On Female Masturbation – and my first hand job

I’m not sure where to begin with this shameful admission. And I’m not sure which bit is more shameful. You can decide.
I have never read 50 Shades of Grey. And yet – I’ve happily slagged it off. I’ve read reviews, extracts, I’ve listened to opinions. I’ve heard all of what my friends have said about it and yet never picked it up and read any substantial amount of it. At the same time I loathe when people assume they will dislike something without ever finding out for themselves. But in my defense, everyone and I mean everyone, advised against wasting my time on it. I’m a busy girl, why would I be wasting my time on this mediocre text when I could be having better sex and writing better sex? But I hate not being thorough and I hate not having my own opinion so when someone recently asked me what my thoughts were on it – I gave them, based on my scant reading of it and decided … that I was going to read it and damn well finish it and make my own mind up. Jesus I got through Dan Brown didn’t I. Shudder.
I won’t lie. I’m struggling, but only a little bit. Not least because I hate the lead character, cannot fathom why she can’t find ANY word to use for her holiest of holies and constantly refers to it as ‘down there’(always italicized) but mostly because I really think I could do a better job! And there aren’t many things in my life I would say that about.
I could fill my own book with what I dislike about this one. But what’s the point in that? I hate loads of books. I’m just going to focus on the one main anomaly that is tormenting me so far. Female masturbation.

So the female lead is a virgin (yawn) and has never been kissed (or something) even at the age of 21*. Not only that but she doesn’t, and apparently hasn’t ever, touched herself? I can’t fathom this, I really can’t. And I can’t reconcile how someone can go from having no sexual urges AT ALL to being so totally clued in and in tune with her body (and that of this guy) that she gives the perfect Bj first time?
But let’s leave that aside or I might fall into a blind rage of how this woman is the most successful author of all time**.
I’m not sure what’s at play here? That women just don’t do it, or that maybe there’s a large population of them out there that don’t do it. Or that to make it more palatable for demure audiences it was ok to have it thrown in there because in this century we’re still afraid of female sexuality and urges? All fine with a male partner, but absolutely not ok to do it by ourselves?
This can’t be it. Really are there huge numbers of (grown) women out there that don’t touch themselves? And never have. So many that it was ok to suggest the main character  in a book doesn’t and for it to seem normal?
Or is it still not ok to talk about female masturbation, once again so much so that it CAN’T be put in a book for mass publication?

Ok. I’m not saying that it’s super easy for everyone and we all got there so easily. Because I know that’s not true. Of course some women find it hard to climax or don’t know that they can do it themselves but that’s not the same as implying that most women have no interest in it unless a man is doing it for them? (obviously it would be great if there was always someone to do it for me, I’m inherently lazy and the presence of a cock always makes things hotter for me. But I can take care of business when I need to)

So I’m going to tell you about how I feel about it. When I first did it and all my thoughts, issues and limitations on it since then and how I prefer to do it now. Because as ever I can only really talk with authority about my own experiences.

I think I was 14. I think this because I was pretty old. Or I felt I was old. I could possibly have been 15. It was a weird year. I had been kissing boys since I was – well honestly I think I was 4, I actually can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to kiss the boys. When we played kiss chase, I always got caught – cos I wanted to be caught. When I got to 14 (I think) things were going further. I know I’d had some sex education in school, I knew what sex was and how you got pregnant but I just wasn’t putting two and two together. Let me explain. I had been tentatively touching willies but not really getting my hands on one. One evening, it was summer, out on the green, behind some bushes I was kissing a boy. Probably slightly older. I don’t know if he put my hand there or I did but I fully had one in my grip, properly and I was in awe. He must have guided my hand to show me what to do, I’m sure I didn’t know the rhythm. I was in thrall, I wasn’t even looking at him, I was just watching it. But it was getting late and I was supposed to be home. I could hear my friends calling my name. So I told the boy I had to go. He softly, convincingly, implored me to stay a few minutes more, got me to shout out to my friends that I was ok and wouldn’t be long. I continued to rub it and then decided I’d seen enough so went to leave. That’s when he changed and said, in probably not the kindest way, ‘Do you even know what’s supposed to happen?!’ I should have, I just hadn’t connected the dots. Of course not wanting to seem like a baby I retorted with ‘Yeah, of course I do’ and so continued until he finished. Then I ran away. All the way home, giggling and telling what had happened. Thrilled with myself, very excited and naturally because it was Ireland in the 90s, swearing my friends to secrecy lest I get a ‘name’.

