A wise man once told me that there are two kinds of men: those that masturbate and those that lie about it. I, sir, am no liar.

However, it took years for me to be comfortable with the activity because I still had a lot of Christian philosophy that I believed that said such activities were sinful. To be honest I never found evidence of this in the Bible. Even if I did, there is very little solution for stopping myself from standing at attention, which leads to me doing so regardless of personal embarrassment.

Yet, when I was told by my sister that it’s the healthiest form of releasing tension and helps us understand sexual likes and dislikes, I finally grew more comfortable with it. I still can’t say I like it. To me it’s like wanting a prime rib but settling for a pretty decent burger that you have everyday – sometimes several times a day.

Of course in prison, I did it regularly. Masturbating plus working out and meditation proved to be the perfect combination for dealing with power hungry COs and overly childish campers. Not to mention I realized I had to because if I didn’t do so when I wanted to, my body would find release when when it wanted to, which happened three times in prison, resulting in a mess of course. Truthfully, I wanted to go the whole year and then some without ever masturbating but it wasn’t possible.

It was here I realized that it did give me sense of mental stability to masturbate and get things out my system. Once out masturbation helped me to focus on my writing career and other business ideas.

Although we did everything together we never sexually crossed paths. Somewhere between 18 and 20 he became similar to a family friend, we did laundry together hell, he would even pick up my tampons. Looking back I realize how content I was with that. I had interest in the beginning but after witnessing how fast he went through women, I loved the respect he had for me.

My junior year approached and I return to campus to find out that not only is Jason involved but he is actually in love. Our connection changed, we never hung out anymore, calls went unanswered so I took the one thing I learned from him and used it FOR him. I forgot he existed. That is until spring semester.

His girlfriend went on a cruise with her sorority sisters for spring break, the campus was dead and so was the nightlife. That Friday night I decided to go to a bar alone just for a quick drink, I wanted to drive out the next morning to meet up with my friends in Atlanta for the rest of break. I walked into the lounge that was popular at the time and who do I see with a few friends in the corner? JASON!

We had managed to go an entire semester without any contact so once his friend made it known I was less than 10 ft away from him, all 6’3 220 lbs of beauty came running to me and gave me the biggest bear hug ever. We were friends but our embrace felt like he was an old love that I never had closure from. While putting me down, Jason leans in and says “Seeing how beautiful you are keeps reminding me I picked the wrong one”. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and that was it. I ended up finding a group of people I knew from class to keep me entertained that night, and around my 7th shot of tequila I could smell his Creed cologne and his voice saying “She had enough and we’re going home”.

Fuck the drive, let me NOW get to the point. We arrive at my apartment followed by his friends, one of which drove my car back to my place. I don’t remember how he got rid of them but just know he did, and fast. I remember walking into my bedroom, undressing and turning on my air. It wasn’t hot but liquor makes me sweat like I’ve been on 72 hour fuck-a-thon. Jason walks in as I am laying on the bed and sits directly across from me on my love-seat. I want you to imagine someone staring at you as if they are counting each breath you are taking by the movement of your chest, that is how he is peering into me. “You know we can’t fuck, right?” he says, I just shook my head in agreement knowing damn well my pussy is crying out for him. As if he is reading my mind he begins to instruct me. “Slide your panties off” I did, “suck on your finger for me and rub your clit slowly” I do. He then fucked me mentally as I fucked myself in front of him. Each time I slid my fingers in, I imagined it was his dick. I tasted myself just to tell him what my juices tasted like. I stroked myself to the tone of his voice, I watched him as he pulled his dick out to join me and closed my eyes to pretend he was pulling it out to fuck me silly. I learned how to moan that night, I learned how to talk while having sex. The closest he came to me was when he blew on my clit as I was coming. I never had an orgasm on command until this man leaned over me as I was nearing and said “Baby give me what I’ve waited on these past four years!”. I convulsed while coming, I don’t know if it was because of him or him watching but either way this is by far my most memorable masturbation session.

