I wrote about the first time I remember feeling kinky a little while ago here. It's "part un" of the firsts, because I've got a lot of kink firsts (and will continue to have, I think). Lots of beginnings and new discoveries and revelations. Which sounds a little culty, but it's true, and part of why I continue to love this life as much as I do.
I was a wee lass when I started to like heretofore learned-as "kinky things," but I was almost twenty before I first experienced anything In Real Life, as they say. Like a lot of things I learned as a teenager, the first time wasn't exactly the safest, or most thought out, and I didn't use that fantastic "sense of judgment" my parents regularly boast about. With a lot of things, that doesn't matter as much (smoking pot, for instance. Oh no, I got to stoned! Oh... well, I won't do that again... and in the meantime, I'm going to find some oreos...*); with kink, I think it matters more. I wouldn't trade the way I got here for anything, I think my first foray could have been afforded a little more planning, and some better communication. But that's the not the point of this, really. The point it to tell a (maybe sort of sexy and interesting) story.
*I recognize that this situation could go bad for many people; what I'm trying to stress here is not that other gone-bad experiences can't be as dangerous or destructive as kink-gone-bad; rather, I think that kink, because of the nature of the things it plays with, has a greater possibility to go bad. Like, juggling with bowling pins or juggling with flaming bowling pins; both can hurt, but one begs more caution at the outset than the other.
I was a sophomore in college, sexually active since I was fifteen, and having bunches and bunches of fun. Before my encounter with Jeffry*, I'd slept with men and women, and significantly older men on occasion. I hadn't really been in any kind of serious or long term relationships, save for a very complicated off-again on-again situation with a boy back home. We'd continue to be off-again on-again who-knows-again for many years after, but that's neither here nor there.
* This isn't his real name. Nobody's name here is real, which is actually sort of fun. I get to pick names that sound right, or feel right, for people I know. I just have to extra careful not to refer to them that way In Real Life.
Jeffry was in my drama-lit class. He was six four, broad shoulders, teeth like a horse and big broad eyebrows. He wasn't particularly smart, but he had a serious sense of stage presence and honed flirtation skills. So much so that I found him sort of preposterous and fake at times, but initially, managed to gloss over those minor details. Because that's what you do when you're smitten with someone; the haze of a crush, while softening the edges to perfection, can impair visibility something awful.
Jeffry and I flirted, and sat next to each other in class. I'd rip his arguments apart, and he'd try to convince me "what I really meant was..." after class. Being the impetuous, fiery lady I am (others' words, not mine), my masochistic/submissive curiosities came up conversation, and rather than discuss them, Jeffry's flirtation just sort of... shifted. Like, he'd grab my arm and hold it in place when he wanted to make a point. Or he'd make jokes about me "liking it," standing straight and tall behind me with a hand pinching my shoulder.
And so he and his girlfriend had been fighting, and we'd been talking more and more, and late one night there came the phone call. I remember being in the sort of knowing-but-not-knowing-what-was-going-to-happen place that makes new things so exciting. That perfect balance of probability and uncertainty that allows hope to flourish and adds a pinch of nervous butterflies; the lack of a sure thing allowing for a kind of fearlessness, coupled with anticipation, that tastes so sweet. I sat on the balcony of my dorm room and watched for him. He walked across the fields below, long steps, wearing what he always wore at night: a long trench coat with big buckles and a wide brimmed black hat. Which should have been a tip off from the start.
He cried on my lap when he got there. Cried about his relationship ending, cried about having feelings for me and not being able to do anything about them. We talked and talked and it got later and later, breaching almost to the point where it isn't so much very late anymore, but moderately early. And then he took me by the waist and kissed me. He kissed like a slobbery dog, the kind you love a lot; not unpleasant, but his mouth seemed to big for mine, and there was a lot of spit. I honestly can't remember what it was like, the actual physical, sexual aspects of that night. I was swept up in what I know now to be the kinkier aspects of what was going on, and I didn't so much care what he kissed like.
