Exclusive Excerpt: A Dirty Word

 

It has always been a challenge, at least in the majority of recorded human history and modern history, to be a woman. It seems that only in the most modern times can women finally have, generally speaking, socially acceptable platforms to give voice to issues that are important to them and the right to even do so.

Sexual harassment. Sexual assault. Sexual abuse. Misogyny. Fair pay. Maternity leave. Fair, safe, and affordable healthcare. The list can go on…

Thanks mostly to the #metoo movement and feminism in general, women are, now more than ever, seeking to further their stance in society and the world, and to live their own personal truths — from the married, stay-at-home moms of four, to the childless and husbandless CEO of a Fortune 500 company. However, despite this herculean agenda, perhaps the hardest thing 50 percent of this planet needs to accomplish is furthering the understanding of women’s issues, across and within genders, sexes, generations, and within yourself, too. Perhaps this is necessary before women and men could ever hope to affect positive change.

When it comes to our sex organs and sexual health, the most recent research seems disproportionately inclined toward the study of men’s sexual health as compared to women, despite the fact that women have more complicated reproductive systems when compared to men. And women’s reproductive processes put women at a much higher risk of death than men. But, then again, this is nothing new. Yes, it must be traumatic for those dealing with erectile dysfunction, but then again women go through menopause, too. (Granted, most women can still orgasm after menopause: I wouldn’t wish an orgasm-less life on anyone…) But before we even get to those wonderful mid-life crisis years, one study found that in their most recent sexual encounter, 95 percent of men reported orgasms, as compared to 69 percent of women. So why is more research not being done on women’s sexual health? Why is the range of experience so different? Shouldn’t women be getting off just as much as men?

There is obviously a divide here and there are A LOT of factors that play into a woman’s level of arousal and sexual fulfillment, from the errand she forgot to run this morning to the size and shape of her labia. How can women who feel unsatisfied and “less than” (even through they are not!) ever hope to help an outsider understand? How can they ever hope to move past the “what’s” and get to the “how’s?”

Steph Auteri has boldly volunteered her own personal experiences in A Dirty Word: How a Sex Writer Reclaimed Her Sexuality. She touches upon many subjects of interest to the modern woman, most notably her battles with female sexual dysfunction — which is much more wide-ranging than you would initially think. In a recent study, it was found that 40 percent of women have sexual concerns and 12 percent of women report distressing sexual problems. Women are complicated creatures…

So, read on. Whether you have been diagnosed or not, whether you feel at your peak mental and emotional health or at your lowest, whether you have the sexual ego of a award-winning porn star or a forty-year-old virgin, whether you have only had one partner or have more notches on your bedpost than you can count… you are not alone.

 

 

[Note: Travis was Steph’s boyfriend for several months in college. An experience that was beautiful at times, but was more traumatic than anything else.]

I was twenty when I finally succumbed to Travis’s appeals for a blowjob. We had just shared a shower and I was feeling generous, so I knelt down on the bathroom floor as he stood before me, the hair on his legs dripping, making golden loops and whorls across his shins and down his calves. The mirror over the sink was fogged, and the air was damp and heavy. My knees were slick, tender as they dug into the tiled floor; wet strands of hair striped my cheeks and my forehead and inched between my lips, requiring me to spit them out before returning to the job at hand. Travis’s knees shook, and he gasped. “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.

Back when I still lived with my parents, I sometimes watched fuzzed-out porn at three in the morning. I stared at bodies twisting and humping on the screen, squinting to get a glimpse of things I’d not yet experienced. What was taking place on that bathroom floor was not nearly as bow-chik-a-bow-wow as what I had seen on TV. But as for sex education, that was all I had to go on. Apparently, it was enough.

You should never, however, underestimate the sex toy industry’s ability to make you doubt yourself. Like a SkyMall for sexy time, adult toy developers love creating unnecessary doo-dads and whatzits that promise to elevate the in-and-out experience.