I learned Jason had married his girlfriend following graduation that next year and although I was happy for him, I always wondered if he could do that to me without touching me, IMAGINE THE DICK!

***

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I grew up Catholic but around 4th grade my Mother discovered a new Catholic Church that was more evangelical. Suddenly we were going to prayer meetings, bible studies, revivals and retreats. They already had outdated mid 1950’s attitudes towards relationships and sex but the new religion made them even more conservative. My parents NEVER talked about sex. Not while I was starting to explore my prepubescent body, not when I matured at the early age of 10 nor even as an inexperienced 17 year old leaving for college. I learned everything about menstruation and puberty from my friend next door and 5th grade sex ed class. I learned about sex from my sister’s magazines and books I discovered in her closet.

My sister is 12 years older than me and was never home. This left plenty of opportunities to go though her stacks of books and magazines around our bedroom and in the closet. Around 6th grade I read her Stephen King and Anne Rice novels. I also found and read her old issues of High Times and Playgirl magazines. Eventually I found behind the paperbacks and magazines she had some trashy pornographic novels. Now I not only had the good feeling I got from rubbing against my pillow, I had fuel for fantasies. The magazines and the books showed me pictures of people enjoying this marvelous thing called sex. The erotica showed illustrations and they also graphically described it. I’ll never forget my favorite book, “The Trapped Seductress.” I would straddle my pillow like the girls in the book and imagine I was one of them. I could reach really intense orgasms now and continue to have them over and over again. It became one of my favorite hobbies.

One particular day, at bedtime, I assumed because my parents were watching television in the living room that my activities would not be detected. Maybe I was louder than I thought because in the middle of enjoying quality time with my book and pillow I was discovered. I still remember the thud of the heel of my mother’s hand hitting the door just before it opened. I hurriedly threw the book between the bed and the nightstand then tried my best to look like I had been sleeping. The space of time between the door opening and the lights coming on was miniscule but I hoped I had fooled her.

To my chagrin, she immediately fished out and confronted me with the book. Instead of vehemently denying everything I feigned innocence. I told her I just picked the book at random and had never seen it before. She admonished me for reading the book then she pulled up the covers on my bed. While I had attempted to dispose of the book and pull up the pillow I had not had time to pull up my panties. They were still wrapped around my ankle. I feigned innocence again and I told her I was rolling around trying to get comfortable so they must have fallen down. I was told that I wasn’t supposed to sleep without my panties on and not do it again. She put the covers back on, turned off the light and left.

I lay there in the dark, heart beating, in a complete panic. I was sure she was on to me. I waited until it was quiet then started to hide all the other evidence. I pulled out every book and magazine I could find and hid them at the bottom of a box of winter clothes in the back of the closet. I have no idea what the consequences were for my sister. She never confronted me nor did I ever hear about my parents confronting her. I thought I had gotten away with it for the most part. I would find out in a few weeks I was wrong. I never got a lecture or even a lesson for that matter. Instead I found myself getting into an old Town & Country station wagon with my Mom, a few other girls and their Moms.

I wound up in the very back in seats that did not face straight out the back but instead faced my fellow passenger. She and I knew each other from church but I can’t remember her name. I do remember that she had Downs Syndrome. We sat in the back for a long time going down the highway to an unknown destination with very little to say to one another. At one point she was inspired to start giving the finger to the car following us. She would laugh, tap me to make sure I was watching her then flip the bird out the back window. Her laughter attracted her Mother’s attention. She made her stop then apologized to my Mom saying that her daughter must have seen someone else doing it. She made it sound like her daughter had no idea she was doing something “bad” but I have a feeling she did because she took such great delight in doing it.

