Steph Auteri - A Dirty Word: How a Sex Writer Reclaimed Her Sexuality

A
DIRTY
WORD

A
DIRTY
WORD

HOW A SEX WRITER
RECLAIMED HER SEXUALITY

STEPH AUTERI

Copyright 2018 by Steph Auteri.

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

Printed in the United States

Cover design: Allyson Fields

Cover photograph: iStock

Text design: Frank Wiedemann

First Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-276-0

E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-277-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

To my mom, who always said,
Someday youll be a published author,
and your first book will be dedicated to me.

AUTHORS NOTE

This is a work of creative nonfiction. The events are portrayed to the best of my memory. While all the stories in this book are true, some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved .

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BEING BROKEN

The first time I used a sex toy, I approached the experience in much the same way I approached any terrifying challenge in my life: methodically, and with plenty of preparation. After brushing my teeth and retreating to my bedroom, I peeled off the layers of my day. I unzipped my calf-high boots and placed them in the closet. I pulled off my top, let my pencil skirt slide to the floor, and tossed them both into my laundry bag. I unclasped the diamond solitaire necklace my ex-boyfriend had given meone of the few worthwhile artifacts of our ill-advised relationshipand placed it carefully in its box. I pulled on the articles of clothing I felt most comfortable inmy plaid boxer shorts and my soft-from-wear ARMY T-shirt. I locked my door.

At the time, I was living in a brownstone apartment in Boston, Massachusetts with three other girls. Outside my bedroom, it was chaosthe living room cluttered with a futon, a papasan chair, Christmas lights, a shiny black mannequin wearing nothing but a construction hat, and that Van Gogh poster every college student has, alongside one of Jimi Hendrix. Several tied-up garbage bags leaned against the wall outside my bedroom door, waiting to be taken out. Sometimes, when the other girls had friends over and they drank too muchdouble shots of vanilla-flavored vodka, a smell that still sets off my gag reflexthey would run down the length of the hallway and dive into the latest pile of bags with loud laughter, screams, and a final, crinkly crash. My bedroom, by contrast, was a sanctuary.

There was my small, twin bed pushed up against the exposed brick wall, neatly made. A dresser, pressed into a recessed corner. A drawing hanging on the wall opposite my bed, a piece of artwork done by a high school acquaintance. My books, piled up on my night-stand. When I wasnt out, I spent much of my time in there, reading in bed, sometimes with a box of pizza balanced on the windowsill. I had transferred to a college in Boston the year before with no friends, eager to get a fresh start after a difficult year back in New Jersey. Nine different people had cycled through the apartment over the course of two years, and I hadnt been close to any of them. Locked up in my bedroom, I almost didnt mind.

That evening, everyone else was out, and it was mercifully quiet outside my bedroom door. On my bedspread, lined up in a neat row, was everything I needed: a notebook and a pen, a bottle of water-based personal lubricant, andmost daunting of alla large, purple, double-ended dildo.

The only other time Id encountered such an object was at the end of Requiem for a Dream as part of a frenzied film sequence so disturbing you might forgive me for the negative associations it left me with. But while the star of that particular scene was molded into a single, extended line, this dildo was shaped like a lopsided V , its longer end about the length of my forearm.

I stood in the center of my bedroom, barefoot, my toes digging into the area rug. I looked at the dildo and swallowed hard, my throat dry. My temple throbbed, and my hands were clammy, and my stomach hurt the way it always hurt when I was nervous. Slowly, I approached the bed. It was time to get this over with.

When I grasped the toy in my hand, I found it to be both flexible and firm and, when I held it up, so shiny I could see my reflection in its lightly curved surface. But as I turned it this way and that, trying to figure out how best to proceed, I found myself with a bit of a conundrum: I had no idea which end was supposed to go inside me.

I looked at the instructions (because even dildos, apparently, come with instructions) and learned that the shorter sidewith its bulbous endwas supposed to go inside me, where I would presumably hold it in place using only the strength of my pelvic floor muscles. Once my Kegels were clutching this shortened staff, I was then supposed to thrust the longest (and purplest) penis ever into a partner.

Oh.

Shit.

Um.

I didnt have a partner.

I schlumped back against my reading pillow, feeling defeated. I brought this dildo home from the office where I just started interning, and where I would be in charge of reviewing a variety of adult toys, films, and books. The plaid fabric of my pillow in its screamingly bright hues of cyan and cerulean and turquoise seemed all wrong in this horror scene that had suddenly become my life. The dildo flashed and gleamed menacingly. I sighed. What was I supposed to do?

After staring off into the distance for some time, the toy limp in my lap, my gaze shifted to my notebook. It still sat there, off to the side, an unforgiving reminder of that evenings purpose. I had a review to write. It was to be my first review ever. I couldnt allow a small technicality like not having a partner derail me. This review was my chance to prove myself.

I made a snap decision, grasping the shorter end of the toy in my hand. I would use it as a handle and slide the longer end inside of me.

That issue being resolved, I put the toy aside and turned to the lube next, unscrewing the cap and squirting a large dollop into the palm of my left hand. Earlier that dayafter Id announced my intention to review the dildothe lead intern (whom I had just met) rolled his chair over to me, pulled open a drawer and, after a bit of searching, pulled out a tube. Id recommend using this water-based lubricant with that particular toy, he said, and I nodded, trying to act as if it were totally normal for a strange man to be telling me how to use an object that I would later be inserting into my vagina. Its generally not advisable to use a silicone-based lubricant with a silicone toy, he said, straining to be as clinical as possible. The material starts to break down.

Okie dokie! I said, nodding again as I took the tube and slid it into my purse alongside the dildo. My smile was manic. He smiled back, nodded in what felt like a gesture of solidarity, and rolled away. I was left to ponder the nature of my new internship, how I would eventually explain it to my parents, and what I had just agreed to engage in that evening.

Now, hours later, I cringed at how cool and slimy the lube felt, like ectoplasm or cold, congealed boogers. Eager to be rid of the slippery feel of it in my hand, I slapped the lube against the shaft of the dildo and stroked the length of it, wiping the excess off on my thigh. Then, I placed the dildo aside so I could crawl underneath the covers and pushed down my boxer shorts and panties, leaving them to dangle at my ankles. Finally, I gripped the short end of the dildo and brought the head of the shaft to the opening of my vagina. I breathed.