Everyone must masturbate.
And almost everybody does, too, but masturbation is still not typically openly discussed. Instead of embracing it an act of self-exploration, many times people keep it hidden back in the bedroom. But masturbation should be at the forefront of discussion when it comes to sexuality, because it allows people explore their own bodies at their own pace, to whatever feels good.
Masturbation many times is frowned upon more than sex itself is. But how does this make sense? Since masturbation is typically a solo act, why are people more hesitant to discuss masturbation before sex? (Read Complete Article)
So I was visiting my mom this morning and we were watching the news together, well, to be fair, I turned on Sportscenter, but that’s news too, right? Besides Jon Stewart, it’s probably the only news I get, but I digress.
She was thinking of the news, perhaps, and while I watched the boys on the television debate the football future of the New York Giants, my mom says to me, “Oh with all the radiation and bodies in Japan, and we still have time to talk about this shit! We’re all just jerking off in our hats!”
What?! I asked in amused/disgusted half-embarrassment. What the hell does that even mean?
I knew what it meant from her context, but I had never heard the saying, so I decided to look it up rather than pry for more information from her. You don’t really want to go too in-depth with your mother about these things, do you?
Well, I didn’t find too much honestly. Some possible racism about Arabs was provided by Google for my perusal, but I passed, but I started wondering what other phrases or euphemisms might be out there. I wasn’t properly prepared to be honest.
I didn’t know that some women refer to their masturbation as “jilling off”, but, hey, that makes sense if I’m allowed to “jack off”, and I’m certainly not one to judge considering my years of honing and perfecting the craft.
“Forking the pot roast” was also new, and sounds somewhat uncomfortable. Then there were these:
Morking the Mindy (nanu nanu)
Lighting the lamppost (wick or electric is my question)
Burp the Baby (hide the kids)
Bash the Candle (Ow! Why?)
Giving the half-blind dog a run for his money (Huh?)
Invoking the Oscar-Meyer love spell (Like you’ve never used Catsup for lube!)
Eating grapes with the One-Armed Man (Eating grapes? That’s flexibility, folks)
And then there was this: Rereading the Republican Contract with America
I guess that one’s for those who aren’t into the whole brevity thing, as my friend the Dude would say.
And then for all my nerds out there, there is the ever popular geeky, “Genital Stimulation via Phallengetic Motion. I think that’s from Stephen Hawking, but don’t quote me on that.
There seems to be a lot of pain involved for many of us. Slapping, spanking, choking, beating, pounding, punishing, slamming, squeezing and whipping. I thought we were loving ourselves, but I guess we like the tough love too.
My favorite? Glad you asked. Pip the Pumpkin.
I don’t even know what that means, and to be honest, when I first read it, I thought it said Pimp the Pumpkin. I think I like my version better.
The morale of the story for me is this: Maybe we can find ways to be a kinder, gentler lover to ourselves.
If you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s time for me to unleash my alabaster yak.
You remember yesterday, when we started talking about this, yes? And then I totally acted the cock tease? Well, let’s have some…happy ending.
Where were we? Ah, yes. The vibrator. This was given to me for my 31st birthday by my best friend. I have no idea what she was thinking, except that she knew I would always be too cheap to buy one for myself. Besides, as I’d said for years, “I don’t think I really NEED one of those. I’ve pretty much got it covered.”
But there it was, in a tall, skinny Hustler store bag. I pulled it out of the surrounding tissue paper as she stood there wearing a wide, devilish grin.
“Amy, trust me. You need this.”
If I could have returned it for store credit, I’d have traded it in for some nice whore shoes. However, she’d spent a lot of money on the thing. She’d gotten me the Mercedes of vibrators. I couldn’t just return it. It would be rude and her feelings would be hurt when she eventually found out.
It sat unopened in my house for months. The slightly incriminating box hiding in a dresser somewhere, just waiting for mom to stumble upon it during a visit. Wouldn’t that be the way? I finally own one of those things, and it embarrasses me before I even take it out of the box? Stupid, unsettling, daunting piece of machinery.
