Learning to Touch Myself

Notes for non-American readers: Charles Ingalls, played by Michael Landon, is a fictional character on a television show called Little House on the Prairie, a family show placed in Minnesota in the 1800s. Richard Simmons is a gay exercise guru who puts out exercise videos. He seems like a very sweet and gentle man.

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I was a late bloomer, sexually speaking, not discovering the pleasures of masturbation until I was thirty. Growing up, I had always bought into the idea of seeking your own gratification was something only sluts and whores do. Well, slut or whore, I was not. Six years into a marriage of convenience, I found myself really, uncomfortable, always wanting something more from the "adequate" sexual encounters I had with my husband, but not certain what that "something" was. I had heard those urban legends about women having orgasms, but I knew it had to be untrue.

Yes, pleasure, for me, was not in the cards; however, my husband always sought his own pleasure with a reckless abandon that left me irritated and depressed, but proud that I had done my duty again. I didn't know what to do about it-- every time I offered a little hint, he would become angry and insulted, pouting like a child until the next time I was required to "perform my duties." Even encouraging sounds seemed to have little impact. Sounds = good, no sounds = bad, right? Apparently not clear enough. But that was okay. Sex had been explained to me the night I was married; my grandmother told me to just close my eyes and lay there until he was done. She said "don't worry pumpkin, it doesn't take that long. Besides when he's done, he'll probably buy you flowers and it'll be all over for another month."

Talking with a friend one day, I heard something I had not been prepared to hear. "God I'm sooo horny," she bemoaned. Shocked that she would say something so inappropriate and unwholesome, I said I was sorry to hear that; her boyfriend was in upstate New York on business, and I assumed that she would just have to remain in that state until he returned. She looked at me as though I had just spouted a second head, and replied "oh no, I'll be taking care of that little problem as soon as I get home." Now it was my turn to stare. "What?" she asked, "Don't tell me you don't do it, too!" I just blinked at her, not believing what I was hearing. "You must," she insisted.

I shook my head at her, swallowing hard. "Do you really?" I asked in an incredulous voice.

"Practically every single day," she countered. Now, I had known her for years; casual, cool, and always helpful, she was a person I felt really close to. She wasn't a slut or a whore, yet here she was doing the unthinkable! "I'd lose my mind if I didn't." She added to my amazement.

Feeling incredibly dirty, yet curious, I asked "how?"

"Whaddya mean how? I have toys," she replied as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. I confessed to her that I thought it was something only dirty girls did, and that I had never done it. Shocked, and a little offended, she insisted that she was not a "dirty girl," -- "all the time" -- she amended. "You need to try it. You'll see." she told me.

Putting my scientific mind to work, I did a little googling. So embarrassed was I, in fact, that I felt dirty just thinking the word "googling." But I found a lot of fortifying information about masturbation and stress relief, mood hormones, and improvement of bladder control in older women. Now, I rationalized, I was not an older woman yet, but I would be one day. I figured that I wanted great bladder control when I was old, and maybe I should, for my health-- physical and mental-- give it a shot.

I had no idea where to begin, so I bought a book. I thought Grey's Anatomy would be a good way to figure it out. Turned out I was wrong, but I didn't want to just dive right in without knowing what I was doing! Browsing bookstore shelves I found a book called "How to please your woman tonight," and thought, "that should have the information I need." I took it to the counter, and shamefacedly gave it to the woman. As I opened my wallet, the woman said to me "Boy, I'm sorry you need this! But that's why God gave us hands, yeah?" I gaped, horrified, paid for the book, and left quickly, pulling my coat up to hide my face as I made my exit.

Embarrassed by my purchase, I stuffed it in my purse. I didn't want anyone asking me what I bought. When I got home, I started to look through the book. I learned an amazing amount from that book, although it later turned out that a lot of it was untrue. For example, what woman would even think of letting a man put his face between her legs! How absurd can you be? That would be like asking me to put my mouth on his... you know, his thing! Ridiculous.

But I had learned enough to start touching myself in the right way, and feeling like a filthy little whore, I would close my eyes and think of Michael Landon as Charles Ingalls, kissing the woman who played Caroline in a passionate way on her cheek before taking the girls into town. Other times, I would think about Reverend Patterson, taking my hand in his, and telling me I looked lovely. And whew! The intensity of the pleasure I got from these dirty little fantasies was incredible. But then, I noticed that the book said I have to touch myself... down there! I had been rubbing my arms and neck, thinking that would do it. I liked to touch my hair, and my knees, feeling the rough skin of my elbows under my fingers. It was really nice, but DOWN THERE?!?

I was starting to hyperventilate thinking about it. I put my head between my knees, and started to practice controlled breathing. In, out; one, two. Feeling a bit calmer, I told myself that it was for my health. I was doing it for my health.

I settled back, and conjured up another hot fantasy. This time of Richard Simmons telling me I was beautiful. I just love him; he is so genuine. I'm always amazed he hasn't found a nice lady to settle down with. But where was I? Oh yes, Richard standing before me in his headband and wristbands, his purple shorts showing off just enough leg to still be proper, but still a little flirtatious, and saying "you can do it! You are beautiful!" Gathering all my courage together, I went for it. I put my hand between my legs, and touched myself.

HOLY SHIT! That's all I have to say. Forget Richard Simmons, how about Russell Brand bending me over a chair in the back room of a pool hall! How about Matt Damon going all Bourne Identity on my ass! How about Angelina Jolie... okay, I'm not quite ready to go that far.

Needless to say, my marriage ended, and I have new friends that I hang with while seeking out someone new-- the battery operated kind. They are friends that do exactly what you need them to and want them to, and they always let you come first.