It was a book by Meg Cabot and it totally freaked me out. This was how female masturbation culture was indoctrinated into my life.
Everyone knows men dabble with masturbation. In fact, dabbling is an incredibly generous way of putting it—let’s be honest, everyone knows men yank it so often it’s a wonder more of them haven’t rubbed it into oblivion. Sort of like when you hold onto a bar of soap for too long.
But I’m getting off topic. The point is: male masturbation, not such a mystery. Not even news. However, believe it or not, I didn’t even know female masturbation existed until I was well into high school.
Sure, I’d heard of it before. And like I mentioned, Meg Cabot jarred me to reality with that book we all read in the caverns of our libraries when we were thirteen about the girl getting ready to have sex with her boyfriend for the first time. To practice, she gets friendly with the shower head, something that left my pubescent mind completely boggled. Girls didn’t touch themselves, did they?
Even in high school, I heard guys teasing girls about masturbating. “We know you all touch yourselves,” they’d croon, drooling at the possibility that one of us would stand up and demonstrate or something. Of course, we’d all deny it. Little did I know, I was the only one telling the truth.
“It just doesn’t seem enjoyable to me,” I’d tell my friend, who would agree fervently.
“I’ve never done it either,” she’d respond, blinking a little too often. “It seems kind of gross. Just something guys do.” In retrospect, she was probably lying through her teeth having all the fun with her electric toothbrush while she kept me in the dark.
Yeah, I’m a little late to the party, but my name is Taylor and I like to touch myself. Who knew being a disgusting man pervert was so pleasurable?
There are few things better than getting yourself off. You’re lying on the bed with your panties in a ball on the floor; you’ve got your index and middle finger sliding up and down your clit, first slowly, but applying a significant amount of pressure, and then you’re wet, you’re dripping, it’s getting on your duvet but you don’t give a shit because your Brad Pitt poster is winking at you and you’re ALMOST THERE.
You’re on your back with your legs up over your head and your vibrator turned on “high,” gripping it with your right hand while your left is otherwise occupied. Your toes are tingling with delight and your eyes are rolled back in your head, picturing Chris Pratt’s tongue in your vibrator’s place. You’re about to come all over the carpet and you holler “Yes Chris, yes!” because you’re home alone and Chris Pratt is nowhere in actual sight so who gives a shit what’s really going down here?
The best part about touching yourself is how tremendously unsexy it has to be. See, men expect female masturbation to be the most enticing visual in the world. In their eyes, we’re fully made up with our hair done and breast implants perked right up; we’re moaning, we’re licking our ruby lips, we’re shoving fingers in places that never see daylight.
When we’re done we take a long sensual bath, or lounge around in a lingerie robe. But the beauty of real life female masturbation is that you can sweat as much as you want. You can stink the place up and it doesn’t matter whether or not you’ve been eating enough pineapple.
You can scream, you can bellow, you can even yodel if that’s what strikes your fancy. And when you’re done? Forget being the sex goddess man wants you to be.
You can scratch your humid bush and smell your own fingers. You can lay around with your arms up over head, still wearing your tenth grade P.E. shirt. You can eat a bag of chips without washing your hands or wander around the house with your pants still off and your liquid still dripping down your leg; it doesn’t fucking MATTER.
Because at the end of it all you can walk up to your nearest mirror with a smug smile on your face and say to yourself, Yeah, that’s right. I made that happen. I’m responsible for my own orgasm damn it, and I did a way better job than any boy ever did.
