.

But that’s the thing. I trust someone enough to let them guide me as I explore and meet my own body. How is that not awesome?

I have been though a handful of men who claim to be a Daddy. I cannot tell you how many times I give up half way to an orgasm because realize I have found nothing but a poser. Nothing matches the sensations of finding a true dominant daddy – a man who had absolute control over you and himself. A man who knows this is more than roleplay. This isn’t me pretending to be cute in order to get him off; this is me genuinely tapping into the deepest hidden parts of my fragility and asking him to give me an orgasm. This is me asking him to find pleasure in pleasuring me or in denying my pleasure. Whatever he desires and sees fit. I am his. My cunt fully belongs to him and I will only indulge in anything Daddy allows and desires. It’s breathtaking. Literally. I am fully his in intimate ways I am too scared to try and understand. But I love belonging to him. I love that my cunt is owned and controlled by a man who knows what he’s doing – a man who knows what I’m doing. A man who knows what he is doing tome. And I never knew I needed that. I never knew I needed that sense of being someone’s on such an intimate and delicate level.


I’m close. I can feel myself fighting the orgasm. I try to stay calm but my body betrays me. My hips thrust forward, pulling my deeper into myself. My fingers to rub harder. I cave and let my finger roam toward my nipples. They feel heaven. Not only did Daddy previously have me slap them with my brush, but they were being tugged on by a pair of bobby pins I had used as makeshift camps.


I pick up speed. I know nothing would please Daddy more than my cumming on time.


And that alone is wondrous to me. My desire is so firmly and deeply rooted in the desire of someone else.


I brace myself. I bit my lip. But I know it’s pointless. I’m going to scream. I can feel my animistic moan building in my chest as I reach the precipice of my pleasure.


Then silence. I wait. I’m anxious. I’m confused. And then I remember what very obedient and polite little girl do. They ask.

May I cum?


Yes my filthy little cunt. Be a big girl and cum for daddy. Show me how you become a slut for me. Show daddy how wet and thirsty he makes that pussy.

And I do. Gloriously.

My body shakes as my nerves climb down from the peak of their climax. I thank God for the empty house. I had forgot how far my voice carries.

How are you feeling my little one?

I smile

Blissful. Thank you for my orgasm Daddy

You’re very welcome princess. Always a pleasure. Now show daddy your mess.

I managed to maneuver the camera with a bit of well-practiced grace to snap a picture of what I know will be a dripping mess. I can feel it.

As I bring the phone back to my face I examine my picture, I notice something new. Not only is my vulva coated in a lovely thick layer of female secretion… I realize my cum is tainted pink.

Is that blood?

I believe so baby girl. I think you may have torn your hymen.

I look at the goo coating my fingers once again, I pull my fingers apart and see the thick web created by the mucus. I consider blowing a bubble. But I have been expectantly thrust out of my little space.

My hymen. A flood of thoughts, fears, and emotions hit me as I consider the implications.

Before I let the shame in, before my mind reacts by running toward fear, I stop and consider how I’m actually feeling. It takes work to shut up all the voices that have always told me how I should feel.

And I’m elated. I’m actually shocked at how happy I really am. Every perception of the vaginal bleeding is altered in an instant. My mind kills the scenes of white stained sheets being presented to families; of a man checking to make sure he had truly been the first. My imagination created my own story. I want to run into the streets screaming with joy and yell “Look! Look at what I made!” I picture the blood lightly running down my legs as I show every person I encounter… not in a disgusting shameful way… but in a way that says “I can have sex! I work! My inside wants to welcome a lover! I have made room! I have expanded my little space.”

But that’s not really how the story goes is it? No. First blood tends to be more of a symbol of the sex you haven’t had than of the sex you can have. Sadly.

How are you feeling my love?

Love? Did he just call me love? The term catches me off guard. It’s a word I tend to shy away from.

I send him a message and I thank him out of little space. My woman self, the adult, the thinker instead of the feeler, thanks this man.

I know there is this whole media movement to say that this is no big deal. A hymen is nothing special. It’s nothing more than another tissue of skin. But to me it matters. Just not in the way I was raised to see it matter.

And yes. On a level I am love. I may not be in love. But I do love. I can love. And I will love.



The Aftermath

I couldn’t contain it any longer. The truth was eventually bound to come to light.

“Um?” I began my confession.


