Wrecked. Charlotte Roche
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a finger inside and fuck myself with it. Even if I find it more amusing than stimulating, when I see how it affects him, how much it turns him on, I get turned on, too.
He can’t take it anymore, and he wants to do with his cock what I’m doing with my finger. I lie in front of him, completely naked, and spread my legs as wide as I can. He shifts forward and smacks his hard cock a few times against my vagina. I think he must have seen that move in a porn film. But I like it when he does that. Even though I can’t explain why I like it. He smacks his cock against me a few times and then in he goes. I usually come very quickly. A few thrusts will do it. And then that’s it for me. My mother—and leading feminists—brought me up to think there was no such thing as a vaginal orgasm. They sit between me and Georg and whisper in my ear: “There’s no such thing as a vaginal orgasm!” Now, at thirty-three years old, I’ve had to find out all on my own that that’s not true. I’ve always felt it during sex, but when I came I always dismissed it as a psychological effect. I figured tht it was just because I liked the idea of being fucked, that the thought—fuck, fuck, oh fuck yes, he’s inside me, filling me—was enough to make me come without touching my clit. Because I was convinced—for political reasons—that there was no other way to really come except through clitoral stimulation. No surprise that eventually I started to think I was crazy or, at the very least, had a powerful imagination. In bed, I realized that my feminist upbringing was miles away from reality. Secretly, behind my mother’s back, and behind prominent feminist activist Alice Schwarzer’s back, I began to think, They’re wrong! I come that way almost every time—there is such a thing as a vaginal orgasm. Fuck it and fuck them. And now, finally, I’ve gotten scientific confirmation, too. In Geo Kompakt magazine, number 20. It’s a science magazine—and it’s my favorite. The theme of issue number 20 was “Love and Sex.” I learned a lot from it, a lot more than from Alice Schwarzer’s journal Emma. And yet, Alice Schwarzer still sits between me and my husband during sex, whispering, whispering: “Yes, Elizabeth, you only think you’re having vaginal orgasms, you imagine that in order to subjugate yourself to your husband and his penis.” From that issue of Geo Kompakt I learned that women have two ways to have an orgasm—and can even come both ways at the same time. A vaginal orgasm is—speaking in layman’s terms—transmitted to the brain via the vagus nerve, whereas a clitoral orgasm is transmitted through nerves that run through the spine. Sometimes I come really hard, and that probably means it’s being sent to my brain both ways at the same time. I also feel I come quickest if I do it the way I need it. What I mean is that I actually do the thrusting—I grind against his cock more than he actually shoves it into me. That way I can create the perfect rhythm for me. And then it’s just a matter of seconds before I come. I’m really loud. I flip out every time. And then I’m done. He has to be careful that he doesn’t come right away, too, because it turns him on when I just take what I want. He loves the way his cock gets me off. But that’s probably just something he’s convinced himself of—in reality, I’m pretty sure I get myself off. Anyway, he has to really concentrate—or think of his Catholic mother or whatever—until I finish. So that he doesn’t come before me, in which case it’s all over. I’m really thankful that he takes it so seriously—that he makes sure I come first. I’d guess that in the seven years of our relationship, he’s come first only three times, meaning there were only three times I didn’t come with his cock. But in all of those cases, he still made good with his fingers, his tongue, and his toes. In those instances I really benefited from his bad conscience.
With the exception of those three incidents, it’s always his turn after I come. At that point, I’m his servant, like at the start. This is the only moment during sex that I say anything. I’m no good at talking dirty. Probably for the same reason I don’t masturbate. It’s all my mother’s fault. As always. I ask Georg: “How do you want to come?” There aren’t that many ways. He gets to choose from the following menu: in my hand, my mouth, my vagina—I get on top and fuck him, because of his back—or, on rare occasions, because it is always pretty painful for me, in my ass. When I get on top of him, to fuck him so he can come in my vagina, he usually wants me to sit backward. That way he can grab my ass and see everything. He pulls my cheeks apart so he can watch his cock going in and out of my vagina.
