Fears

I fear recrimination from women in regards to my sexuality.

It's a lingering thing.  When I was a teenager, when sex was new and we all were trying to figure it out, I picked up a lot about people's attitudes regarding sex from how they reacted to tales of certain acts. Invariably, in my group of friends in my conservative small city, the girls reacted with scorn and disgust to anything kinky while the boys evinced awe and envy. One instance that stands out in my memory was when I was almost 17. I was going to junior college and had met a young woman who was 23 and had traveled to Europe, which meant she was far more sophisticated than me, right? She told me a story about a friend of hers who had bragged about how she could fit a guy's whole hand in her pussy. I remember being amazed and impressed while listening to the story. Then confused when my friend said it wasn't anything to be proud of. The finality of her pronouncement kept me from asking why not. The disdain was so clear that I certainly didn't want any of that emotion directed at me for thinking such an act was cool sounding.

Of course, years later, when I allowed myself to be fisted, I was unsurprised to discover that it was as cool as I thought it would be. And, of course, I didn't tell any of my female friends that I had tried it. (This was before I found the kinky community.)

Some of the hardest things for me to endure are scenes with sexual components in "mixed company".  I worry that people will treat me different or like me less if they see what gets me off. With men, I worry they will think I will do that act with anyone, including them. With women, I worry about their perception of me as less than worthy. I have great admiration for women who play sexually in public play spaces. They must be especially secure and strong in their sense of self to do intimate acts where others can view and I want to be like them.

I'll continue with fisting as my example.


Once upon a time, the Mean Man kept threatening me with sex acts in semi-public settings. He enjoyed the fear & panic that played across my features, as well as other physical responses. For months, there was only talk. This resulted in complacence that he was only engaging in a mindfuck. Until one night, "Put on a short skirt and we'll go to the club tonight." At the time, I didn't think anything of his directive other than that he liked to see me wear short skirts. In retrospect, I should have seen what was coming. When he told me to get a glove & some lube from the safer sex supplies station, I knew what he had in mind: fisting me in public. 


I was mortified. It was the Thursday Grind; one of the busiest parties of the week because of the new member orientation that happens before it, not to mention the great dance music. He tied me in a chest harness that secured my hands behind my back and thrust my breasts forward. As an added sensation and a visible cue that I was indeed playing and not to be talked to, nipple clamps, connected by a shiny silver chain. He positioned me standing next to a large, low chair that just happened to be next to the water cooler, in that grey zone between the social area and the play area. After instructing me to spread my legs, he pulled my panties down to my knees and encouraged me to keep my legs spread so that my panties didn't fall down any further. 


He calmly sat down in the chair, put on the glove and ran his hand up my leg until he found my cunt. I was wet from the fear & the control he had: he could make me do something I was so scared of that I would never have even thought to ask for it. And "it" was horrible. And hot and, yes, I got really close to orgasm. Apparently, others thought it was hot, too. People started drinking a lot of water when they realized that his hand was disappearing up my skirt. Repeatedly refilling their Dixie cups in order to politely get a closer look at what was going on. 


Afterward, I clung to the Mean Man, still feeling vulnerable and wanting his protection; scared to interact with anyone for fear of recrimination or ridicule. Walking around, with me practically hugging him from behind, he chatted with friends and I avoided eye contact or speaking to anyone. One of his dear friends, a beautiful woman whom I loved to watch dance, sashayed off the dance floor toward us. I buried my face in his shoulder while they traded pleasantries. I vaguely heard him mention something about still being in aftercare mode and soon she began grinding her magnificent ass into mine. Shock turned to pleasure as we spent a minute or two pressing and rubbing into each other. She gave me a little hug and sashayed on her way. Feeling dazed but smiling, I found myself grounded and comfortable again.


That was exactly what I needed: validation and acceptance from a woman. I don't have the fear as strong as I did before that experience. It's still there, dormant, flaring up when I hear a woman commenting on another woman's sexuality in a disparaging way. I have made it a personal crusade of gently challenging those disparaging remarks in the hopes of changing the narrow societal mores that say women shouldn't be "too overtly sexual".