Our final destination was a large stone church. Our church was a newer inexpensive concrete and siding building that only somewhat resembled a church. This was an old-fashioned Gothic style church with a vaulted ceiling, long wooden pews, and oddly enough, a large screen hanging just in front of the altar. In the somewhat dimmed interior of the church I was forced to watch an anti-masturbation film. Wish I could give you details about the film but I seem to have either blocked it out or simply forgotten over the years. About all I can recall today was sitting near the back of this gigantic church stunned that we drove all this way so I could watch a film about the evils of masturbation. As usual there was no conversation before, during or after. This far away church not only did God’s work but did most of the parental heavy lifting too.

My parents may have tried hard to suppress my sexuality but had little success. I continued to enjoy self-pleasure and sexy stories; I just got better at hiding it. I can only hope that all the other kids who were forced or coerced to watch that film with me that day also managed to see through the religious propaganda. I also hope my relatively innocent bird flipping seat mate wasn’t shamed into thinking she was doing something wrong either. I’d like to think some of them got over the stress of the experience with an orgasm or two. I’m sure I did.

***

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It lived on the family bookshelf in our hippy loft along with other contemporary titles of the times such as– the illustrated Joy of Sex and the Playboy interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono, an issue my parents were sure to buy. Just as they bought the Madonna Playboy and Penthouse issues (you know the one–where she has black hair all over: head, armpits, pubes) for me that is how sex positive my parents were.

I knew my family was different but I didn’t realize, just how– in regards to sexuality, different they were. In reality much of the world was not informed about what was inside the Hite Report. Information as to how women orgasmed or what their sexual experience was like. Up until that point, it was just one of a few times that female sexuality had been discussed in such a open and frank way.

Maybe my curiosity about sex was natural precociousness or maybe it was because my parents exposed me to adult issues and experiences. I spent more time with adults than I did with kids my own age. It wasn’t parents intention to have me act like an adult at a young age but rather to become wise to the ways of the world. They took me and my younger brother out of public school when I was about to enter 6th grade. In order to prevent us from being brainwashed by the school system and to learn to think for ourselves. I was devastated. We stayed home and worked on the organic farm instead of riding the school bus to school everyday and I missed out on the socialization that most kids in America go through.

My aunt lived nearby and it was fun to do sleep overs at her house. We got to watch as much TV as we wanted, eat what we wanted (within reason according to the family health principles) and she was a highly animated storyteller. During one of my trips to my aunts house I wandered down to the end of the road. It met highway 96, where there was a bar, a pizza place and a small white rental cottage facing the busy road. In the cottage lived a single mother and her children, including the slightly older-trouble maker type, Carrie. She was ahead of me in development and I was just a spring bud on a apple tree.

Carrie told me I should shave my legs and armpits. She spent the night at my house and proceeded to rack up long distance telephone calls. Carrie taught me how to move my hips in a sexy way, in circles. It felt risky and taboo and so free but I had all my clothes on. Learning to move and do it in front of boys was a significant moment in my sexual development. I had leverage.

Carrie gave me an woman’s electric razor. It was round and white and plugged into an outlet. Now I could keep up with the cool kids—which trust me was hard being an outsider: a home-schooler, a macrobiotic kid and living in a loft in a warehouse. The people that worked on the farm were either not shaving their legs or they were Cambodian and left their pants on. I didn’t want to be different. If Carrie said I should shave my legs, I did.

At some point things collided–the books I had read and the gadget I owned. I read about vibrators or mechanical devices in the Hite Report giving women orgasms. Maybe they sat on washing machines. I don’t know. The copy of that book is long gone. But somehow I got an idea. I found myself doing something, being aware and yet at the same time not being aware. Like stealing or sneaking candy, it’s bad and you can’t help yourself and a part of you is slightly splintered for a moment. You know of it because you read it in a book and yet you don’t know. You are compelled from somewhere and you know because your body knows but what the hell are you doing?

I was 12 years old and I took the blade out of the razor and exposed a plastic vibrating piece that was underneath the metal blade and pressed it to my already black curly hair covered vulva and had an orgasm. Or rather what I remember as an addictive pleasurable contracting feeling. Growing up in a loft with four siblings and no walls left me with for no space to plug in a electric razor that secretly was my vibrator, much less pull down my pants, put in between my legs and experience a ecstatic convulsion.

