The first time it happened by accident.
My girlfriend, Paris (stylish black femme with a misanthropic streak and penchant for obscure music —think: “um, I liked them before they were cool”) and I were in the throes of teenage lust. She was sprawled across the backseat of my car, tartan skirt hiked around her belly, begging me to slip more and more of myself inside of her.
In the parking lot. Of our Catholic, all-girl’s high school. Skipping religion class.
“I said more! More! Now!” (She was a demanding bottom–a bit of a brat, even.)
“But I’ve already got four fingers in you,” I panted. “I don’t think I can—” She gave me a heated glare that suggested ‘find a way,’ so I tucked my thumb in and watched, incredulously, as her cunt devoured the rest of my hand. I pushed in—gingerly, at first—and she matched me, bearing down and grinding, head thrown back in abandonment, completely filled and finally content. I felt her orgasm approach and pulse through her muscles.
I fisted a girl and I liked it.
The rest is history, and now I’m hooked.
Not to sound like some second-wave, pussy-positive Eve Ensler monologue (I mean, you know my ambivalence about my own)—but, damn, vaginas are awesome. I am still amazed every time I’m wrist-deep in a lover—especially if she’s a new fistee, and I get to vicariously absorb her own wonder and wetness.
Your cunt is elastic enough to accommodate childbirth.
But I can think of better uses.