I'm not dead!

Hi all,

It's been a long time since I've updated, but I'm planning to get this blog up and running again. There aren't a lot of resources out there for people with vulvodynia and for people who can't, or don't want to, have PIV sex, and I'm proud to be one of them.

I've had a very exhausting few years. Those of you who know me in real life will remember that I've had multiple suicide attempts because of the mental illnesses that I didn't even know I've had. I'm still in the process of getting better and getting my life back on track, but I want to get back to blogging because I have a lot of things to say about PIV sex.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with an amazing thong that pushes consent and recognizes that women don't all want PIV:

Blackheart Lingerie also offers "yes," "maybe..." and "later" thongs. It reminds me of the Pink Loves Consent campaign, which I can't support enough.

You have to sign up in order to buy from Blackheart, but there is no catch. It isn't a monthly service. My one issue with them is that I ordered from them over a month ago and haven't received my thongs yet, but I was out of town and had my mail held, so I suspect that I'm dealing with a post office issue and not an issue with Blackheart Lingerie.

(I am not paid to endorse any products on this blog, so this is my sincere recommendation!)

This is about my pussy.

This is about my pussy.

No, for once, this isn’t about how you don’t know what to do with it. This isn’t about how you keep it zipped tight inside my jeans, aching to be let loose like when you lick along the seams of it and set me free. This isn’t about how you stroke your fingers across it once, twice, three times, calling this fair payment for the half hour I worked my raw hand against your body to the breathy rhythm of your “don’t stop now”s.

This is about how my pussy isn’t broken. My pussy won’t spread herself open for you, won’t even deign herself to try, but it’s not a fatal flaw. My pussy’s at the prime of her life, pulsing with wet and heat and wanting. My pussy doesn’t need all this estrogen cream, all these dilators and all your sympathy. She saves her wet heat for the days when she wants me to come hard with your dick in my mouth and one finger creeping inside her; and the other days, she makes my pleasure silky-smooth and nebulous when your tongue writes her love letters and your fingertips trace the spot that makes my hips buck.

My pussy doesn’t mean I’m stuck in limbo, doomed to die a virgin who never knew pleasure. Me, I like fucking. I like you on your hands and knees, waiting for me to lick the salty sweat of your ass and circle its outline until your moans are so loud my ears ring. I pushed inside, once, and felt you wet and tight around my finger as my pussy grew slick, eager, ecstatic.

But you told me, “stop,” and I pulled out of you and said goodbye.

Maybe neither of us were built for fucking, and that’s okay.

The Myth of "Real" Sex

It’s been a long time since I’ve updated Sex Without PIV, mainly because I didn’t feel like I was in a place where I could write about having a healthy sexuality. My lack of confidence stemmed from having an unusually stubborn anal fissure, meaning that I’ve had to hold off on having anal sex for the last six months or so. (Sidenote: If you engage in any kind of anal sex, go slowly and use double the lube you think you need! My preferred lube, Slippery Stuff, comes in a 16 oz. monstrosity of a container and I still somehow didn’t use enough.)

At first, giving up anal didn’t seem like a big deal. It’s one of my favorite things to do in bed, but I figured there were enough other things to keep me and my partner occupied that I wouldn’t miss it. What I didn’t count on was the way my self-esteem plummeted once I stopped having penetrative sex.

Being unable to have vaginal sex has always left me feeling awkward and virginal, but anal sex seemed close enough to PIV that I started to feel sexually “normal.” Buying sex toys that I could actually use for penetration made me feel more sexually liberated than the years I’d spent reading sex-positive blogs and going to sexual health events. (I tend to feel out of place, sure I’m the one person in the room who won’t benefit from the buckets of free condoms or the discussions of g-spot orgasms.) Besides that, anal sex makes me feel good in a way that vaginal stimulation never could–the second time I was anally fingered, I came so hard I was literally seeing stars.

But now I’ve realized that I wasn’t owning my sexuality as much as I thought I was. Society makes it very clear that PIV is the only kind of sex that is considered real, going so far as to colloquially define “sex” as the insertion of a penis in a vagina. Since anal sex tends to be seen as PIV’s dirtier, sexier sister, after having anal, I could finally relax with the knowledge that I had an acceptable sexuality. I was buying into the ugly stereotype that every woman is a virgin until she’s been penetrated by a penis (one that isn’t a dildo, anyway), that lesbians can’t have real sex because there are no dicks involved, and that not having penetrative sex is somehow shameful.

