Inga Hensing shares her own sexual coming of age, when she knew she had to stop fucking that way
The first time I put my dick in someone I was seventeen. I had traveled from the Midwest to the East Coast to visit my first love, and we fucked for the first time while stuck alone in a cabin in the middle of a thunderstorm. The power had gone out, but we still managed to fumble over, through, into each other’s bodies. The night had all the makings of romance, but when it came to the actual fucking, natural lubrication wasn’t enough and we collapsed, exhausted together. I don’t think either of us came.
I kept fucking this way through college but couldn’t quite get things right. I’d spend hours entangled in the limbs of my partners, high on touch. We’d fuck all sorts of ways but the moment that my body was inside theirs I would jump out of my skin, sensation would cease, and I would grit my teeth until I came as required by compulsory heterosexuality. I couldn’t name what was happening and I started getting drunk so that I could keep climbing into bed with others, so that I could keep putting myself in harm’s way.
I don’t know why this, among all the other daily misgendering I endured as a closeted transsexual woman, triggered me so intensely. Maybe it felt like betrayal because it occurred in the most vulnerable, physical moment that should have made me feel embodied and present. Maybe it was because insertive sex, as a key site for the production of gender, was where I could most clearly feel the hand of patriarchy forcing me to fuck.