I found myself standing in a bathroom, looking in a mirror, panicking.
Shit! I wasn’t prepared for this today, I thought.
I’m usually on top of everything. I’m the person who lugs around the things one always finds oneself needing when out and about. At any given time, in my bag you might find a bottle opener, a safety pin, safer sex items, snacks, a stamp, toothpaste … you name it. I am the person who thinks of every “just in case” scenario.
I’d map my days, brainstorming all of the possible items I might need along the way. On the day in question, I had left the house with a friend to get brunch and go thrifting. I didn’t really need much but a small bag— wallet, lip balm, breath mints, tissues.
Or so I thought.
Brunch was lovely, and instead of thrifting, we shifted plans, which meant that I was not prepared. Our detour eventually brought us to a bar. There was a piano and singing, some drinking, dancing, and lots of flirting.
As the night progressed and inhibitions faded, the subtle exchange of glances with a hottie evolved into a silent agreement. With a shared understanding, we left the bar and my friend behind, stepping into the anticipation of what awaited. The familiarity of the bar scene slowly dissolved into the unknown, where the only certainty was intense wanting.
Crossing the threshold into their home, the air was thick with the promise of intimacy, each room holding the potential for new experiences and connections.
Which brings me back into that bathroom – staring at myself in a mirror.
I was still cursing at myself. Shit, I don’t have any of the many items from my clean-pussy tool kit.
I had to either figure out a way to clean myself or find a way to gracefully exit this sexy trans guy’s house and forget about a one-night stand.
Fuck it, I decided, after much contemplation. I pulled off my pants, mounted that stranger’s sink, and bird-bathed my pussy clean enough to get some action that night.
That was a close call! I thought as I headed out of the bathroom.
But it wasn’t the first.
Being clean down there has always been extremely important to me. So important that I carried soap, baby wipes, and squirting water apparatuses in order to cleanse myself in between bathroom visits. These actions, if you can believe it, were an offshoot from the daily douching ritual I did for years.
This obsession with cleanliness truly fucked up the way my body functions naturally. My pH balance was way off. I suffered years of yeast infections and UTIs. But it didn’t matter. I could not have sex or be intimate with anyone, even a partner of many years, without first having to go to the bathroom and wash.
“I promise I’ll be right back,” I’d yell across the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom.
My partner would huff, “Hurry up, baby!”
“I’m almost done,” I’d reply as I was still squatting in the tub, lathering up to wash and rinse my pussy for the second time. I would hop up and out of the tub, grabbing the towel off the rack. I would pat, pat, pat, run back, pounce, fly my body across the room toward the bed, land sexily, and, almost out of breath, say, “You ready for me?”
Sometimes my lover and I could jump back into sexy time, but other times, my obsession with a clean pussy killed the moment.
I knew that I needed to address my obsession, but it was so difficult. Every time I thought I could, I’d just repeat the ritual of cleaning myself. This cleansing ritual was really unhealthy for me physically and emotionally. I was extracting all the natural juices from my body, drying myself out, killing my sexual spontaneity, and not enjoying the moments.
I don’t think it was about hygiene per se. I don’t think I ever worried about smelling badly, even though that’s all I heard growing up. Nonetheless, I knew there was something deeply connected to me having to clean my vagina.
I worked with my therapist to help me get to the root. Meditation, journaling, and visualizing paved the way to better understanding. I can now pinpoint the traumatic event that triggered my ritual cleansing.
Negative ideas about vaginas, a lack of education about how the vagina works, being socialized as a girl, and sexual abuse all paved the way for me to feel the anxious need to be prepared, and the anxious need for cleansing.
I’d finally found the “why.” I understood why I was doing what I was doing. But what was next?
How could I stop excessively washing my bits?
At that time in my life, I had a primary partner. We were together for several years, and my partner was also my dominant in a BDSM power dynamic relationship. I was a submissive in this scenario, the boi. The dynamic was such that we would go in and out of power dynamic roles with particular keywords, movements, or statements that would drop us into the scene.
He was frustrated with me needing to clean myself, proclaiming loudly and often that he liked the taste of dirty pussy and that I tasted like nothing.
I heeded his complaints, and we talked. I explained my past, my triggers, my concerns, and my needs, and he talked to me about his frustrations and desires.
