Monday 2 September 2013

What Makes A Good Perv

Flashback to 2008

Fortune Teller: (dramatically waves her hand over a giant, crystal ball) “I see a group of perverts coming into your life. Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day…”

Me: (gasps as panic wash through me) “Perverts?” (gulps) “Like peeping Tom’s in the bushes outside my window? Or like Dixie Normous, Hugh G. Reckhun, Ava Gina, and Dick Harding taking turns whipping my ass?”

Fortune Teller: (rubs her ball, her eyes closing as a look of intense contemplation settled on her features) “You will join these righteously perverted people, and you shall do great—and naughty—things with them.”

Me: (heart pounds) “But, but, but…I don’t like perverts! They’re skeery and icky and....”

Fortune Teller: (her eyelids lift and she pins me with a disturbingly dark glare) “Not all perverts are bad, Mia.”

Me: (arches a brow in disbelief) “Oh really? How can a pervert be good?”

Fortune Teller: “I guess you’ll have to wait and see. Won’t you?”



Okay, so, I didn’t really see a fortune teller back in the day. But dude, if I had and she’d foretold my future amongst the Pervs, I would have run like the hounds of Hades were out to get me or hurt myself laughing—depending on my mood. Why? Well, it’s easy. I always thought perverts were bad. I don’t mean Oh baby, you were a naughty, naughty girl, and now you’re going to be spanked bad. I mean I’ll get you in bed, my pretty and your little dog, too! bad. Yes, back then, I was one of those vanilla people who had a stick shoved so far up my ass I could practically taste it. (Eww! That just sounds gross. But you get the picture.)

At a young age, I was told some rather…false information about sex. I was told that sex was dirty and filthy and horrible. It was something a woman just had to lay there and ‘take.’ It was not enjoyable. It was a bodily function. And I would hate it. To top those lovely thoughts off, I was under the impression that if I ever had sex and (gasp) enjoyed it, I would go straight to Hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just burning flames with the Devil himself.

Let me tell you, this royally fucked my brain. I was like, “Oh shit! I’m never, ever having sex. My hoo-ha is officially closed.” Before you ask, yes, I called my vajayjay a hoo-ha. Pussy seemed crass. Cunt seemed crude. And let’s not get started on beavers, muffs, honey pots, or snatches!). For years, I was afraid to have sex. Until my hubby came along, I wasn’t all that interested in getting it on—period. I blamed the other boys. But deep down, it wasn’t about them. It was about me. Not that a teen version of me would ever confess that. I’d have rather pranced naked across the football field in the middle of Homecoming. Although, if you want to get technical, I was a majorette so…my outfits were rather revealing. But that’s not the point. The point is that I was anti-sex.

Fast forward a few years…

When I got engaged to my now-husband, I realized that sex was coming my way. At that point, I was more shall we say, willing, to take that journey. After all, I was in love. And my hubby was a damn good kisser and licker and rubber and, well, we’re heading into TMI Town. So, I did it. I popped my cherry. And damned if I didn’t love every second of it.

Well, as luck would have it, two days later I had the Urinary Tract from Hell. Immediately, I tell myself, “God is punishing me!” (Silly, I know. But it’s the truth.) Because of my conviction that I was a horrible whore who deserved pain and suffering for my horrific sinning, I decided that there would be no more sex for me. Not until our wedding night. So like a good girl, I made it…a few weeks. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I’m so not good at controlling myself. Again, I enjoyed myself. And again, I developed a UTI.

At that point, I knew I was definitely going to Hell. There was simply no saving me. This obsession went on until the wedding. And surprisingly, it continued after our wedding night. See, I didn’t understand that sex was good (or at least, it could be with the right guy). I didn’t get that I could have an orgasm and not be a bad person. I truly believed to the bottom of my heart that sex was bad, and I was worse because I loved it.

Several more years pass by…

My patient husband helped me through my issues. I’m sure you can imagine how. And by now, I’m all about sex and orgasms. Still, though, I rarely stepped outside of the box sexually. Ergo, little by little, I started to push my boundaries. Shockingly (or not-so-shockingly), I discovered myself. I saw a whole new side of me. Of course, it was the perverted-side. I started doing things that I had never done before (and liking them). Needless to say, my hubby was a happy man. Thank Heavens, he’s a Perv.

Another couple of years drift by…

I’m having the sex of my life (TMI? I hope not.), and I am happy about it. But still, I had room to grow. How so? I was ready to take the big step into Pervdom. I started out easy—reading erotic romance and watching softcore and glamcore porn. You know, the sweet stuff. Then I moved on to watching porn-porn, the good, filthy kind, and I began talking dirty—really dirty, more like filthy. And suddenly, I realized that everything could be perverted and lewd jokes were a hoot. But finally, the thing that threw my ass to the gutter and held me there was the group that the fictional fortune teller foretold—the Righteous Perverts.

RPers came into my life like a bolt of lightning. And in a short time, they taught me so much about myself and my perversions. They showed me that I wasn’t alone in my Pervdom. I didn’t have to hide my erotic romances underneath a stack of Jane Austen and Edgar Allan Poe (sick mix, I know). And porn was no longer a cardinal sin. It was a good time. Then there was pervertibles. All of a sudden, people understood why I giggled when someone said come or when I saw the number sixty-nine on the side of a bus. They got it, like I did. That did something for me, something I’d never experienced, especially with other women. It was a whole new world, one I never wanted to leave.

That being said, I have realized that the fortune teller was right. We, Pervs, do need to unite. We can do great—and naughty—things together. No, not those things! I’m talking about helping the people who’re ashamed of their thoughts, embarrassed by their feelings, and resisting the kinks that are as much of a part of them as the nose on their face. I’m talking about teaching those people, showing them acceptance and love, no matter what, and giving them a place to fit in, a place where they can be normal without shame or reservation, and a place where there are no recriminations for who they are. In the end, we’ll all be better—and pervy-er—for it. Best of all, we’ll finally prove that being a perv is not only a good thing but also, something to be proud of because we made a difference, albeit a naughty one!

XOXOXO,

-Mia

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