The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Santa Vanilla

While out surfing the web, I came across a sex survey and my horns came out, a tail sprouted and I got all evil and cheeky at the same time. Oh, I was going to fill it out alright, because I think about sex a lot and as someone raised in a Catholic environment, it's probably a little more stimulating for me than it is for the ones raised in more permissive households. I started to fill in the answers and by the time I got about half way through, I stopped. If you think it's because I suddenly felt ashamed of myself, you'd be wrong. If you think it's because I decided I was far too mature or moralistic you'd also be incorrect. It also wasn't because someone came into the room and caught me doing it, or because I thought the survey itself was stupid or beneath me. I stopped because I realized something kind of important: I'm boring.

Once I got past the preliminaries, it dawned on me that for all my proclamations of sexual prowess, I actually haven't been that experimental in my sexual lifetime. I haven't had many partners, nor have I done anything I'd deem particularly jaw-dropping. I am vanilla. I am unperfumed bathwater. I am uninspiring, unworthy of lustful glances and licking lips. Frankly, I'm almost a saint.

But, my head isn't into it, this almost-purity of mine. I've been dirty-minded since I can remember. I've imagined sexual scenarios from an age so early I can't recall if I had the ability to speak or not. I had a crush on my next-door-neighbour when I was five. I tried to kiss him when I was seven. I dressed in my best for him whenever I could, hoping he'd be in his backyard when I would run through my own, in a long, flowing floral dress, somehow thinking I'd win his adoration just because I was a girl, and because I wasn't showing my scabby knees. It never worked, he always thought of me as the little kid next door but many years later, I had to ask myself what I had ever expected to come of that attraction. Did I just want kisses? Did I really want to see his 'thing'? Was the attraction even sexual on my part, or was it just about being liked? But, I had the urges, even then. I felt the stirring, the heat and the throbbing. I knew, without benefit of explanation, that he made me think about bodies touching bodies, and I liked it.

Somehow, over the course of many, many years, I managed to keep my virginity all to myself without once thinking of handing it over to whoever came looking for it. Despite my mental preoccupation with all things sex, I kept it tightly reined and refused to consider letting it go. I fantasized about one boy for four years, right up until high school began, before replacing him with another who was growing facial hair (how manly, to a fourteen-year-old). Then, I had about three simultaneous crushes happen when I was sixteen (loud, crashing mental orgies), before letting them go so I could focus on actually dating someone I had never included in my imaginary sex-fests, a guy I'd have never considered before, but who was persistent enough in asking me out that I eventually said yes out of boredom and mild curiosity. He tried to reach into the deep places, but I somehow knew he wasn't really worth the sacrifice, so I would push him away, tease him because I was coquettish and cruel. After him was a guy who had had much experience, having just broken up with a girl he'd been paired with for three years. I had no desire to have my first sexual experience as part of a rebound relationship, so I resisted him too, even though I knew he might have a little bit to offer in terms of technique. In retrospect, I have to say that I'm proud of the foresight I'd had then. It might have been fun, but I would have always had regret about being intimate with either of them.

Then, there was R. and it seemed right. It was for the love, though, not for the sex. It was quiet, and sensitive and in my own room. He was gentle, and frightened, just as I was and it...hurt. Not only did it hurt, his awkwardness and insecurities made it difficult and comical. I wasn't pleased with it, didn't see why there had been so much fuss over it, and I think we were both silent afterward, both wondering if we'd pleased the other. I suppose we'd have known the answer to that if we'd been less horrified about the whole thing, but in our seperate minds, we were both just relieved it was done, and that we'd actually loved one another. I am still glad that I never had sex with a random boy who didn't deserve a place in my memories. I had been nineteen. I had done something womanly when I was physically ready to do it. Tell me why, then, that I did not feel like a woman at all.

Thirteen years of hills and valleys followed. I faked it once or twice, but I am glad to report there wasn't much need to for the majority of our relationship. That said, I became disenchanted early on. Pregnancy scares, friction and puppy-dog eyes didn't do much for me, but I was committed, and I figured it was the same for everyone. Of course, there were some incredibly hot moments too, but because we were sharing a life together, because it wasn't anonymous, irresponsible humping, I tended to let all the relationship issues interfere with my good time. Because he was familiar, unfailingly present, I guess my libido got lazy and I had to resort to some serious fantasizing to get through it. I never stepped outside the relationship once in all that time, though. It was important to me to have some honour, even if I was disappointed with something that everyone else on the planet was so preoccupied with.

Then, M. He had skill, I thought, but I've come to realize that my attraction to him is and was stronger than what I've felt for anyone else, which is likely why I decided he was 'good'. It was more fun, more animal, because we were both coming out of a desert period, and we were each other's cup of water. I was giddy because I was tasting a different man, feeling another man, filling up with another man and suddenly I had a sex drive that wouldn't quit. Now, though, despite ever-burgeoning desire, I can't say that I've learned a whole lot from him. In fact, it's possible I've taught him a thing or two.

So, despite my efforts to make things a little more...interesting, he remains the same, comfortable with the routine, which is, in a word, frustrating. I tried to get him to do it outside and he was stiff everywhere than where he should have been. I tried to get him into it in the shower and I could tell that he was annoyed that he couldn't be in there alone. He won't do it in the morning because he's never awake enough. He thinks bathing together is sort of disgusting (human soup! ick!), that reaching up under one another's clothing is disrespectful unless it's already decided that sex will be happening. He won't walk around naked, won't talk dirty, and don't get me started on how he never explores with his tongue. He won't crack into a bottle of wine and get sloppy. He won't take charge, make me submissive which is what most women want when it gets down to it. I told him this and he still insists on treating me with 'respect'. Seriously, man! Respect me enough to consider what I want, then.

So, I remain respectable. I've not had more than two lovers, have not experienced multiple orgasms, can't remember what oral is all about (receiving, not giving which, by the way, he seems to have no problem with), have not had bathtub sex, angry sex, makeup sex, group sex (don't know if I'd be up for that anyway, but it felt important to add), role-play sex, fetish sex, sex with toys or sex in public places. I'm a good girl. I'm a boring girl. Same difference.

I am patron saint of the inhibited. It's beginning to piss me off.