“I really need to pee”

He laughed from the other side of phone. And it was a wonderful sound. He sounded exhausted, shocked, and comfortable all at once. I’ve always said I’d prefer to make a man laugh than to make him orgasm. But in the span of the night, I had managed to do both.

“Most girls have to pee after they orgasm. It’s only normal. You should go pee.”

“Yeah, I get that. But then you’re going to hear me pee.”

“I promise, I won’t get grossed out if I hear you pee.”

He had a point. He really had no right to be grossed out. I had just traced this man’s name on my clitoris and then inadvertently yelled it at the top of my lungs during climax. I guess it would be rude if he judged me for having to pee.

Only my bladder wanted me to get out of bed. The rest of me wanted to stay between my warm sheets avoiding the wet spot and enjoying the bliss of the afterglow. But I had cum twice, and both orgasms had indeed drained me. I made my way to the toilet and urinated as my partner carried on with steady conversation. I then sauntered over to my kitchen dressed in nothing but the bed sheet I hadn’t been too lazy to wrap around myself when I rolled out of bed.

“Are you still there?” I heard him ask.

I finished my second glass of water before answering. Apparently, a deep orgasm makes me thirsty too.

I grabbed a bowl of grapes to snack on and headed back to my room with another full glass of water and crawled back into bed.

“Hey, don’t you have a party to go tonight? Aren’t you supposed to be prep napping?”

This was not the first time I had asked him that question. I had inquired in a variety of creative ways. That was actually what he mentioned before we started. That he was in bed at 8pm because he was simply going to take a nap before heading out with the guys later. Of course, he also just so happened to have a boner. I’m sure you can figure out how one thing lead to the next.

But I knew that if I was tired, he was tired. And he had quite the night ahead of him. I insisted on doing the polite thing and offering him a get out of jail free card. Go ahead, I thought. Pass go. Collect the $200.

“Really,” I continued, “you need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” He brushed off my distress, “but I’m still talking to you.”


Media has lead me to believe that most men just cum and go. Yet here I was. Well after the orgasm, and still – we were talking. About anything! And yet, about nothing at all. There were moments of laughter, there were moments when I was almost sure she was lying just to tease me, and there were a few moments of comfortable silence during which I deeply wished he were there, in my bed, so that I could have a pair of eyes to just gaze into; a face to study and hair to run my fingers through.

I like to think I’m the kind of woman who puts herself first. I assume that I’m the person who – when that oxygen mask drops on that airplane – I place my own firmly over my nose and mouth, secured tightly with the elastic band as instructed, before turning and helping the passenger beside me. In practical terms: I tend to refuse to sext unless I know I will be getting off as well. There are moments when I want to solely focus on my partner – sure. As a matter of fact, I think sexting goes best when one person is doing most of the texting while the other is simply enjoying it until their partner peaks and they can switch roles.  But my point is, I’m not afraid of putting myself first.

So why then, was I so relentlessly worried that I was being a burden? What was making me rush off the phone when all I really wanted to do was to keep talking?

When you’re as independent as I am, being your own priority is nothing new.

But there is nothing on this earth quite as intimate as having the pleasure of being someone else’s priority. Not because you had to fight for it. Not because you had to demand it. But because they genuinely see you that way. It feels like such a rare luxury to be seen as well worth it. One I will never take lightly again. One I had never truly experienced until that moment.

In time I realized that kink culture is very aware of the importance of after care. After bringing a partner so far past their own mental, emotional, and physical barriers, there has to be a long stretch of safe space in which their mind can catch up and process what they body has just been through.

But plain-Jane vanilla phone sex is nowhere on that kink spectrum. And still, I found myself needing that space. That “post fuck intimacy” as my partner came to call it. I was even more shocked to find that this mentality is actually the norm. Most men like to take time to talk after. Makes sense in a way; after you’ve spent so much time connecting with a person, why stop now?

No matter what kind of sex you’re having, the way you make your partner feel {and vice versa} after the climax is every bit as important as all the work you put into making them feel special and desired beforehand. Foreplay will determine the quality of the sex, but postplay – an often under rated piece of the puzzle – can easily determine the quantity.


We spoke until I heard someone knock on his door and ask if he was ready to go. I’m assuming he wasn’t. We had been on the phone for almost 2 hours. He quickly kicked the person out, then came back and gave me a hasty goodbye. He told me he had to get going and of course I quickly hung up. He never got his nap.


