One thing I would NEVER write about is sex, as in sex that I'm having or have had. Some friends of mine discuss and dissect everything that happens to them in bed. I always leave these conversations feeling judged because I won't contribute. It seems disrespectful to the other person involved. And I don't that will ever change about me. But maybe I could have some fun writing racey stuff about my characters. The thought of posting something like this is freaking me out, but I guess that's good--the Sunday Scribbling folks did say that if it's not hard, you're not doing the prompt right...
(FYI, this is from the POV of a character in my story, the one who found the dog and is going to have to abandon it. She's a new widow.)
I miss having sex with my husband more than I would've guessed. I mean, I knew I'd miss lying with him, hugging him with my full body as we dozed off to sleep. But I didn't think much about how I'd miss the physical acts--the sucking, the kissing, the grinding. Cuming. How much I'd miss that.
All the books I've read about grieving a husband's death tell you to buy a vibrator. To try to please yourself. So I did. Embarrassed as I was, I went into a sex shop that I had heard was run by women for women, and I bought the first vibrator I saw. It was bright blue, with a dolphin carved into the handle part. The sales woman--who was pierced in her nose, eyebrow, and lip--asked me if I needed any lubricant, maybe some condoms. I just shook my head and handed her the $40 in cash. No way I'd let this store name show up on my credit card.
When I got home, I read the directions and followed them, washing the thing with soap and water and letting it airdry before its first use. Then I put in the AAA batteries it called for. That's where the directions ended. Now what? I thought. Andrew had always made an act out of undressing me, taking off one piece of clothing at a time and licking and sucking the body parts that were newly exposed. Every time we had sex he did this, and it never lost its magic. By the time he got to my panties, I'd be dying to take him inside me.
I stripped naked and lay under the sheets on my bed. Then I thought that maybe music would help, so I got up and turned on the classical station on the radio on my dresser. The air felt cold against my naked skin. By the time I was back in bed, the music ended and a commercial for Oriental rugs came on. Not exactly erotic. I held the vibrator in my hands, feeling its rubber plastic exterior. I turned it on and was shocked by how powerful it was. When I closed my fist around it, the vibrations moved all the way into my wrist.
The music returned, and I closed my eyes. I slipped the vibrator down to a nipple, laughing when it made contact with the sensitive skin. Then I traced an invisible line down the center of my belly, until I hit my[Editor's note: what the hell do writers call the vagina? I'm all for Eve Ensler's fight to make vagina a more excepted word, but for now at least, that word is nothing if not un-erotic. I'll have to look into this question].
It felt mechanical at first, too exact in its vibrations. Not like a person, who's tempo shifts slightly every moment. But after a minute or two, the notes of a cello pulsed in my ears and my body pulsed along with it. I felt my face flush and my body quiver. It was quick and satisfying.
But afterwards, I lay there by myself, with a wet piece of plastic beside me. I thought about whether Andrew would've liked to experiement with this kind of thing, and figured he would have. If only we had had more time. And I realized that an orgasm, like the food and cigarettes I had given up consuming, would only leave me wanting more, wanting to share it with Andrew. Wanting what I knew I'd never have again.