Free Glitter. Real Stories About Sexual Desire From Real Women by Mona Darling, Lauren Fleming, Lynn Lacroix, Tizz Wall, Penny Barber, Hopper James, Elis Bradshaw, Delilah Night, Kate Anon, Nina Potts

my first female orgasm.
    At that moment, I became an addict.
    The next morning she gives me a ride to work on the same red scooter. Loaning me an ex-girlfriend’s brown leather jacket, then deciding I should keep it. She pulls over outside my work and helps me off. She takes the helmet off of my head and kisses me. The vanilla is back and stronger than yesterday. I feel intoxicated from it.
    I start to walk away. Turning around I catch the one-sided, dimpled smile. My own smile barely leaves my lips for the remainder of the day. My fear of women still lingers in my chest, but the throbbing between my thighs deafens it. Sometimes what scares us the most is what’s hidden inside of us.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
    You Brought This on Yourself
    Sandra D
    I am an artist/craftsman/maker of beautiful things (just not babies). I am forty years old and I am still just a girl. I am a wife. I am an introvert. I am a rape survivor. I am infertile. I ‘came of age’ in the late ‘80s to early ‘90s, making my way from goth to grunge to granola in the process.
     
     
    As a (virgin) teenager, I was a Good Girl. Honor Roll, part-time job, piano lessons and all. I had the usual crushes, stolen kisses and a couple of very respectful boyfriends, but I fantasized about being dominated. Like many Good Girls, I have always had thing for Bad Boys. In my younger days, I was persistently attracted to boys (and later, men) who frightened me, who were...a little rough. Any heavy petting I indulged in inevitably left me with bruises and I was proud of them, navel-gazing goth girl that I was. Those bruises proved there was blood in my veins, they made me feel edgy. They made me feel alive.
    I was nineteen when I finally fell for a (married) man who was able to assuage just enough of my fear to convince me to give up my virginity. He maintained the upper hand by gently leading me down one kinky path after another, always keeping at the very edge of my comfort zone until he could tell me to do just about anything...and I would. He ended his marriage to be with me, though time would tell he could never actually be faithful to me. There were simply too many other women and men in the world to tempt his tastes. For all that, I somehow felt safe with him even though he made me uncomfortable. I got off on being just a little bit afraid. Like those early bruises, my discomfort made me feel edgy and alive, right up until I learned what ‘against my will’ really meant: the day I just didn't feel like having sex and he DID. Just because I lived with him and shared my bed with him did not mean I had forfeited my right to say no and it certainly did not give him the right to pin me to the floor and force me. That day was the beginning of the end for that relationship. I eventually realized that I spent most of my time in bed with him just waiting for it be over and the rest of the time dreading his touch, but it took me another year and a half to break away completely.
    When I was twenty-one and before I had completed my breakaway, I went backpacking in Europe as do all good, middle-class college kids looking to broaden their horizons. After a night of too much drinking and bar hopping with people I didn't really know in a strange country, I fell prey again to that slightly frightened attraction. Unfortunately, this man was nothing like I had ever met before. When I said no, he simply beat me into unconsciousness and did what he wanted regardless. When I came to a few hours later, he was passed out. I grabbed my clothes, got back to my hotel to pack my bags and got myself out of town in a matter of hours. That was one set of bruises that brought me no pleasure or pride. Two towns later, I got myself to an English-speaking doctor who gave me a prescription for an antibiotic and a heaping serving of "You brought this on yourself, young lady" with nary a mention of counseling of any kind. Looking back, I do consider myself lucky. My attacker (I