First Orgasm

Once upon a time W put me in a cage and told me to write a list of all the men I have had sex with. The result was a list of ~50 men, written on a couple sheets of lined paper, that ended up in my computer bag, folded over and over and gradually, as time has gone on, getting longer.  The paper is worn and soft now, the creases in it deep from folding and refolding it.  As an assignment during his absence this past month, W asked me to transcribe “The List,” as we began to call, to a computerized document.
Actually, he asked me to do so a long time ago, but only made the request formal, a dictate, during this trip.
In creating the digitized list, he asked me to jot down at least one tidbit–a fact, a memory, something specific–about each encounter. He wanted me to “remember and think about every time that I was fucked,” as I wrote about them.  I was sure I wouldn’t remember a thing about most of them.  And, maybe, I won’t.  I am only up to number 9 or 10 (!)  But I have surprised myself by remembering a surprising number of details about the ones I’ve covered so far, and those were from my early teens. (Of course, later years may have been clouded by alcohol at times, so we’ll see how well I do on those. ~wink~)
There’s one story that I do recall in absolute clarity however, and it’s too long to relegate to the cell of an Excel spreadsheet, so I thought I would relate it here.
It’s the story of my first orgasm.
Actually, it’s the story of my first orgasm during sex.  Years before, at the age of about 14 or so, I’d discovered how to make myself orgasm by masturbation, but I was an odd girl, and once I started having sex (later that same year) I stopped masturbating. I assumed that sex would give me orgasms, and that I didn’t need (or shouldn’t need) to masturbate. Now that I had men to do it for me, that was all I’d need, right?
Wrong (of course.)  First of all, I get a lot of orgasms with my men now, and I still enjoy masturbating. But to speak more specifically to that young girl’s misconceptions: although I believed that once I was having sex orgasms would just happen, spontaneously, all the time, that (of course) wasn’t the case. The boys were young and inexperienced, or the men were selfish and didn’t care, or were simply unskilled, and I just didn’t know enough to know that maybe they needed some guidance about how to do it, about what I wanted and needed.  I just thought they’d “know” somehow.
I believe this is one of the great failings of teenaged sex, or perhaps of a society that has such taboos against talking about sexual pleasure. We’ve finally gotten to a place where (most) parents will talk about sex at all, but to actually talk about pleasure during sex? Yikes! Bad bad bad.
So, the sad truth was that, in the two years that I lived with my first boyfriend, and in the several casual sexual encounters I had had both before and after, I had never had an orgasm during sex, and damn few of them when I wasn’t having sex.
I had been with my ex for somewhere around 6 or 8 months, maybe a little longer, by this time.  This is not the Ex, as in my second husband, to whom I was married for 15 years. No, this was my first husband. I was…19 or 20 at the time. And our relationship…was a rough one. He was young, and when he drank he was violent. We had huge fights, and about every six months or so, he would get abusive, verbally or physically.  And then, for the next six months, he was the most penitent, remorseful, loving boyfriend ever, begging me to give him one more chance, swearing he’d changed, promising to never hurt me again.
Until the next time.
But there was a reason I was attracted to him.  There was a reason I couldn’t stay away from him, kept going back to him, over and over. I was fascinated by his violence. It terrified me–and yet, somewhere, deep inside, it thrilled me.  Now, I understand my needs much better, and I know whence that fascination comes–and how to get it fed in a safe way.  Then, I was as terrified of myself, of needing and wanting–and yes, instigating–that violence as I was of him.  I was attracted to the danger, to the wild ups and downs, to how desperately he loved me–and how violently he fucked me. I loved it that he took every inch of me: sweetly, gently, achingly, when he was in the honeymoon phase;  desperately, violently, holding me down and fucking me with a fury that bordered on–and may have been a manifestation of–hatred when he was in that other phase.
And I loved it.
And yet, still, I had not had an orgasm.  Some fantastic (and yes, I know, fucked up) sex; and had gotten pretty darn close to coming, but had never quite gotten there.
Then one afternoon K, my ex, came home. He’d had a bad day; we argued. He wasn’t drinking, but there was an edge to him that I recognized…and, truthfully, I really was afraid of him by that point. The thrill had worn off, and I was smart enough to recognize that while there was something that excited me in the situation, his uncontrolled violence wasn’t it, and wasn’t healthy or desired.  But still, when he grabbed my arm and drug me into the bedroom, then shoved me down on the bed and, holding me down with one hand, pushed my knees apart with one knee, I felt myself flood with heat.  I had a feeling that the kind of violence he was going to resort to was violent sex, not the other kind, and I was relieved and excited.
I was surprised, though, after he had pulled my panties down, when he pulled me to my feet and hauled me into the front room, then pushed me to my knees in front of the couch.
“What–” I started to say, but he shoved my head down, pushed my skirt up and got behind me.  I was already excited, and opened my legs eagerly to him as he shoved deeply into me with one thrust.  He fucked me that way for a while, pinning me down with his body and thrusting deep and hard into me, slamming into my cervix and making me cry out, before abruptly stopping and pulling out.  I gasped and instinctively pushed back towards him, but he shoved me down onto the couch again.
“I’m gonna fuck your ass,” he said, low, in my ear.
I’d never had anal sex, never even considered it.
“No,” I said, struggling suddenly. “Please–!” But he didn’t stop. He held me down easily (he was a large man, 6’3″ to my 5’2″) and I felt him pushing his cock between my butt cheeks.  His cock was slippery, and slid between my cheeks and nudged at the tight opening of my asshole.  I realized that he must have put lube on himself. 
He really meant to do this.
I began to struggle harder, but when I flailed back at him he grabbed my hands and pinned them down against my back, twisting them painfully.  I had managed to knock him out of position, but he was a lot bigger than me, and determined, and soon I ran out of strength.  And out of will.  I felt his aggression and his power and my own helplessness…and I knew I couldn’t win.  Finally I gave in and lay still beneath him, but I refused to aide him.  I closed my legs tightly, but knew it was futile even as I did it. And it was.  He simply pushed, and shoved, until the head of his cock was against that tight opening again, and then, finally, was pushing inside.
And to my shame, as he shoved his way into me, as he pushed and tore and forced himself into me, I began to get excited again.  I could feel the wetness dripping down between my thighs.  As he held me down and, for all intents and purposes, raped me, as the tears spilled and as he grunted and growled at me about what he was doing to me, I felt my body responding to him just as it always did. I found myself pushing back against him, wanting to take him deeper, and then screaming into the couch as he did so.
And then it happened.  As he thrust one final time into me, as he spilled his semen into my ass, I came, screaming and writhing and crying beneath him.

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Sometimes, when I am feeling philosophical, I wonder: Am I the way I am because of this first experience, or did I react the way I did to this experience because of the way I am?