The first time we ever had sex, eight years ago, he drove me up the nearby mountain. We hiked up a trail, and went off trail, where we took off our clothes and lay down on them, making ourselves a forest bed. I touched his body. I rubbed his dick with my hand, and sucked it. I didn’t swallow, back then. I didn’t swallow for at least a year. Then he made me come also. I was glad we did it. But there was a long journey to go. That mountain is sacred to me. I had no idea he would be extremely important to me, longterm.
I liked when he peed on me. It didn’t feel like I expected. It was warmer and with more force. I liked peeing on him also. He wanted me to spread my cunt open with my fingers so he could see the pee coming out better. I tried to do it how he wanted.
I really needed to heal my PTSD and didn’t know enacting past trauma in a safe way would be the best possible thing for me. No one told me to do that–I was just getting off on it. That was a good two years. I enjoyed him calling me names, hitting me mostly on the face, threatening me, telling me what to do, and hurting me physically. I liked saying no and him pretend-violating me. It was power play and pain play. We slip into it very rarely now. I realize it’s happening and feel excited. But mostly I stopped needing that, and we don’t have enough privacy here.
I liked when we were helping a friend move. She was leaving her boyfriend, and we were helping her pack and get her things out of there. She and someone else took a load to her storage unit, and he and I were alone in her apartment. He sat on her couch, and I knelt in front of him on the floor. I sucked his dick, and I remember hurrying to the bathroom and spitting his semen into the sink, washing it down the drain. It was the first year, and I still wasn’t swallowing.
Sex in the living rooms of friends when we were traveling. Sex every day, twice a day. The nights we’d set the alarm for every two hours, to have sex and then sleep, more sex, sleep some more. Or specific things we were pretending.
I was thinking about all the teenage boys who pressured me for sex, the one who would stand behind me and rub his erection on the upper part of my ass. I asked my love to lie behind me and rub his dick there, put coconut oil there, and I pushed back against him as he rubbed himself on me faster, holding my shoulders tightly. I felt him come there, spasming against me. It resolved something.
When I was a kid, sex was shame–the smell of my own cunt on my fingers. Then when I was a teenager, it was pain of being pressured and duped, looking for love with people who didn’t know how to love yet. Then as a young adult, my body didn’t feel like it was mine. Now I can do what I want, know how to say no, and I’m not afraid anymore.