In order for me to accomplish this feat I snuck off to the old mechanics shed on our property that had an outlet in it. The opening to the shed was a paint faded sliding door and there were broken windows in the back flanked by lush east coast plant overgrowth. It was hardly private and I could have been discovered. I had moments to sneak away without my Mom knowing where I was, do this pleasurable thing, not have anybody hear the buzzing sounds and exit the shed looking like everything was normal.

A typical knee jerk reaction as to why I did this would be to say hormones. I’m going to say it was for sensual pleasure and for escape. And yes, because I was curious. It felt so good. The sensations were addictive and so for the summer I snuck off regularly to do this, but by the next summer I was too grown up to do it anymore. I think the razor broke anyways and other things had happened that had made the shed unsafe.

***

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I was 6 and in the 1st grade. We were at recess one fall afternoon. We were 2 boys and 3 girls. We all walked over to a tree on the far side of the playground. I knew that the girl with the skirt had mentioned a hole in her stalkings. So in a moment’s time she was squatting over as if she was going to pee. One of the boys went over to her and under her skirt; he slid his hand and touched her for a moment, then she let the other boy do the same. I didn’t understand what they were feeling for but I felt it. It was that same feeling I could identify today when I am turned on; a small pulsating feeling in my private area. It happened rather quickly and then the bell rang so we all ran to line up. When we got inside we planned to go into the coat room last. The blond boy told us to wait. Then he said “touch it”. As I looked down I saw a bulge coming from the crotch of his pants. And as the other girls just slightly touched it, I did the same. It was my first experience ever touching any part of a boy’s body like that. And I knew that I wasn’t supposed to but it was a very interesting discovery.

I thought about that moment a lot. We never did it again and we never talked about it either. A few months later, I moved and started a new school. I soon forgot the day and what had happened until one day in the second grade I saw something a little more intriguing. I sat in the very last seat in the second row from the windows. My new best friend sat right next to me. When on most days we would just do our work and whisper to each other, this time, she was quiet. But when I looked over I saw her doing something that I thought was weird.

She had her hands under her desk and she was pressing against her pelvic area. But she also had her legs stretched out and it almost looked as if she was holding her breath in order to make something happen. I remember we made eye contact that day but it didn’t stop her from doing what she was doing. Suddenly as I saw her face turn a little red and then she had a sudden relaxed look as if what she had been trying to accomplish had been. And I remembered that feeling. The one I felt in the first grade and the one I can clearly identify now. The problem for me was that I didn’t know how to bring that feeling back, until I realized what she had done. I never talked about it with her.

It’s almost as if I knew that things like this were supposed to be kept secret. But I didn’t waste any time that day in trying it when I got home. I shared a room with my siblings so I went into the bathroom and tried it before I bathed. Eureka! That feeling was there. I pressed and pressed against my pelvic area until I felt something pulsate. And it felt great. I soon began to do this from time to time; nothing too often because I was never really alone. But when we moved to a bigger house, I had more freedom to explore. I’d watch late night TV with one of my cousins and sneakily watch Cinemax and quietly watch the soft porn movies. But I knew I couldn’t really “relieve” myself around anyone so I wouldn’t. But I still felt aroused just by watching.

It wasn’t until I was about 9yrs old when I began sleeping over a family friend’s house and the exploration became greater and a lot more involving. She was only about one or two years older but this is where I truly learned how much I enjoyed masturbating. I had tried humping teddy bears and sometimes even just on the floor. But the more she and I spoke, the more I understood she had already been “exploring” herself too. I don’t recall exactly how we began our house play but for some reason we used that as our way to do it in a “normal” and acceptable way. And what I mean by that is by not making it seem “gay” because we both knew we only did this together because exploring with boys was not allowed.

