In a bit more than ten days, I’ll be celebrating my 43rd birthday. At some unknown point in this long winter, I’ll be celebrating the 27th anniversary of losing my virginity. It’s kind of hard to tell which of the two is more pointy in terms of my sexlife.
It’s interesting being in my forties. I have to say that I find myself observing my physical-psychic seismic shifts with an odd detachment. I notice, for example, that I have more cellulite and then I notice I don’t really care. I notice with a flicker of horror that the tender skin on my inner arms is a bit less stretchy and I exhale a momentary sigh and then it’s gone.
My body is falling, slightly. My face is falling, slightly. My pictures are not as pretty as they once were. Yet what would have terrified me—what did terrify me—a few years ago I now accept with the loving objectivity of a Buddhist scientist.
I have sex with the lights on all the time.
I don’t remember the last time I had sex in the dark, unless you count my being blindfolded, and I don’t think you really should.
I find myself in a strange and alien Zenland of relationshipicity. I don’t really recognize this new territory in which I find myself, and I don’t feel all that fussed about it. Donny and I tread in some outer ring of relationship purgatory, and it’s cool. I don’t feel stressed that I am not married, have never been married, may never be married.
I admit I would like to have a more intimate relationship on a more regular basis, but I also recognize that there are advantages to my current state of independent principality. I am Lichtenstein. I may not be huge, but I am my own, and I’m content.
Which is not to say I’m not entirely opposed to being annexed at some point in my life. It is just to say that I’m not counting on it.
And I give all this preamble to talk about my pussy.
Or inexactly my pussy and more exactly my Smartballs. In a recent post, I declared my love for my Smartballs, and I had a bunch of readers write me questions about them, why I like them, whether they should purchase said balls for themselves or their partners.
In short, yes, you should.
And here’s why.
Being fortyish, I’ve noticed, though with less detachment and more excitement, that my sexuality is changing. I have noticed that I have, in recent years, grown bored by consistently vanilla bean sex. I have noticed a passion fruit craving for lavish sensation, for mental fucking as intense as any my pussy can accept, for toys and games and roles, for the indescribable profundity of ass sex. I have noticed, to be exact, a deep and visceral need for extreme sexual variety.
I have noticed that what I like has changed radically. I never would have enjoyed being fucked quickly and hard in my twenties or thirties. In fact, I distinctly remember hating it. I used to term it “rabbit fucking” and dismiss it out of hand.
Now I like it. And while it’s not something that gets me off all the time, it has gotten me off more than once, and I was surprised by that offgetting too.
I used to love getting head. I used to have long, lingering psychedelic orgasms from my lovers licking my pussy, especially in my twenties. I wanted nothing more than to lie back and be drawn gently into the lush and luscious visuals that prolonged pussy lapping provoked.
I saw tapestries. I saw baroque fabrics. I saw densely, intensely colored flowers with individual petals daubed with dew like some kind of realist oil painting. I had long and loving laserlight shows play on the insides of my eyelids as my lovers kissed, sucked, suckled and licked my cunt until I came in some kind of incendiary visual haze.
That doesn’t happen anymore. Indeed, I rarely come from cunnilingus anymore.
I can’t say I don’t miss it, but I can’t say that I do.
In my thirties I found the ability to suspend my pleasure in some kind of slo-mo animation, and my partner C and I would hang there with each other, embracing in this celestial space, until we could hang no longer, and intertwined Aeschylus we would come and crash to the ground.
I haven’t lost that starfuckery, though I haven’t soared in quite the same way again either.
I have noticed in my forties that in addition to new and rabid hungers have come orgasms stronger and more powerful than any I’d experienced before. It’s hard for me to parse whether my middling-agey acceptance of my body and my sexuality and all that jazz and jism is at the volcanic core of this intensity, of if my aging body has given me some gifts to recompense me for my losses.
Ok, less elasticity in my skin, but more orgasms so intense that they make my entire abdomen sore the next day.