“I don’t really see anal sex as sex,” a college boyfriend told me once. My first reaction was to brand him as a dick–sex involves two people, and as the receptive partner, I was placing too much trust in him to have my experience invalidated. But then he confided that he felt inferior to his friends who seemingly had PIV with a different woman every night, and that he’d be ridiculed if they knew he wasn’t having “real” sex with me. Regardless of whether or not he even enjoyed PIV sex, he was expected to have it, and have a lot of it. So society’s narrow definition of sex hurts men, too: I doubt most men who are shamed for being virgins have really never had any kind of sex.

Even knowing that society’s concept of sex is flawed, I still struggle with feeling sexual when being penetrated is out of the equation. I really enjoy giving oral sex: I’ve had more orgasms from giving blowjobs than from any other sex act. But for a while, every time I gave oral sex, I got stuck thinking that I was only doing it because I couldn’t have penetrative sex. Never mind that even if I could have PIV, I know I would still enjoy oral a lot more. So in some ways, I feel good about not being able to have PIV: I know that I’m really exploring myself sexually instead of sticking with a method of sex that probably wouldn’t have worked for me in the first place.

In short, penetrative sex is absolutely not the only real kind of sex. Defining sexuality as having PIV sex ignores everyone who can’t have PIV, or who simply enjoys other forms of sex better. If you’re meeting your sexual needs in a healthy way–whether this is through having penetrative sex, or giving a lot of blowjobs, or something else altogether–you’re having real sex. Period.

Sex Toy Review: OhMiBod's Club Vibe

OhMiBod’s Club Vibe was the first vibrator I ever bought, and the fact that it’s still my most-used vibrator speaks volumes about how incredible it is. The Club Vibe is a tiny yet powerful bullet vibrator meant mainly for external stimulation. It’s fairly pricey for a bullet vibrator at $49, but in my opinion it’s worth every penny. Its small size–it’s only 1 1/2 inches long and less than half an inch wide–makes it especially compatible with my sensitive body, which is a definite plus. But the Club Vibe’s best feature is its ability to plug into any mp3 player and vibrate in time to the music being played, allowing you to literally get off to music.

Because the Club Vibe can vibrate to any of the thousands of songs in your music library, it’s extremely customizable. I’ve found that the changing vibrations that occur with music are eons more pleasurable than the predictable vibrating patterns of most bullet vibrators. Experimenting with how different songs translate into vibrations makes the vibrator even more interesting. Most of the songs on my sex playlist, like “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails, work predictably well with the Club Vibe, but I’ve also found a lot of surprises. “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses has gotten me off so many times that I’m now at the point where just hearing the song on the radio turns me on. It’s also nice to be able to choose slower, gentler songs on days when I’m more sensitive.

The Club Vibe advertises itself as being able to vibrate in time to any noises it picks up, such as the music being played at clubs. It even includes a free one-size-fits-all thong with an opening for the vibrator (but since the Club Vibe is so small, it fits comfortably into most panties I own). If you’re looking for something to get you off at the clubs, I’d go with more traditional vibrating panties, though. The Club Vibe’s ability to vibrate to sounds is sporadic at best and completely non-functional at worst, making this feature a disappointment.

Besides these two features, the Club Vibe also functions as a typical bullet vibrator for when you feel like getting off the old-fashioned way. It works extremely well as a normal vibrator: the intensity of the vibrations is completely adjustable (although the vibrations can become very intense if you want them to be), and there are seven different vibration patterns to choose from.

Something else I love about the Club Vibe? It comes with a small velvety package to store it in, making it both inconspicuous and easily transportable.

Overall grade: A

Navigating Sex With a New Partner

Dating can be scary, and it’s especially terrifying for those of us who can’t or don't have PIV sex. Because PIV sex is the norm in society, sex partners may automatically assume that you’re into it unless you tell them otherwise. But explaining that you can’t have vaginal sex isn’t exactly the greatest first date conversation starter. So how do you let a new sexual partner know that you’re not okay with vaginal sex without scaring them off?

1. Set boundaries
Tell your partner early on how far you want your sexual encounter to go. When things start getting hot and heavy, let them know that you’re okay with what’s happening, but that you don’t intend to have sex with them. You don’t have to go into detail about your situation–just make it clear that you don’t want vaginal sex during this particular hookup. If you’re afraid of ruining the moment, offering a sexy alternative never hurts (think “can I give you head/eat you out instead?”).

2. Make sure you have enthusiastic consent
Enthusiastic consent is the idea that agreeing to something because you’re excited to do it is more important than simply consenting to it. Basically, don’t let your partner convince you to do anything that you’re not 150% into. If you aren’t enthused about something that you’re doing in bed–especially if it’s hurting you in a way you don’t like, or it doesn’t turn you on–stop doing it.