The BlowGuard was one such whatzit. Years after that first blowjob, when I received a review unit just before a romantic anniversary trip to a B&B in upstate New York, I slipped it into my suitcase. In the fullness of that first day upstate, I almost forgot about it. Leaving our luggage at the inn, we drove along the Canandaigua wine trail, turning in at small vineyards, poring over lists of whites and reds, swirling the wine in our glasses as if we knew what we were doing. We sipped Chambourcins and Sauvignon Blancs and Pinot Noirs and, later in the evening, gulped down large, full glasses of wine at the farm-to-table restaurant where we had our dinner. By the time we made our way back to our room, we were thoroughly soused. Especially Michael. Because my tolerance for alcohol was lower than his, I often used his glass as a personal dump bucket when we were at tastings.

A drunk Michael is a particularly frisky Michael. So as I bent over the sink in our private bathroom, brushing my teeth, he took the opportunity to remove all of his clothing except for his boxer briefs, clamber up onto the elevated canopy bed, and stretch out in a come-hither position. I looked at him when I emerged from the bathroom and shook my head. I was wearing bulky, fleece pajama pants emblazoned with a Cookie Monster pattern. We were still in our twenties, but we had never been what I’d describe as sexy. At least not in that performative way you see on TV and in the movies where the woman shimmies out of her negligee or the man backs his partner against the wall, and then they both magically orgasm while they’re still standing there, dry humping each other. But I did have one ace up my sleeve.

I whipped the BlowGuard out of my suitcase and brandished it in the air. “Ta-daaaaa!”

Michael sighed.

The BlowGuard was a toy meant to be used during partner play in order to prevent you from nicking your partner with your teeth during oral sex. With its built-in bullet vibrator, it also promised “mind-blowing” plea- sure. It looked like a mouth guard but, since we weren’t winning points for sexiness anyway, I was willing to look silly if it meant we would soon experience staggering levels of orgasmic bliss.

The first speed bump came when I couldn’t fit the bullet vibe into the dental guard. Michael grappled with it for a while before finally prevailing over imperfect manufacturing. Then, I realized I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to place the BlowGuard over my upper or lower teeth. The instructions that came with the device were less than illuminating.

I eventually decided to try it both ways (I am nothing if not thorough) but couldn’t stop myself from giggling as I slow-motion approached my husband’s penis.

Not only that, but I couldn’t stop worrying that the BlowGuard would fall out of my mouth. This thought made me tense my jaw, which in turn made me worry that teeth nicks were inevitable. My tightened jaw also made it impossible for me to actually fit my husband’s penis into my mouth. (He asserts that this is because his member is so large.)

Finally, we were forced to abort the experiment.

“Besides,” he said, “it’s scary to see that thing coming at my penis.”

Luckily, we were able to laugh about it. But it wasn’t always that way. When Michael and I weren’t laughing, I was crying, the guilt and pressure I felt around my sexual issues suffocating me. If it were up to Michael, we would probably have sex every damn day. But night after night, when he turned to me in bed to run a hand down my arm, I turned away from him and stuck my head in a book. The want I’d felt for him at the beginning of our relationship had faded, and I could go for long stretches of time without feeling that tingling sensation that signified my desire. At the time, I hadn’t yet learned that, for many women, physical arousal is the thing that sparks desire. I hadn’t yet learned about the waxing and waning of desire that is normal throughout the course of everyone’s life. And so, I resented him for pushing me, even after I told him I wasn’t in the mood.

All of this was made worse by the fact that I continued to experience pain during intercourse for several years. Lube didn’t help. Penetration wasn’t the problem. It was when he was inside me, thrusting his way to completion, that I felt a sharp, stinging agony, like needles biting into my vaginal walls. Why would I want to participate in that? How could I not resent the person who wanted to forge ahead anyway, despite knowing what I was being forced to endure?

At the same time, I always felt that he deserved more. Better. And my experimentation around sex toys and my immersion in the world of sex positivity—an exploration enabled by my sex writing—were the vehicles I had chosen in my efforts to fix myself. I wanted to be more like everyone else. I wanted to have the sex life I imagined everyone else was having. I wanted to want. I wanted to feel comfortable and capable in bed. And if the pain I felt was all in my head—as my gynecologist at one point intimated—I wanted to get down to the very essence of who I was, deep down inside, and fix that, too.

A Dirty Word is available for purchase at all major retailers in print and digital formats. Or feel free to order a copy at your local bookstore!

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