So that’s the kind of thing I was getting up to all the while not having any guy seeming to want to do it to me, make me climax that is, and all the while not doing it to myself. Until one night in bed I am itchy down there (!), just a little bit but when I go to scratch it feels nice. It feels really nice, so I keep rubbing and the sensation changes. I’m not sure what it is but I like it and I practically take my skin off I rub so hard. I have an inkling that something is supposed to happen but I’m not sure what? I don’t manage it that night. But I don’t give up either. I give it loads more tries, furtively, quietly, waiting for my sister to be asleep. I’m sure I’ve heard the word orgasm and I definitely know what masturbation is but it’s still not matching up in my head, for some inexplicable reason.
In my conversations with myself (because I’m obviously not talking to anyone else about it) I call it the spread-y out-y feeling as it seems to touch me everywhere.
Jesus? For all my raging desires I was such an innocent. Finally one night, I manage it. And I want to run around the block and do a lap of honour. I feel evangelical, does everybody know about this? Of course they do, that’s why people talk about sex, that’s what’s been going on inside me, that’s what I want boys to do to me. ….. But why is it never talked about?

And that’s how it continued. Just me in my head not really thinking about anything just focusing furiously on trying to make it happen. It wasn’t always successful. And things moved on with the boys, I always had the pent up need that was never released. I had boyfriends, none of whom seem concerned with making me climax. One (circa aged 17) was even lucky enough to get blowjobs from me, successful ones at that, and hand jobs. Regularly enough too. But I don’t ever recall any desire on his part to discover what I might like or there being any discussion about me climaxing? And the weirdest thing of all? I didn’t question it either. I wasn’t having regular sex I might add it was just the hand jobs and blowjobs.
My first time (aged 15) had been such a disaster I was terrified of doing it again. This trapped me in an awful circle of wanting it desperately and not wanting it to be desperate. It was the literal manifestation of frustration. And that’s how my teens were spent.

(the very observant of you will have noticed that in a year I had gone from not knowing how a hand job finished to actually having sex. It was a steep learning curve.)

In case you’re curious it was the first boyfriend in college who managed it. More than managed it, was eager to do it and wasn’t stopping until he did. He was determined. But … it was weird for me. I’d never let anyone see it, no one had ever done it. And so the first time I did come, I didn’t tell him. I told him a few days later after he managed it a different way and was thrilled with himself. I’m not sure why I told him maybe because he was just so self-satisfied? Just so taken with the notion of being the first guy to make me come and reveling in it just a bit too much.
When he had made me come the first time, I was too embarrassed to tell him. It had snuck up on me and caught me by surprise and …. I was embarrassed as to just how it was achieved. We were lying on his bed, kissing, groping for ages. He had his hand between my legs rubbing my crotch, with his thumb pressing on the seam of my jeans perfectly rubbing my clit. It felt great but I didn’t think I would come. The kissing got more intense and I leaned harder into his hand and then it over took me. Wave after wave of it. I was moaning into his mouth with the kissing anyway but I stopped making noise as I lost my breath and was so shocked.
For some reason, because it was outside my clothes it seemed somewhat shameful to me? And so I didn’t tell him. He was very annoyed that he hadn’t gotten to bask in the glory of the first time someone else made me come. Tough break. He wasn’t delighted that he had done something nice for me, he was delighted that he was the first guy, it was his own achievement he was proud of.
But apart from that it was the start of a very fruitful 4 years of riding the holes off each other. Learning everything we could trying anything we thought of.

But back to me and masturbating. How is it now? Well, I don’t enjoy anyone watching me. Can’t explain that, I just don’t. If someone does ask can they watch, I’ll oblige but I won’t come or at least I haven’t ever so far. I’m fairly sure the logic in the part of my brain that allows me to let go and orgasm goes something like this: Why would I do it myself when I just want you to touch me?
Don’t get me wrong, if you’re fucking me from behind and I’m close I will happily get my hand down there and help myself along – again, not ideal but it does work. Sometimes.
But if you want me to sit in front of you while you watch me – well I’m afraid it just doesn’t turn me on.

