I have a confession. I didn’t start masturbating until two years ago, and I did it because I was ordered to do it by my Dom. And I didn’t start masturbating for myself until this past summer. This goes hand-in-hand, or hand-in-vagina, with the fact that I never actually gazed upon my vagina until fairly recently as well.
Both my girlfriend, Liri, and Nikki tell me stories about being fairly young and discovering the joy of masturbation. Not me. I didn’t know anything about it, and I wasn’t curious enough to find out. I don’t think I was repressed… I just didn’t think about it very much at all. I thought it was something that boys needed to do.
When I did think about my vagina and the pleasure that could accompany it, I always related it to what happened when there was a cock in it. I suppose you could say that I made up for the lack of masturbation with sex, but the sad reality was that I didn’t realize I could pleasure myself for the sheer joy of doing it for myself. And it only took me thirty *cough* years to have that epiphany.
The first time I masturbated on my own was last spring. I was doing it without permission, and I felt devious–excited and a little bit guilty. I fantasized about Liri. We weren’t dating at the time, but I imagined her walking up the steps to my bedroom. I imagined her finding me naked and spread-eagle on the bed, already wet and wanting her. But then my vision dissipated as my focus shifted to what was happening to my body. This was also the first time I had a clitoral orgasm, and I think it literally knocked my knee socks off.
Have you ever just laid in bed and tried to see how many different ways you can make yourself orgasm? Oh, that’s just me? Well, I make no apologies. I orgasm differently with partners than I do by myself, and I bought a new vibrator to experiment with the ways I can come. As much as I love fucking the people I adore, I also glory in the time I take for myself. The exploration of my body and its amazing capabilities… that’s what gets me off. A lot.
Heather and I have regular conversations about getting off. We discuss how we get off, how many orgasms we have, etc. It’s like the weather report but naked. And juicy. But recently we delved into what specifically gets us off, and we realized we’re very different when it comes to required provocation. She tends to hone in on the sensations she’s feeling in the moment while I depend more on visual stimulation to throw me into orgasm.
In the past, vivid images of a particular character or scene from a book I had read brought me to orgasm more times than I could count. And from time to time, I’ve partaken in the many categories porn has to offer while masturbating. Except for bestiality, because hell no. But I do find two women enjoying each other’s bodies to be wonderfully hot and excellent masturbation material, even though I’m not a lesbian. I’m not even bisexual. I do, however, consider myself to be heteroflexible. Simply put, I’ll get busy with a woman, but I need a supervisory penis in the room, as Liri’s boyfriend so eloquently put it.
Over the past year, though, it has been images of another kind that I find incredibly arousing. Titillating images of, wait for it… my boyfriend. I know! I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s the God’s honest truth. I’d never fantasized about a person I was in a relationship with and I snickered at those who did. How was that possible? I found the notion of it laughable. That is until I found myself in a relationship where the sex and intellectual stimulation leave me swimming in a puddle of *ahem* love juice.
My fantasies are more like memories of amazing moments we’ve shared. And I don’t close my eyes to see them. I keep them open wide as I lay in bed, clearly picturing Mr. K’s face above me, his hands on my knees and his voice in my head telling me to come.
That, my friends, is what gets me off.