(I’ll take the orgasms. You young things, you enjoy your springy skin.)
The thing, then, that I have most realized is that change is inevitable and that my sexuality is no more static than anything else, and thank freaking god for that. For, really, for years I thought that my sexuality was static. I grew up thinking, ok, I’ll learn new stuff, and I’ll enjoy new people, but, yup, basically I can expect this fucking to be that fucking to be that fucking to be this.
Which leads me to my Smartballs.
I had spent some time considering whether I wanted them, visiting them more than once at the Toys in Babeland in SoHo. I liked the idea of having some kind of toy that utilized my pelvic floor, for while I always have diligently done Kegels while riding the train, or masturbating, or standing in line, or during commercial breaks, I like to keep in shape.
I have a tight, tiny twat and I intend to keep it that way, thank you very much.
I looked at traditional Ben-Wa balls, and I looked at Smartballs, and I read a bunch of stuff to figure out what I wanted.
Eventually, I just went out and bought the Smartballs.
I don’t have good luck with this company that makes the Smartballs. The two sextoys I’ve bought that really, really didn’t work for me were made by this company. (I gave them both to my friend Becky Sue. They are silicone. She washed them. She enjoys them. She took me out to dinner to say thanks.) It was with some trepidation that I bought this toy from the same company, but I figured it was worth the gamble.
I inserted them on an afternoon when I knew I’d be having sex later with Donny. And, frankly, they hurt. They gave me cramps. Like tiny susurrations of period cramps, and that’s not so fun.
But the sex I had after, later on that afternoon, was really pretty good. So I gave them another try, inserting them again before seeing Donny, and again removing them before we actually started fucking. When we had sex that night, I found my body very excited from very early on in our sex. When he gave me head, I got very close to coming very quickly, which is very unusual for me (I so rarely come from head anymore. Ch-ch-ch-changes).
Being an astute observer and really rather good at induction, I realized the Smartballs were helping.
The next time, I put them in an hour or so before Donny and I started fooling around, and I kept them in, letting him see the string dangling down between my pussy lips when he undressed me.
Donny, of course, loves sex toys. He loves watching me use them, he loves using them on me, he just loves them. He is, of course, a geek, and he does love gear.
When he gave me head, he noticed that my clit, normally small and elusive as those tiny cat-size Indonesian deer, was fulsome and engorged. My pussy lips too were puffy. And I was wetter than wet and hotter than Georgia asphalt in the summertime.
Looping the string around his finger, Donny took the balls out of me, popped out first one orb and then the other, and expressed shock at how big the balls were. We fucked, finally, and I had one gigantic orgasm under him, my hips reaching toward the ceiling, his body upright on his knees, his cock embedded in my cunt.
Then, fifteen minutes later riding him, I had another orgasm, one so strong and so involuntary I grunted with the strain. I could feel my pussy pulsating outward/inward, like a sea anemone swallowing its prey.
Pretty much those orgasms confirmed my belief about the Smartballs. And since I have been using them consistently—either as part of foreplay or when masturbating—I’ve been having seriously joyfully intense orgasms.
These silicone balls are weighted and strung together, and each ball has some kind of ball bearing floating about inside them. When I have them inside me and I’m just walking around and doing my thang, I can feel them bumping bumping up against my g-spot, and while it won’t make me come, it’s pleasurable.
When I masturbate with them, I sometimes tug on the string with one hand so that the lower ball rubs against my g-spot. The balls have slight indentations scored on their sides, so it’s entirely possible that these grooves give extra friction. I always concentrate on the muscles in my pussy, tightening and releasing them, sucking them in and pooching them out, when I wear the balls. I have found that as I wear them more frequently I have much better control of my muscles, can clench them much harder, and get more excited with my pussy muscle play.
Which is kind of cool, really.
And the point of this very round post, this very elliptical post, this writing that loops in on itself again and again, is this: change means that I never know of what I am capable.
I can do things I never thought I could.
And I know this in part because my pussy has taught me so.