by Maura Stone
While reading Smila’s Sense of Snow, I came upon a sexual passage which altered my perception of the universe and awoke an appetite I never knew I possessed. In a few sentences, the author deftly described how the major protagonist inserted her clitoris into a man’s urethra. To me, that signified the ultimate in female sexual experiences which I could never replicate; the logistics defy reality.
Men enjoy bragging rights about the size of their penis. I never knew a woman who bragged about the size of her clitoris. Perhaps because I run in straight circles. Clitoral size is the final frontier in mass media despite sneak crotch shots of female celebrities where only labias are exposed.
Several years ago, while exposing my labia during a routine pelvic examination, my gyn deviated from established topics. At this most intimate of times we talk about the weather, a recap of my sexual partners since the last visit, and why she heated the speculum which caused a fire in the microwave that extended into the corridor. So, what she asked took me by surprise.
“Have you ever seen your genitals?”
I responded, “Despite all my years in yoga, I’ve yet to achieve that kind of flexibility.”
She poked her head up from behind the sheet covering my torso. “Don’t you think you should know your body?” she insisted. “Aren’t you in the least curious?”
I’m finely in tune with my body, one of my pet peeves. Although absent of curiosity to see what was going on down there up front and personal. It’s not as if I didn’t watch porn films of nude women artistically splayed wide open over the years. My interest focused on the men in the films, or observing the men who I was with while they watched said films. Still, looking at my privates didn’t hit the tops in priorities. Laundry took an immediate first place.
“No,” I stated.
“I highly recommend it.”
Heeding her advice, that evening I lit candles throughout the apartment and put on some mood music. I poured a glass of wine and placed the bottle within hands’ reach of my bubble bath. Afterwards, I patted myself down, turned the lights on full blast in the bathroom and adjusted my portable mirror. I lifted one leg on top of the bathtub rim, spread myself open and angled the mirror for best effect.
Stunned, amazed and thoroughly repulsed, I shrieked. What the hell was that?
Reflected back at me was a gerbil’s penis. I swear, it winked.
As a hetero woman, I’ve no idea what’s normal or not regarding the range of female genitalia. That one snatched peek of my snatch literally evaporated the possibility of clitoral penetration. Before I struck this deed off my bucket list, I raced to the phone to call one of my closest confidants whose antics sometimes exceeded mine.
“Hey, Trish, have you or have you known anyone who was able to put their clit in a guy’s cock hole?”
“Whoa. No hellos, no how are you? What kind of question is that?” She had to pick that moment to sound like my mother. “Wait, are you drunk?” she added.
Indeed, I was drunk, yet no way did I want to make that admission. “No! I just wanted to know...”
She sighed. “Where do you get these crazy ideas?”
I couldn’t even sneak in, “Read it in a book,” before she hung up.
The other outlet I had was my boyfriend, a much younger man. He wasn’t the brightest bulb, yet extremely good-natured. Most importantly, he didn’t possess a judgmental bone in his body. He came over later that evening and listened to a drunken recital of my genital revelation without a clue what I truly mourned. Right before he turned the lights out, he said, “Do you wanna sixty-nine?”
I assumed the position. This time, he grabbed my legs and pulled my crotch up to his face. Suddenly, he stopped. “Get that ugly thing away from me!” he yelped.
“Damn you,” I shouted in annoyance. He roared with laughter.
This episode had a sobering effect. Acting upon this desire no longer sounded as feasible as I previously thought. As entertaining as the concept, gerbil-sized penis-looking or not, I realized that clitoral penetration may’ve been the creation of the author’s imagination.
I sat shiva for weeks, mourning the loss of a dream. Life can be tough when expectations run high.
# # #Published June 2012 in The Last Goddess Magazine.
This blog and its posts are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.