Being Puerto Rican and this young, our parents were always protective and made it very clear we were not to think about or kiss boys. So we’d play house and we’d pretend to be dating. But one of us would always play the boy. We’d wait till we were going to bed and we began humping on each other. With the “boy” usually putting a sock in her panties so we would both feel it equally as we humped. This went on for about a year until she began exploring more with boys. I still wasn’t ready to let other people know that I was aware of my sexuality so I went on my merry way and continued to feel on myself and always comfort myself and without my friend to help. It had been fun. Our time to “play” was over. But I left that experience understanding that I enjoyed it. I liked to feel turned on. I liked to hump. I enjoyed masturbating.

***

Naked Candor is an uncensored series of bold but delicate stories that reveal complicated personal truths about life, love and sex; told by those brave enough to bare!

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When I was a kid I didn’t know what an orgasm was or how to have one so my personal sessions had no end point. I masturbated incessantly for extraordinarily long periods of time. With no final goal how does one determine when to stop? I can’t count the number of times I fell asleep with my hand down my pants and a goofy smile on my face.

For the next 7 years I persistently humped every couch cushion I could get my hands on. I learned Barbie feet made good clit ticklers and Ban Roll-On antiperspirant bottles were perfectly dildo sized. I was the reigning thumb wrestling champion at my elementary school because I had far stronger hand muscles than any other kid in town.

Fast forward to 1983, I was 12. One day my mother hands me a strange looking contraption with a long electric cord. It’s a nail buffing kit her friend bought, never used and passed on to her. Since my mother rarely did her nails she thought I might like it instead. After all, I was getting to the age when personal grooming was supposed to become an integral part of my delicate, feminine existence.

I lifted one eyebrow, smirked and thought to myself “nail buffing kit, huh? HA! I’m taking this thing straight to my room and fucking it!”

The 1980’s was one of the last decades we could pretend women didn’t masturbate. Touching oneself was dirty and shameful. You could go blind, get pimples or grow hair on your palms. I was in college before I realized tools designed specifically for genital gratification existed. There wasn’t a sex shop in every neighborhood packed with a mind numbing selection of pleasure devices back then.

In the 80’s we were inundated with electric vibrating personal massagers, back scratchers, scalp stimulators and buffers. We bought them for family members at Christmas from discount superstores. We pretended they really WERE for our backs, scalps and hands. It was mass blatant denial on the grandest level. There was a huge, vibrating, phallic shaped elephant in the room we collectively ignored.

Some of us, like my mother, had no clue these machines were used for less than pure purposes. I couldn’t believe my mom was actually using her Hitachi Magic Wand for her shoulders! She was clearly missing out on so much in life.

My new best friend was a little hand held electric device that accepted interchangeable “buffing” attachments. Some had rough, sandpaper like bumps designed for rigorous nail filing. The fine grit and smooth attachments intended for finishing were my favorite. Combined with the electric powered vibration, they were heavenly little clit stimulators in disguise.

Before this I occasionally had something that resembled orgasm. Today I’d call it a dud. The kind you work up to, feel the build, it’s about to hit and then . . . nothing. It fizzles out. I assumed the sensation was just a strange but pleasant side effect that occasionally happened while pleasuring myself. I still hadn’t experienced intense climax.

Thanks to my nail buffing kit I started having regular, mind blowing, body numbing, vulva thumping, aneurysm-tastic orgasms. Not only was I thrilled beyond belief, I finally had a goal! No more rubbing myself into oblivion. The job was always done in less than 10 minutes!

I continued to wham-bam-thank-you-mam myself for the next 25 years. What I didn’t realize was my newfound earth shattering orgasms made me loose sight of something else along the way.

Moving into adulthood, I entered relationships with people who regarded masturbation as something reluctantly resorted to when your partner wasn’t available. It was only performed as a shameful last ditch effort.

I always enjoyed self love because it was fun. It isn’t better than partnered sex nor worse— it’s simply different. It’s as if one is cake and the other ice cream. They’re both equally as delicious for different reasons. Sometimes I have a taste for one versus the other and sometimes I mush them together and gobble them both up at the same time.

