So, Harlequin romances led to historical bodice-rippers which led to the edgier and more sexually explicit of the mainstream romance novels. I remember when you'd be hard pressed to find any anal sex scenes in a mainstream release until fairly recently. Fifty Shades has made it acceptable today but until the millennium, if you wanted hardcore anal scenes, you had to buy dirty books. And buy, I did. I'd oh-so-casually peruse the tiny Erotica section of my local Borders store. I felt like a freak if I stayed in that aisle too long. I'd saunter up, quickly scan the back covers then grab one or two and purchase them in a camouflaged jumble amongst 'legitimate' merchandise. I spent a small fortune on those books until I joined the rest of the human race on the internet/Amazon.com.
I was quite the connoisseur by then and had my favorite titles stashed near my bed for maximum masturbatory convenience. I experimented with 'toys' of all sorts. I was extremely clever with converting everyday, ordinary objects into toys for my satisfaction. My very first dildo was a glass vial that originally held bath salts. It was beaker-shaped and about 6” long. This was the object of my first vaginal penetration (besides my fingers). I fucked myself silly with that thing but I soon craved bigger and deeper penetration. I deflowered myself with a glass Coke bottle. I didn't mean to but I guess in my over zealousness I went too far and ended up busting my cherry. It would be years and years before my vagina ever hosted a real cock, and I think my pre-deflowerment made the real thing go more smoothly than I'd expected. In fact, the guy didn't even know I was a virgin until I informed him months later.
I was very sexual rather early and had no compunction about sniffing out my father's porn, getting off to it every chance I could, then carefully returning it to its hiding place. I mention the books, toys, and porn to illustrate my preoccupation with sex. I was ready to get fucked at age 13 but my penchant for crushing on unattainable guys and my inner hopeless-romantic conspired to make me wait. And wait...and wait... What I find interesting is the fact that as soon as I became sexually active, I completely lost interest in romance novels and for the most part, porn. You might say, “of course, now you have the real thing.” But I don't. There's no love or romance in my life. I fell in love with a crack-addicted alcoholic and spent two years of my life (and a shitload of money) trying to 'save' him. I have a longtime fwb who is a little dictator and more or less disregards our Safe Word when it suits him. I have many hookups; some stellar, some less so. I have NSA bj buddies who don't quite get that I'm not the one on-call...they are. Sex, yes. Romance, no. Cock killed the closet romantic.