Around noon the next day, I received a text. Mind you, I hadn’t been able to wipe the smile off of my face all day. I would forget it was there until I saw myself in bathroom mirrors or in the reflection of a car window. I didn’t expect good sexual chemistry to have such a long lasting ripple effect. And I really didn’t think my smile could take up much more of my face, but it did.

I read the text again.

“How did you sleep last night?”

Who cares? I thought, remembering that nothing in the world had woken me up until the sun was blaring through my window. But I cared. And moved me to know he cared as well. I knew I had already long planned on sleeping just as deeply later that night as well.




The Cave of Wonders

“Look,” the nurse pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her frustration with me was palpable, “I can’t see anything with the external ultrasound. Really. Nothing.” She sighed and her shoulders sagged. “Internal is going to be our best bet.”

I knew that if this whole “internal” shebang was going to work, I was going to have to relax. Breath deep. And open wide. So why was I tense, on the verge of hyperventilating, and crossing my legs? Because I just knew how this was going to end. This was going to end the same damn way this always ended. With me apologizing profusely for my body’s unwillingness to cooperate and with dull aching pain that would crawl from the pit of my stomach to the floor of my pelvis for the next twenty-four hours.

“Here!” she almost shouted at me, thrusting the probe in my direction, “as a matter of fact, if it helps, you can do it yourself!”


I grabbed the handle of the internal ultrasound device. I swear I had seen this thing in an episode of The X-Files. The nurse quickly grabbed a tube of lubricant and squeezed what looked like a gallon of cold clear goo on the silver bulbous end of the long blue handle. She looked at me and raised a much-too-thin eyebrow.

I laid back down onto the pleather examination seat. I put my feet back in the cold metal stirrups and spread my legs.

“Wider,” the nurse said, speaking calmer than she had since this whole ordeal started. “You’re going to have to open your legs up much wider.”

She sat back down in her stool and wheeled around to the foot of the medical table.

“You’re going to have to slide your butt down too. Here.”

She continued to situate me in the best position to get this job done. And for a second I envied her. From her vantage point she could see so much of the one part of my body I so much wished to understand for myself.

“Ok,” she continued. “You look ready. Want me to guide your hand?”

Not really I though. “Sure.” I said. “I’m just –“petrified. I was petrified.

As I blindly tried to guide the ultrasound wand toward my vagina, I could feel my resolve go to shit. The cold lubricant made contact with my skin and began pushing my labia out of the way, but before the rounded tip of the device was anywhere near being deep enough I felt my entire body break formation. My back curved, I stopped breathing my deep breaths, and my pelvis attempted to pull itself up into my belly. Cold sweat made it difficult to fight the impulse to shiver. But I did not give up hope. Sally ho. Onwards and upwards. Or so I tried. I could hear the nurse reminding me to fucking relax. To fucking breath, to fucking open fucking wide. Ok, so perhaps the adrenaline added all the fucking parts. But finally the probe began to enter.

I bit my bottom lip and fought the urge to pull away.

“I’ve almost got the image honey, just a few more inches”

There was no way I was going to manage a few more inches of this. I fought an unexpected wave of nausea. I tried to be an adult. I tried not to cry. As the nurse urged my hand to push the device even deeper into me, I could feel my own hand resisting.

“I can’t” I said, hoping I could hold it together long enough to get dressed. I pulled the tiny bit of the probe I had managed to get in back out myself.

“Oh sweetie it’s just –“

“You don’t get it.” the tear finally dropped and I quickly wiped it away from my cheek. “This isn’t discomfort for me. This hurts. This hurts a lot.”

I sat up and did the best I could to save a shred of my modesty by pulling my paper gown back over my knees. I handed the wand back to the technician and avoided looking her in the eyes.

I could feel her staring at me, but I didn’t look up. I was afraid of what I would find. Was she grossed out? Disgusted? Frustrated? Aloof? Or was she looking at me like I was some kind of science experiment?

“Sweetie,” she broke the silence and I finally gave in and looked up, “what are you going to do about sex?”

Curious. She was genuinely curious.

“You know what, lady?” I could my confidence coming back to me. The instant I was more than my genitals, I felt like myself. “I’m going to cross that bridge when I get to it. Because trust, me; you, me, and some poor unfortunate sucker, would really like to know.”


