November 3, 2010

Got You Pegged

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Confession time: I have a bit of a Napoleon complex.

Unfortunately, I’m not talking about my penchant for wearing pantaloons, nor my tantalizing habit of tormenting my roommates by strutting about in little more than a tricorne and a smile. I’m talking, of course, about my dick.

It’s stupid, I know. With all my incessant ramblings about how “It’s not the size of the pool cue, it’s how you measure the angles,” you’d think I’d be more easily reconciled to the idea of having a tiny penis. But truth be told, as everyone knows, it’s a little jarring to unwrap the package and find a fun-size Kit Kat where you were hoping for Ghirardelli.

Lest you all be gripping your faces in paroxysms of horror and confusion, let me back things up a little.

About a month and a half ago, I had the good fortune to find myself at a sex toy party. With my second eight-dollar quality vintage mostly consumed, I began to feel my last paycheck burning a hole in my jeggings. After a conversation I only hazily remember with the Goddess at hand (and really, it’s a miracle I got the address right), I received Mama’s First Strap-on in the mail, all tangled up and ready for business.

I honestly don’t know when I started to get into the idea of pegging as a viable source for funtimes. I’ve always wanted to try being the passive partner in anal, but I tend to get distracted by more imminent orgasms and before I know it, it’s time to gather my panties and sneak the two blocks home. I guess somewhere between watching all that gay porn and staring confusedly from the hump-madness onscreen down at my own love-canyon, the idea snuck into my brain and got stuck there.

Let’s make things clear before we continue: as I admitted before, my strap-on (alias Montpelier) is tiny. It’s specifically made for anal play, so there’s no way I can switch things up later by throwing my Rabbit into the mix. (Nor would I want to, because that thing could cause serious damage, even in organs that come with their own lubrication.) Montpelier’s only slightly larger than my pinky, but still, when I tried it on for my roommates last Saturday night, I still felt … incredibly turned on.

Contrary to my roommates’ hypotheses, it wasn’t Montpelier’s vague proximity to my clit that was making me shaky. And it’s not even the thought that it brings me one step closer to getting into Anderson Cooper’s perfectly pleated pants. I’m notoriously, helplessly attracted to gay men (my friends’ idea of foolproof gaydar is to ask me whether I think a dude is cute), but it’s not the idea of getting my Simon Cowell on and bending Adam Lambert over the American Idol accompanist piano that had me all hot and bothered.

(He’s a top, anyway. Believe me, I make a habit of investigating these things.)

See, I honestly don’t buy into the whole idea of penetration being the most physically fulfilling facet of sexual activity for anyone, regardless of sexuality or pleasure. Nor do I think that the penetrating partner is necessarily the more powerful person in the sack. When I first started getting it on with dudes, I had to completely silence the part of my Baby Feminist brain that started yelling about the inequality incumbent in hetero-sex. But that shut off by itself pretty quickly the minute I saw my male partner’s hilarious O-face. To view the knight of the Round Table who happens to have a sword in her scabbard as the king of the castle is just buying into the same patriarchal bullshit that necessitates Baby Feminists in the first place.

As someone who usually identifies as a female-born woman, I don’t often feel myself challenging the gender norm. So when I bring Montpelier out to play, it’s my personal sexual equivalent of seeing Cillian Murphy in heels — it’s hot because it’s so very different from what I usually get to experience. Moreover, it draws attention to the fact that sometimes, the wardrobe that society opens for you and the equipment chance gives you aren’t always parallel with what’s playing on your lizard brain’s private Skinemax.

Plus, as an extra bonus, all that gay porn has made me very aware of the location of the prostate and just how much extra splashing it can bring into a man’s spunk-fountain. So to all the straight boys who have been reflexively reaching for the condoms: maybe next time, suggest that your lady obtain her own Montpelier and go to town. Just make sure you adhere to Anal’s Golden Rule: go slow, use a lot of lube and don’t forget the reach-around.

Kate C. is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at katec@cornellsun.com. Ball You Discreetly appears alternate Thursdays this semester.

Original Author: Kate C.