He tells me exactly what he sees. Unlike me, he can talk dirty very well. He feels bad that I can’t see the way the skin of my vagina wraps around his cock as I lift my body. He says it looks as if the skin of my vagina forms a hat for his cock—the skin clings to it and is pulled slightly downward, getting dragged along the entire length of his shaft. A few times in our seven years together he’s pulled my cheeks apart so far that it’s slightly torn the tissue around my asshole, leaving me feeling slightly wounded. I tell him the next day, after I go to the bathroom: “Please don’t pull my ass cheeks so far apart next time, you broke something, thanks.” He immediately feels bad and promises to do better next time. I guess it just happens in the heat of the moment.
I often feel as if intense sex makes you overlook injuries. It’s the same with the way he pulls apart my vagina so he can really examine it. Sometimes the sensitive skin tears a little. Up to a point, a little pain turns me on even more because I think to myself that he is so horny that he can’t control himself anymore, that he no longer knows his own strength. It sounds as if I’m talking about a man with Down syndrome. But that’s what goes through my head during sex. If I can bear it, I wait until we’re finished before complaining—in a friendly tone. Often he squeezes my hard, stimulated nipples, and that can really hurt. Very carefully, I try to let him know that he hurt me—I don’t want him to feel too bad and then be tentative the next time we have sex. I don’t want that. And I also don’t want him to feel as though he’s some kind of brute.
But now it’s time for him to come. Over the years I’ve developed a trick. I first saw it in the documentary Chicken Ranch, by Nick Broomfield. In the movie, prostitutes use the trick on drunk clients so the fuck is over more quickly and they are able to raise their hourly earnings. As soon as a client has blown his load and his hard-on is deflated, the prostitute is done. So she earns the same money in a shorter time and can move on to another client. I use the same trick on my husband at the end of our sessions. Once I’ve come, I don’t really see any reason things should go on for an eternity. Over the years I’ve developed extremely good control over my Kegel muscles. I can make myself much tighter inside than I normally am. I have no idea whether having a baby slightly widens you—my gynecologist says that it doesn’t, that everything goes back to the way it was beforehand. Anyway, it’s also perhaps less than ideal for the feeling of tightness that my body produces so much fluid during sex. During foreplay it’s great, but later, when I want to make him come by rubbing his cock with my vagina, it’s more of a hindrance. If he puts his cock in before I’m really wet, I can tell from his reaction that it turns him on—because the friction is more intense. But anyway, after I’ve already come, I don’t have any great desire to prolong things. Unless it’s Christmas or our anniversary or something—in that case I let myself get carried away and will take a long time to get him off even after I come. So now I squeeze my Kegel muscles with everything I’ve got and he comes immediately. I mean immediately. There’s just nothing he can do. It always makes me feel good—the fact that I have his cock in a vise grip inside me and can pull the trigger whenever I’m ready. Cool. He moans and groans a lot when he comes, and usually I then ask him, as a joke, “Did you come yet?”
I think that being loud increases the intensity of sexual sensations. It highlights the rush, the animalism. Earlier, at the beginning of our relationship, I was the only one who always screamed. I would scream until his ears rang. But these days he screams right back at me. It’s great fun.
I’m totally against any kind of postplay. I get really jittery from sex and always want to get up and do something afterward—like take a shower. Not because I feel dirty or anything. It’s just that I am prone to the number one female ailment: urinary tract infections. And I can never get rid of the impression that I usually get UTIs after sex. So in my mind—with no scientific basis—I can’t help thinking male bacteria are responsible. So I wash them away and leave my husband lying there at the scene of the crime. He always falls into a state of complete relaxation after sex and then falls fast asleep—sometimes for hours. How does a cliché become a cliché? I’ve read that it’s totally normal for men and women