Huge exhale! I finally felt a sense of security afterward. We negotiated, allowing him to explore the ways in which he might dominate me to challenge my discomfort in this area.
I agreed not to run to the bathroom. Sir was to tell me what to do, how to behave.
I released myself and my need to cleanse myself, and it led to one of the hottest, most vulnerable, and nastiest experiences I’ve ever had.
It happened during an unexpected morning. I blinked my eyes open and rubbed out some crud. It is way too early. I was awake first, as usual. He was curled up and peacefully sleeping.
I slowly moved my legs to the edge of the bed, hoping gravity would help get my feet to the ground. My legs swung to the ground, and my bare feet made the naked walk to have my morning pee. Ahh! Relief. After drip drying for a minute, I patted myself dry and didn’t even wash my hands.
I scurried back under the covers, looking forward to two hours of more sleep. I nestled myself into him.
I’m not sure how much time passed, but I found myself in a sexy slumber. Hands were touching and groping me everywhere. I thought I was dreaming, but then I felt a bite. After a tussle, I heard, “Get up, boi.”
The sleepiness instantly vanished. I was on my feet, replying, “Sir, yes, Sir,” and eagerly awaiting his command.
He got off the bed, penetrating me first with his eyes. He sauntered over to me and stood slightly behind me, pressing his mouth in the crevice of my neck.
He spoke into my body. His words were slow, intentional, and deep. “Take off your underwear, turn around, place your hands on the nightstand, bend over, and spread your legs for me.”
Very clear instructions that I would usually jump to.
Instead, I said, “Sir, yes, Sir, may I use the bathroom?”
My heart pounding as I awaited his response.
My mind raced. Do I have any baby wipes here? Why did I pat dry?!
When he replied, he spoke evenly and sternly. “No, you may not use the bathroom. Get into position.”
“Sir, if I could just pee,” I pleaded. I continued to speak, fumbling for the right words, begging for just one minute in the bathroom. By that point, I was whining. Tears accumulated at the corners of my eyes and fell toward the nightstand as I finally gave in to the position. I bent down.
There I was, ass up, spread open. I felt the slightest breeze on my dampness. He took his time putting on his harness. He grunted as he strapped on the biggest cock he owned.
“I’m so dirty, Sir. Please.”
“Your dirty pussy needs to get fucked.” I felt his words like a smack as I heard him pull the last leather strap to tighten that heavy dick.
He walked toward me.
“Please, Sir,” I pleaded one last time. “My pussy is dirty. Let me clean it for you.”
Those were the last words uttered from my mouth. After he pushed himself inside me, all I could muster were moans of which I’d never produced and guttural screams of ecstasy.
I could feel the heat from his body mingling with the heat of my anticipation, fear, and desire. He took his thick hand, covered my mouth, grabbed the sides of my face, and slammed my face onto the nightstand. That propelled my ass even higher, opening me up, making me more accessible to him.
His cock slid out from between my legs, teasing all the parts it came in contact with. He held himself steady with one hand on the small of my back and bent down.
He put his face close to my pussy and took a deep whiff. I was mortified! He inhaled me. Pulled several fingers from deep inside of me, sniffing them with delight.
My horror intensified when he put those fingers on my face and in my mouth.
“Smell yourself,” he said in a sexy voice. “Taste that dirty pussy.”
He removed his hands from my lips. I began to smell myself; it was a slight musky scent. And I only had an instant to process it before he plunged his fat cock back inside of my shameful, quivering, wet pussy. He fucked me so hard. With every pump, I felt my pussy aroma fill my nostrils and then fill the room.
What I didn’t want before, I now needed. The smell of me, being pounded out of me, became my oxygen.
“You smell that?!” He pumped.
“You smell that!?” He said, almost out of breath. He grunted. “That’s that nasty boi pussy.”
More heavy breathing, grunting, and spewing his words at me. On me:
“Fuck that dirty pussy.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Good pussy!”
I took it, words and all. He thrashed against my body with all his force, and I was stone–tight and unmovable. “Yes, Sir,” I scream. “Yes, fuck my dirty pussy. Please. It’s so good, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Please don’t stop, Sir.”
And he didn’t. He fucked my dirty morning pussy into oblivion, and when he was done, he laid me down on my back, spread me open, and licked every inch of my throbbing hole.
He sucked it gently and kissed it all clean.
Now, that’s what I call a new and improved cleansing ritual.