I don’t generally find visual stimulation the most successful.
I can do it with someone on the phone to me, but I selfishly need them to just talk to me, if they want me to focus on getting them off too, then I can’t. It has to be one or the other. I need to just be in my head conjuring something up, lost in it myself.
But if something was to get me going, like properly so that I needed to start on myself? Then 100% it’s reading something hot that will get me needing that release. This can even be texts, if the sender is particularly skilled.
And up until recently I had to be at home, in bed where there was no chance of being discovered or disturbed.
But lately, I have managed it in my bathroom and more intriguingly – in the toilet at work. A freaking miracle for someone who had been so self-love repressed. It started off at home, it was early evening, I was just in the door and someone had been mercilessly texting me incendiary stuff all day – I had been fighting off visions of him taking me from behind standing up. Without knowing what I was going to do I dropped my bag and went straight to the loo. I locked the door and lifted my skirt. I faced the door and leaned against it with one hand, arse out, as if someone was taking me from behind. And in less than 2 minutes I was done. It was glorious. It was the relief of something that had built all day and it was a barrier broken down in my head.
I now knew that I could do it somewhere other than in my own bed, and, standing up. So that opened up the possibility of other places.

There are a couple of guys who’ve been really skilled at sending the texts that get me worked up. Or sometimes I write Abbi stuff at work. Always a mistake but sometimes I just need to get it out of my head. If I’m left alone and no one (from real work) bothers me, I can get lost in the story and start to relive it, this also gets me stupidly wound up. So not long after the standing-up-in-the-bathroom-coming I was compelled to at least try to give it a shot, try to find release.
Again, another issue for me and making myself come, my surroundings have to be nice. At least clean – possibly somewhere that I could imagine having sex. Thankfully the ladies toilets in my office are very pleasant and frequently empty in the late afternoon. With swollen lips and an engorged clit I went to there, leaned up against the tiles of the cubicle, much as I had at home and thought of someone (yes a particular someone) taking me from behind right there. And to my absolute ecstatic joy it worked.
And once it had worked once sure I knew it would work again. And it did.

I have to be outrageously aroused before I can attempt this at work. I have to be in desperate need for release a feeling that overrides any other worry of maybe getting caught. And also when I’m at that point, it will only take me about 2 minutes to get there. Pretty good odds that I won’t get discovered.

But it’s not always successful for me. Unless I’m seriously stimulated by something else first I probably can’t make myself come in the way that I want. Orgasms are not standard, they come in different sizes and intensities. And I want the giant all consuming, I don’t know my own name orgasms. Not the, just reached a peak and then disappeared and the urge is now gone, itch scratched but no lasting bliss, limping to the finish, orgasm.
But I still do it, I still want to do it and I still enjoy it.
Would I rather there was someone there to do it for me? Every. Fucking. Time.

Now before anyone points out that I haven’t mentioned porn – well that revelation is for another day.

 

 

 

 

*can I just point out that I am in no way berating anyone for being a virgin at 21, or for not having any sexual experience, but it’s specific usage in this novel is a trite old ploy I find tedious. And I mention it as a precursor to the next sentence in the paragraph.

**I did finish the book. And I didn’t hate it utterly. It moved at a nice pace and it did have a bit of a plot to it, though I’m not sure why it takes 3 books to get there. I can’t find any redeeming feature for the main character or any of the characters for that matter? But maybe that’s because I can’t relate to her on any level, she doesn’t wear makeup, she doesn’t wear heels, she doesn’t work out and she’s skinny because she appears to be terminally allergic to food and NEVER eats a fecking thing – unforgivable in my eyes.
There’s absolutely no discernible character development. And I certainly didn’t at any point get aroused to the point where I had to relief myself – actually I was quite annoyed when I was talking to my sister about this and she claimed that it was quite effective, I said I didn’t feel the same and her response was that I was numb to subtleties because I was used to harder stuff? That was unfair, she’s never read any of mine. But I digress. Different things turn different people on. And while I don’t think this story is high literature and I do somewhat resent just how popular (read: how rich the author now is) I don’t begrudge her. There are way worse books out there, just because this one isn’t to my own taste doesn’t mean I don’t want it to exist. It’s a start. Maybe there will be more and in a more female positive vein? Maybe people will open up more about sex? Maybe I’ll get my own book deal because it’s been proven that erotica can be big money… who knows. Anyway. I didn’t fling it across the room and out a door. I was able to get through it relatively easily. Can’t say that for every book I’ve picked up

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