That is usually how that story goes. It’s only one of many. I could tell them all. I could tell you about the first time I went to the OBGYN two days after Turing 18. To doctor gave it one try before asking me if I was sexually active. I told her I wasn’t, so she made me a deal.

“Let’s not try this again until you either become sexually active or turn 21.” She said.

I thanked her for the mercy she had bestowed upon my vagina and assured her I would see her in 4 years.

I’m 25.

I have not gone back.

I can tell you about my annual attempt to use a tampon. At least once a year my flow drives me the edges of insanity so much so that I just want to stop it up and I try a tampon. The last time I tried I was working as a summer camp counselor and my period was simply in my way. I didn’t have the time nor the patience to deal with this. I didn’t not have the luxury of taking it easy and letting my uterus resettle and reset itself.

So I spend an hour in a bathroom. 3 tampon tries later, I walked out. Every single step was agony. I laid down, hoping my body would acclimate to the intruder. I tried explaining to my roommate what was going on.

“You did it wrong.” She said. Such a simple conclusion to come to.

“No, I didn’t,” I shot back, “I read every instruction I could find online and in the box! I know it’s facing the right direction! I have no idea why it hurts!”

“Hurts?” my roommate looked at me in shock, “you’re not even supposed to be able to feel it.”


My monster had a name. It’s always easier to face your demons when you can exorcise them by name. My best friend actually helped me self-diagnose after I had told her every single gory adventure. We quickly found that I wasn’t the only one with this problem; not by a long shot. And it was called vaginismus.

That’s all I needed. Once I had a word to plug into Google, I did everything I could to research and resolve this issue.

I’m going to give you the short version of what Wikipedia says (not only am I self-diagnosing, I am using Wikipedia to do so. My English degree would be so proud. Reader, don’t you dare judge me). In short, every time I attempt to penetrate my vagina, my body responds by having an involuntary muscle spasm – which makes penetration impossible or at the very least a painful experience. It’s a reflex. Just like when you know you need those eye drop in your eye, but unless someone helps you hold the lids open, odds are your eyelids will involuntarily close to protect your eye every time.

I soon found out that my brand of vaginismus is primarily psychosomatic. It’s all in the mind! All I had to do was tell myself I could do this. I started to scan through the situations that might induce this vaginal response. According to my source, vaginismus can be a response to rape, fear of penetration, UTI, yeast infection, general trauma, stress, anxiety, the list went on and on for miles of depth and detail. And then I found my answer.

In so doing, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I found the root of it.  I instantly remembered the little seed that had made its home in my mind and whose roots had somehow taken control of my body without my permission.

I was 14 years old when I read And The Bride Wore White by Dannah Gresh. It wasn’t the first book on sexual purity I had read, nor would it be the last. While other kids my age were familiarizing themselves with their new found hormones, I was devouring the sexual purity lifestyle section of the Christion bookstore. I was kissing dating goodbye before I had even shaken its hand and said hello.

And the Bride Wore White drew upon the glory of female sexuality; the power of the body and how wonderful a gift it was from God. Sex was good. Sex was great. But it had would all fall to pieces in your hand if you did not make sure you enjoyed it under the watchful care of specific rules and regulations.

Hidden in the margins there was a little piece about the hymen. In short, the author pointed out that every time God made a covenant with a person in the Bible, blood was used as a symbol to seal it, making it binding. From the cutting of the foreskin to Jesus’ death on the cross. All of those were promises between God and man. And then there was the scared covenant of marriage. A promise between god, man, and woman. The tearing or stretching of the hymen resulted in the pouring of the blood to solidify that marriage. I thought that was the most romantic thing I ever read. How holy! How divine! How powerful my body seemed to be. Such a lofty calling for my cunt.

And so, dear reader, when I was 14, when all the other girls were having their first kiss and discovering boys, when all my classmates seemed to exploring their genitals, I was signing my vagina up. She had been volunteered as tribute. She would provide the blood needed to consummate the scared vow that is holy matrimony between a couple and their creator.

Heavy choice to make in my deepest heart of hearts for a 14-year-old. Don’t you think?

So the root of my problem? Strict conservative moral education. It’s right there on the list. You can find it on Wikipedia for yourself. Years later, it’s still taking a toll.


