Enoch
I gave up on strap-ons before I had ever used one. I thought that too many people in the queer female community had abandoned the “pure” art of hand sex—and to a lesser extent oral sex—in favor of toys and other penis substitutes. I was resolute that we should be making use of what we had and not playing into the stereotype that real sex involved a penis penetrating a vagina. Besides, my one experience with prosthetic penises had taught me that it’s hard to escape the power our society confers upon phalluses and left me nervous about how that might apply to sex.
Then, during my first relationship that consistently involved sex, I found out how wrong I was. My partner and I realized I would probably like wearing a strap because I was always using my hips anyway, and I have a thing for making out. Strap-ons are really good for freeing up your hands and mouth for other things. So we went to our local feminist sex toy store to see if we could find something that would appeal to both of us.
Because I was a beginner, we decided to go with a somewhat penis-shaped one in everyone’s-first-dildo purple. Seriously, there is nothing more cliché than being a dyke with a purple cock. The first time led to some minor identity-crisis moments: as I held myself up on top of her trying to figure out how to use my new appendage, I was struck by a sense of how hetero the whole scene was; pelvises joined together missionary-style was not my idea of fulfilling, queer sex. Plus, psyching myself up for this dildo not being my penis didn’t adequately prepare me for my disappointment upon realizing that it didn’t feel like an extension of me; I had no idea what it was doing or whether it and I were in sync.
Luckily, I had a very patient partner who gave good feedback. I know that the most confusing part about strap-on sex for most people is that the wearer can’t feel, but those people are focusing on the wrong feelings. You can feel your body working to create pleasure for another person. You can feel the connection between you and your partner so differently when you’re pressed together that way. With not much practice at all, I was feeling more connected to the pull of the harness and the responsive pressure that told me what was happening on the other end. My sense of the queerness of what we were doing grew as my sense of incompetence shrank. I started to love it. I’ll admit there were moments when it did feel like my dick, even moments when I convinced myself I could feel along the entire length, but for the most part it was just another tool I used to give pleasure to my partner, and that’s the most important part of sex to me.
Strap-on sex will never replace hand sex as my first sexual love, but it holds a special place in my heart and my desires. It remains a decision that I make with each individual partner, obviously, and it means different things depending on where it sits within each person’s sexuality. I’ve still never tried a realistic cock with balls—I guess I’m afraid of what it will mean—but for the time being, I’m content to know that I’m not allowing my hesitance to claim phallic status to get in the way of my ability to have varied and pleasurable sex.
About Enoch
In the moments in which Enoch is not cleaning or staring at hirself in a mirror, ze is most likely among friends talking about gender, talking to a stranger on the street about gender, or talking to drunken people at parties about gender. Enoch co-chairs TransAction, keeps a blog about gender, and has worked at the NYC LGBT Center’s Youth Enrichment Services program as a Safe Schools Intern and a Family Group Leader at their annual summer camp. Enoch identifies as a makeup-wearing, hyper-feminine, female-assigned, male-centered, genderfucked androgyne with a passion for facial hair and women’s shoes.