He didn't ask my permission (consent was there; I was enthusiastic, but there was none of the hesitant, careful touching I'd encountered with boys in the past). He ripped my skirt, covered my mouth with his hand, and, in my single dorm bed, rested the weight of his whole body on top of mine. I felt used, dominated, like I couldn't speak or resist, like I wasn't allowed to breath even, all in the best way. But as it turns out, his mouth wasn't the only thing that was a bit big (that part, I do remember). It hurt when he fucked me, and not for lack of lubrication, but because he was painfully large. It felt like something was tearing, like a burning, and I cried a little. At the time, I remember thinking "I don't like this, but I'm supposed to like this, I'm supposed to like pain, and we've talked about me liking pain, and I can't just stop things in the middle, and..." He asked, towards the end, "are you ready?" and I nodded as best I could, although I had no idea what he meant. In retrospect, it might have been "are you ready to come?" or "are you ready for me to come?" but regardless, come he did, and then it was over. I felt relief when he pulled out, and feel asleep shortly afterward.
Let me be clear: yes, it hurt, and yes, I should have said something, but I didn't ever want him to stop. This is a story about the growing pains of me finding my kinky self, not a story about sexual assault. That's not what it was, for me anyway (and in this case, I think it's me who matters).
He stayed the night in my dorm room, and left early in the morning. I remember waking up and wanting nothing but for him to leave. He stayed and cuddled me for a while, but I just wanted space; I wanted my space back. I think that had less to do with the kink, and more to do with the fact that I actually didn't like Jeffry that much. He walked back across the fields; I didn't watch, and went to breakfast by myself.
We slept together once more after that night, after a dance party in the student union. We walked down into the canyon, below the foot bridge covered in blue lights, called (surprise) the Blue Bridge. Under that Blue Bridge, in full view of those walking by (had they cared to look), Jeffry bent me over a picnic table and fucked me again. He pulled my hair and slapped me hard. He forced me to my knees, in the dirt, and pushed himself far back into my throat. And, again, I loved it.
I realize that there were a lot things that weren't so great about these, but I want to be absolutely clear - both encounters were consensual, and while I was learning my way through my own communication skills, I don't think Jeffry should have done anything differently, and I don't think (really) that I should have done anything differently. When I talk about not liking things, or wanting things to stop, it isn't meant in the "I felt like I couldn't speak up and felt like my consent was violated," or anything like that. I'm fairly certain I'm not apologizing for it after the fact here, either. I really do think I was trying to figure out what I wanted, and how I wanted it. I was learning through mistakes, which is definitely okay in my book.
And I did learn. I learned that I don't like genital pain, that I do like whispered questions or commands in my ear. I learned that I like that feeling of having my permission taken away (or rather, I like power exchange, and giving my power freely to someone else, which is what "permission taken away" is called in the language I have now). I learned that I like a person's full weight thrown upon me. I also learned, over time, that those things can feel even more awesome when I talk about them and negotiate them with my partner beforehand. That stopping a scene sucks, because I don't get to experience that scene, but it's way better than continuing with a scene I'm not comfortable in. I also learned I like the thrill of being found out, the feeling of other people watching, the scrape of wood splinters under my hands, the cut of pine needles against my knees and the stain of dirt smeared there afterward.
So, my first time around with kink wasn't the best, but looking back, none of my sex was very good back then. I never came, but more than that, I rarely experienced much pleasure. Sex was more about being vulnerable with someone, being naked with someone, and I liked penetration for other reasons, for the feeling of being taken, being used. You might even say that before I got sexual pleasure out of the act of sex, I got some of the kinky pleasure I couldn't find anywhere else.
Nowadays, the sex I have is on a different planet. I know I don't like that kind of pain, and that I can communicated with my partner. More so than this, the kinky parts of my life are about way more than sex, which is where they've always been from the get go.
After we'd slept together a few times, Jeffry confessed to me that he and his girlfriend hadn't ever broken up, and that I'd been fulfilling, unbeknownst to me, the "other women" role. We stopped sleeping together, and he told his girlfriend about everything that happened. At which point she broke off her engagement and wrote me an e-mail, after which Jeffry admitted that, prior to our little tryst, his girlfriend had in fact also been his fiance.
So that ended really fast, and post home-wrecker drama ensued. His ex and I actually bonded a bit (not at first - she was pretty mad), but after a while, he got the icy end of the stick from both of us. I moved on to other things, and we all lost touch.
So. What was the point of this again? Besides a story about kink? Maybe that, like anything you learn when you're young, kink has it's hiccups along the way. My hiccups were relatively mild, but I think I was lucky more than anything. Here's to better-negotiated picnic benches in the future.
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