My mind often tells my body it’s insane. Why am I letting my vaginal healthy and regular checkup come to a full stop because of something as small and insignificant as a hymen? But just because your conscious can bring an issue to task, it’s no guarantee that your subconscious will simply let it go.  Not at first. Not right away. But I didn’t give up hope. No matter what lofty holy calling I may have imposed on my young vagina, she is only human after all.


He asked me to do it. For him. “Please,” he said into the phone, “slowly. Gently. Side a finger in. No pressure, darling. Simply try.” So I did. My hand was covered in my own mess. My skin was slippery; every inch of me, every nerve ending was on edge. I had been playing on the brink of my climax for almost an hour. And I was enjoying every second of it. I had told him about the situation the first time we had sexted.

We quickly progressed to phone sex and the simple sound of his voice alone was affecting me in the most amazing ways. Not to mention the dirty talk, which I was shocked to find myself growing to like more and more. So I did it. I tried. And I worked.

I remember gasping.

I heard him laugh on the other end of the line.

“Are you ok? Don’t do anything that will hurt you.”

“I’m ok. Actually, I’m in”

For a second he dropped the sexy phone voice. He let himself become excited and he rejoiced with me as I continued to laugh nervously.

Velvet. I felt pure, warm, wet, soft velvet. In that instant I knew that if I had a penis, I would – consensually – be shoving it into vaginas all the time! Inside of me felt beautiful. My partner broke my thoughts as he quickly came back to provide instruction.

“I’m more proud of you for trying than I am that you actually made it. But I’m glad you enjoyed that. Now, take it easy, let your body take a rest from that point and talk to me. Tell me everything you’re going to do now as you make yourself cum.” And I did. I could feel myself tightening around my finger. As I came, I felt my body radiate each and every orgasmic contraction from the inside out.

I would be lying if I said I have been cured by some sexual miracle. I haven’t. It takes more than simply waving my hand in front my labia and announcing open sesame. Since then I have only managed to do it once again under similar circumstance. What’s more, I was extremely sore for the entirety of the following day and into the night. I still can’t use a tampon. It closes up like a clam. Edging my body until it is at the point where my brain will let me do anything in order to reach the peak of pleasure helps. Which also means that it happens when I am being deeply submissive. Making it a command that I reach my finger into myself before allowing me orgasm seems to help.

But I am still figuring it out. I have hope that my mind will completely set my body free once I am ready to share and experience sex in its entirety with a partner I love and trust. I’m sure I will manage to work in much more than a finger. And even now I can feel my mind shifting the focus of its sexual fantasies. Sure, I want my first few times to feel somewhat like rom-com movie sex. But I have a much darker side as well. My idea of romance has broadened to include fantasies of letting my partner deeply fuck me, bringing tears to my eyes that he will simply wipe away as he kisses my neck and relentlessly continues to fuck.

The Forbidden Fruit

I am sitting cross-legged on my bed in my pajamas, which almost always consist of a large overgrown t-shirt with the neck cut off. I push my glasses back up my nose and I pick up the pretty purple box. I pretend to be impressed as I read all of the features featured in the fine print. Then I put the box back down and look at it once again from afar. I throw it a bit of side eye as I study the blatant stereotypical gender marketing package. Purple. Shiny purple. How sweet. How thoughtful. But I won’t complain. Truth be told, I’ll bet that light shade of lavender was a tiny drop of comfort in the sea of fucks I actually very much gave at the fear of being found standing in the aisle at Target considering the purchase only a few hours earlier.

So let me take a few steps back.

When I made my way to Target, I swear to you, I walked in looking for a watch. That’s it. I was in need of a new wristwatch. I am one of those people who still wears one. And as I examined each watch comparing it to my wrist, I couldn’t help but notice the time. It was late. And I still hadn’t had dinner. And there was no way was going to find the time to get home, unload, eat, work, write, wash dishes, AND – um – find alleviation.

I am currently on the tail end of my ovulation week. Now, I’m sure The Cycle is different for every woman, but for me there is an inconvenient sense of extreme arousal during this time of the month. It’s only fair. My body is ready for sperm to crash land in my uterus and make a baby. So my biology kicks into high gear to try and compensate for my amazing virginal resistance by driving me insane with desire. I tend to tame the beast on my own. If you catch my drift.

But for some reason this just hasn’t been my week. The late nights. The early mornings. The work, the errands, the chores. I’m left with less than a few hours in between. I haven’t been able to take some time and ease out of the pent-up tension.