I eventually got curious. I always eventually get curious. One day, it’s going to be the death of me.
I took the batteries out of my DVD player remote and put them into the little gray controller for The Machine. I flicked the controller on and The Machine became something out of a Kubrick film, all vibration and circular motion and rotating beads. It was like a lollipop from Hell. I couldn’t believe people take these things seriously.
“She’s kidding me. She does not seriously expect me to use this. I am being punked.”
“SO! Have you used it yet?!” she asked excitedly.
“Uh…it’s…this is a lot of hardware…”
“You’ll get to it.”
Honestly. She’s 10 years younger than I am and frequently knows what I need better than I do. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d be tempted to stab her in the face.
Readers, I did eventually get to it, just like she knew I would. Eventually, the curiosity won. She was right. It was whole new world. The neighbors probably thought someone was being murdered.
And that, my friends, is the spirit of giving. Someone knowing you well enough to know what you need, even when you keep not realizing it. My best friend looked at me, thought something needed to be set free, and knew how to do it. Christmas isn’t just for good sense and gift cards.
Ah, the holidays. It’s a time to have your grandma fill you with mysterious beige food and spend time watching your coworkers get horrifyingly tipsy. To sit through hours of your niece playing with whatever loud, annoying toy she’s been given. Not to be a Scrooge, but I think we could all be making a bit more of this.
I propose a new tradition.
When I think back and try to think of the best gifts I’ve ever received, there are several: the Yamaha PSR-11 I got when I was 8, the roses some guy gave me at age 20, and the vibrator I got for my 31st birthday.
I have been given more expensive things, things that I had specifically asked for, but the gifts mentioned above stick out in my mind because they represented someone thinking of me and saying, “this could be the future…I want to help you get there.”
I was initially really, really frustrated with the keyboard because I couldn’t play it. I was convinced that it had been given to me because dad secretly wanted one. I just wasn’t seeing the future that mom and dad saw. What I didn’t understand was that they had noticed me taking to my sister’s 80s equivalent of Pianosaurus and thought “she’s picked her instrument.” Eight years after buying me that keyboard, I stood in front of them saying, “I have gone as far as I can go with this. I need more keys.” Eight years after the keyboard, those forward-thinking parents moved a cherry-stained spinet into their house.
The first guy to ever give me flowers was basically just doing it because I think he thought he was supposed to. It wasn’t my birthday or Valentine’s or anything; he just showed up to hang out with twelve red roses bound together with a ribbon and an antique key. He said it was the key to his heart. Granted, that’s a little cheesy, but I didn’t care. I dried the flowers and kept them until they fell apart. I still have the key in a box somewhere, along with every poem ever written to me and a hand-made black valentine.
“But Amy,” you say, “stop being a cock tease. Get to the part about the vibrator.”
Oh, come now (no pun intended). What kind of blogger would I be if I kept this as just one post? It would be so long as to tax your attention, after all. I promise not to leave you hanging, so long as you promise to check back tomorrow. Deal?
When I first moved into a college dorm (back in the stone age, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and Keith Richards was but a boy) I pretty much decided that my masturbating days were over for a while. I mean, I was sharing a room with someone else that had nothing but a desk in the middle, and there was no way I was going to masturbate with someone else in the room, no matter how quiet I could be.
You see the flaw in this logic.
I think I lasted about three months, but eventually something had to be done. I started working in some relaxation during my roommate’s nightly shower, or when she was down at the library studying. I assume she got her respective “relaxing” in too, since our friendship didn’t have too many rocky spots. Trust me, no one wants to share a room with someone who’s not having any orgasms. That’s just cruel.
By the time we were in our second year as roommates, we’d worked out a not-so-secret code:
“Are you studying down the hall tonight?”
“Do you need me to?”
“Uh…it would be nice.”
Not very subtle, but you know. Whatever gets the job done and keeps you from killing your roommate. I was reminded of all this while reading an article in American University’s Eagle, which discusses solo sex life in college and addresses some of the societal stigma still attached to female masturbation.