Don't forget to get your partner’s consent, either. If you’re not sure if you have enthusiastic consent, check in with your partner and see if they’re still enjoying what’s going on. A simple “is this okay?” or “does this feel good?” works wonders.

3. Communicate
Tell them what feels good (hint: you don’t have to use words) and what doesn’t. Chances are, what you like is very different from what your partner’s exes and past hookups liked, and your partner should respect that. Don’t be shy about explaining that some things hurt you, either–unless you’re hooking up with a douchebag, he or she definitely wants to know. Good communication also entails really listening to your sex partner: be aware that they also have boundaries that you don't know about yet.

4. Live in the moment
Try not to stress about what would happen if your partner found out that you can't or don't have vaginal sex. Save your worries for later and enjoy the moment!

Vulvodynia and Me

“I’m never going to have sex.” It was the evening after my sex education class in fifth grade. My sweet, approachable teacher had tentatively brought up the idea that some people thought sex felt good, and my mind was reeling. This was a preposterous lie, I knew–sex was a necessary evil that some people went through in order to have children, and I wasn’t going to be one of them.

“Don’t you want to have a baby someday?” My mother probed, probably assuming my apprehension was due to that typical childhood disgust of cooties and romance.

“I’m going to adopt,” I told her resolutely. Even before I understood the logistics of sex, I had a vague idea of how babies were born, and I’d made up my mind at a surprisingly young age never to procreate. I didn’t dislike children–I just couldn’t picture myself giving birth.

The disconnect between my body and my desires only deepened when I went through puberty. Outwardly, I wasn’t any different from my middle school peers. I idolized Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp (this was the era of the first few Pirates movies) and the rebellious boy in my grade who skipped class to smoke on the playground. My pastimes included watching striptease videos of a voluptuous woman named Keyra and fantasizing about whether the cute boys in my classes wore boxers or briefs.

But the idea of putting anything inside my vagina left me deeply uncomfortable. I couldn’t watch porn because seeing something as big as a penis inside someone else’s vagina made me squeamish. Even lesbian porn left me squicked due to the haphazard way the women raked their long, sharp fingernails over–and even more horrifyingly, into–such sensitize flesh. Everyday experiences such as going to the gynecologist, watching childbirth scenes in movies and discussing female genital mutilation in class left me unbearably anxious.

Eventually I decided this was a personal flaw and I just didn’t have the balls to have sex. Medical professionals reinforced this viewpoint: even gentle investigations of my genitals left me in serious pain, but my protests were never taken seriously. One nurse even told me my problem was that I was “uptight.”

It wasn’t until the first time someone tried to get me off that I knew something was wrong. I hadn’t dated much, assuming that nobody would be interested in a girl who couldn’t have sex. But when a guy I’ll call Dweezil asked me out, I knew I had to take the chance. Dweezil was astoundingly hot as well as funny and charismatic, so I’d been harboring what I thought was an unrequited crush on him for months. Our impending date left me incredibly turned on and too excited about getting intimate with him to worry about my pain.

As it turns out, Dweezil was as amazing in bed as I’d thought. Our first kiss left me wetter than I’d thought I could get, and the chemistry between us only got steamier from there. Soon enough he had his hand in my panties, caressing my clit–and while I liked what he was doing, it didn’t feel good. In fact, it hurt, even when I told him to be gentler.

To some extent, I could understand not wanting to be penetrated. But I knew clitoral stimulation was supposed to feel good, was supposed to lead to mind-blowing orgasms the likes of which I couldn’t even imagine.

So I swallowed my pride and mentioned my problem to my gynecologist’s nurse practitioner. Almost immediately, she placed a pamphlet in my hands and told me I had vulvodynia–one of many female sexual disorders involving vulvar and vaginal pain and sensitivity. The pain is difficult to treat and it will take years of physical therapy before I can attempt to have PIV (penis-in-vag) sex.

But somehow, my diagnosis was reassuring. Having vulvodynia means that there’s nothing wrong with my sex drive or my sexuality. I’m a fully sexual person who just can’t have vaginal sex, and that’s okay. (Besides that, I have friends who don’t enjoy PIV sex, or who don’t feel safe having it, and that’s okay too.)

There are thousands of people who can’t–or don’t want to–be vaginally penetrated. But that in no way means that people who don’t engage in vaginal sex can’t have hot, active sex lives. Despite my therapy, I’m still in pain almost constantly, and on most days involving my genitals during sex is difficult or even unthinkable. But my sex life isn’t deteriorating: on the contrary, I can’t imagine how it could be better. And that’s why I created this blog: to showcase how to have an amazing sex life that doesn’t include vaginal sex.