Frustration set in. I pulled out my phone to vent to the anonymous world of the internet and I opened my Whisper app to let the world know that:

“I wish vibrators were common place. I wish I could just pick one up next time I swung by Target.”

But not long after having posted the whisper I began to wonder if I was wrong. What if I could buy a vibrator at Target? After making my way through bathroom wares and small electronics, I headed towards to the pharmacy. I tried my best to discreetly study the wall of condoms to see if I could spot a small black box simply labeled “vibrator” in braille…. So that no one would be able to glance at what it was I was buying and judge me from a distance. It seems like a good product packaging idea to me!

I scanned between the lubes and the vaginal washes, then to the left and to the right, but found nothing. It was only wishful thinking. I simply moved on and gave up.

If you’ve used Whisper, you know how this works. When someone posts about sexuality, messages begin to flood in. People like talking to people about sex. Which is easy to do when you’re talking to a virtual room full of strangers. Somewhere between the offers for non-committal hookups, one message simply read,

“You can.”

I was shocked. Could I? So I asked to make sure. My new pen pal replied,

“Yeah. Lol. They are by the condoms.”

“Really?” I typed back, “Because I was literally just there.”

But the text from this stranger made me wonder if I had missed it. I had to double check. I had to know if I was right. I’m no quitter. So I made my way back to the shelf of shame. And this time I looked. I really looked. And there it was. Only twenty four dollars with ninety nine cents plus the guts to actually go up to the register and buy the thing stood between me and the ownership of my first very own sex toy. As I held it in my hand, I hesitated.

It’s not like this was the first time it had ever crossed my mind to purchase a toy. Every pay period I scroll through dozens of groupon offers that promise “discreet” packaging. Which I considered a huge buying factor for me even though I live alone. No one has to what you buy online. Better yet, no one sees you buy it. Yet here I was. About to be in line. Not online. In a family friendly store no less.

The stress barely settled when I decided to text one of the few friends I knew I would be able to safely discuss this with. Thank God for her. She had the gall to laugh with me and ask me how I felt about it. And that was a great question. One that I thought about on the way home.


In our sex savvy world, it seems like the norm. It’s no big deal! So what. A female who enjoys her own pleasure. Not a rarity. It’s something we’re slowly learning how to shed some light on. But for a grown woman who has been raised in a wonderful, yet sexually stringent religious community, the simple act of adding the little purple box to my shopping basket is a very big deal. Most girls discover masturbation relatively early on. And although it’s heavily frowned upon and portrayed as a sin, I have very little doubt that “everyone does it.” And it’s fairly easy to get away with; maybe even justify. Sometimes you just “have to.” Blame idle hands. Blame your hormones. Blame the sex on TV.

I have only recently been able to move past feeling a sense of overwhelming shame about it. And that guilt is hard to let go of when your earliest introductions to sexual education came from books and beliefs claiming that a female’s orgasm belongs to her husband. It is a gift from God for two to share only under the bonds of holy matrimony. For a woman to find pleasure by any other means is nothing short of a sin because you would, in fact, be stealing. From your husband. Even if you don’t have one. A husband, that is.  This kind of literature even goes as far as to suggest that you could ruin sex for you and your partner in the future. A female who masturbates runs the risk of conditioning herself to find pleasure in her own touch alone. A man might not be as gentle and as well-practiced in what pleases her. And heaven forbid she try to figure it out to show him. Better let him figure the complex system that is the female sex organ all on his own.

But I beg you, be slow to judge. When I was a kid, that was one of the most romantic notions I had ever heard. A bit of me still dreams about how awesome it would be for my significant other and me to figure what makes us both blush together. But on paper, I gave that idea up a while ago. I decided that my body and my orgasm are mine and mine alone until further notice. If I had a “situation” that needed tending to, I’d gladly take care of it myself. By now I know what I like. But in purchasing a toy, I’m taking this a step further. Getting off would no longer be something I “have to” do every once in a while. It would become something I conscientiously want to do. Something I want to do well.


A little bit of day-dream died the moment I got home and texted my friend the truth. I’m scared. That’s how I feel. Trying something sexually new is always slightly daunting. Even something as small as a vibrator. I’d always dreamed of sharing things like this with someone. Although I can say I was conditioned to believe that, I think it’s something we all feel from time to time. You can’t deny that a great orgasm is meant to be shared. An orgasm is simply so powerful that it can’t be contained. That’s kind of the point of it. And I do feel the lack of having someone there to enjoy the overflow of what so wonderfully wells up in me.

So I sit here with my sealed purple box and wonder, would I wish I had waited? Would the lonely pain of not having a partner enjoy me as much as I do outweigh the pleasure taking this adventure independently with my own body? It may seem cliché, but I feel like Eve – in that moment right after she’s taken the fruit from the low-hanging branch but right before she’s bitten into it. What will be the price of my knowing?

I’m not sure when I’ll open my purple Pandora’s Box. And if I do, I don’t know what I’ll discover about my body and how it reacts to the new sensations. But that is only for me to know, and for the man I decide to share sex with to find out.

The Question

I’m not sure why The Question chose that moment to hit me full force. It may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I was listening to the Huffington Post’s Sex and Love podcast with more gusto than usual. It could have also been due to the fact that I had been feeling lonely, which is not a very common feeling for me. Some flood gate of desire been opened and lately I find myself craving another body; another soul to share with. Maybe even a relationship with a “special someone.”  It felt as though every existential crisis I have ever had (they have become much too frequent now that I have come to terms with the fact that am an adult whether I like it or not) felt on top of me all at once. I should have seen it coming, but it was still unexpected.

However I chose to answer this question would force me to face a side of myself I had been taught to stifle. It’s a side of me I have invested money and time into books and retreats to learn about. But I have also been warned against exploring it on my own, or even at all, in some cases. This confrontation wasn’t going to be easy. This wasn’t about to be as cut and dry as I had been told to see it. And it’s a question everyone seems to answer differently depending on how imaginative they are willing to get to justify its answer.

So as the podcast hosts continued to answer intimate questions, I had to ask myself A Question of my own. A Question I have always had an answer for; A Question whose ready, resounding “YES” did in fact signify that my character had a sense of value, admiration, and respect in a many circles. That yes meant that I was an obedient, well raised daughter. That simple, three-letter, word made me an ideal, suitable, possible future spouse regardless of any other less valued though objectionable quality because my prefaithfulness was intact. That simple incontestable “yes” made me a good Christian. Even a better Christian than some in the eyes of most. That was a stigma that had always bothered me on too many levels. My strong little “yes” was also a piece of information that I was shocked to find so sexualized. Many men were aroused by what they perceived as my innocence and purity.

Clearly it weighed heavily on how people viewed me. I’ve always been so sure of the answer, that I was shocked to find myself in doubt. I had to ask – well, myself – if it was really true.

Am I a virgin?

For the longest time, I thought so. And on a level, I think I think I still do think so. But lately, I’m not actually so sure. The strong harsh lines I used to color inside of have started to blur. I find myself not so comforted by the familiar black and white paradigm – but more so drawn to the realization that my sexuality and virginity have begun to feel better defined by shades of gray.* As I faced The Question, I realized that I may not be such a virgin anymore. I understand the movement to eradicate that as a way to judge people and specifically women, but my realization shook me to the core. It was and is a large part of my identity. Granted, I’m very far from experienced, but I at the same time, my innocence is no longer directly correlated with naiveté.

I found myself actually mourning the loss a little. I wasn’t sure what I lost really, but I felt it. I’ve always dreamed of “saving it” to share with “someone special.” How cliché is that!? lets not even dive into what “it” is of what qualifies a partner as “special” but It’s just as true as it is cheesy.

Yet, I felt a sense of gratitude and acceptance for all the things I had discovered. I have learned so much about myself and others; gained insight into the details that I never even dreamed would matter in what makes a tender and caring sex partner. I learned about myself; what I like to hear, what I like to feel, and what I enjoy. I also became aware of what arouses me and draws me towards an experience and also what makes me cringe and pull away. I even surprised myself a few times. I realized how far I am willing to go to please a partner once they have entrusted their pleasure to me.

So I guess I’ll call this a journal; a diary. A log of sorts. Call it a manifesto, a justification, or a simple collection of the things I’ve learned and the partners I’ve learned them with. And it better be worth it. I gave up more than I was planning or expecting to along the way. I hope what I found is worth the slivers of virginity I lost. To some, I am still a virgin. To others, I lost it long before this little experience. But I’m the one that gets to answer The Question. It’s my call. And this is the complex, scary, and sometimes funny story of how I simply became virginish.

* I swear to Buddha, no pun intended.