I didn’t understand why ice cream was the disgraceful, inferior cousin of cake. It also wasn’t just my partners who viewed solo sexytime this way. Pretty much everyone I knew had the same opinion. If you liked disgraceful, dirty, whorish ice cream, it was something best kept to yourself.

I went to outlandish lengths to conceal my masturbation sessions. A hurried moment in the bath or the basement doing laundry was often the only opportunity I had to flick my bean. I parked in the back of dark parking lots just to capture a moment alone to Jill myself off in my car.

I used to be my best lover. I spent time with me slowly going over every little nook and cranny. Sometimes me, myself and I had crazy, threesomes that lasted hours. I had fond memories of those days but now everything was different. I became the secret, forbidden lover I was forced to hide. When we did steal a moment together it was rushed and frenzied. No more lazy Sunday afternoon lingering and fingering. I became ashamed of me.

At 36 I became single for the first time in 18 years. I had all the time and freedom in the world to tickle my own fancy but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it was in my early days. The ridiculous number of sex toys I bought didn’t help either. I realized the quality time I spent with myself had very little to do with quality. Masturbation had become solely about the orgasm. I had stopped appreciating all the fun spent getting there.

One evening I decided to go all out and treat myself like I would a special first time partner. I carefully showered and groomed myself. I used expensive bath wash and put on my favorite perfume. With candles lit, my boring bedroom became soft, dark and inviting. It felt a little silly— all this for just me? I had on a garter belt, stockings and sexy, high heels which was unusual for me to wear for a partner, much less for myself.

Before settling in on my freshly laundered bedding, I felt liquid dripping from between my legs. It splashed onto the floor. What was this? I hadn’t even laid a hand on myself yet!

Turns out, after all those years I was still THAT into me. I spent the next few hours caressing myself and doing all sorts of naughty things. I got out the clothes pins, silk scarves, and teased the crap out of myself. Getting reacquainted with me was exactly what I needed. I hadn’t spent that much time loving myself, without the goal of orgasm, in nearly 20 years.

That one solo date night taught me a valuable lesson I still carry with me years later. Each time I masturbate, I take my eyes off the prize. Masturbation is about so much more than arriving at orgasm. It’s about the journey and truly loving yourself.

Next time you have alone time, don’t immediately zero in on third base like a high school date coping a feel behind the bleachers. Take time to appreciate yourself— your ENTIRE self. You just might find you are the lover you always dreamed of.

***

Naked Candor is an uncensored series of bold but delicate stories that reveal complicated personal truths about life, love and sex; told by those brave enough to bare!

Does a story come to mind that you’d like to bare?

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I’ve masturbated with the intention of self-pleasure since age 9. It began with careful and thorough study of textbooks and encyclopedia entries on the human reproductive systems. I took my mother’s hand-held mirror so I could admire the handiwork below. Clitoris, labia minora, labia majora, vulva, vagina… beautiful like the petal folds of Georgia O’Keefe’s (my favorite artist at the time- I then moved on to Frida Kahlo) deep violet lilies. At first, it was furtive, but I learned the art of silence.

In spite of my conservative, Evangelical upbringing, I was not ashamed of the time I set aside for myself. Even the learned shame of modesty that came with early-onset puberty didn’t affect my ability to come with the flick of a finger. When my back should have bowed or slouched under the gendered pressures of “respectability” and modesty, it was upright. In fact, I would stand naked in the mirror, mentally complimenting my burgeoning body from my 34C-and-growing breasts to my spreading hips. I would always start by tracing my features on my corporeal terrain, downward, downward to the soft wetness that always weakened my strong thighs and knees. And I would stare myself in the eyes, daring myself to shut them as I approached the brink. I rarely did close my eyes. That’s how I recognized the contraction of my pupils when my clitoris finally became too sensitive to touch.

In my young adulthood, my masturbation habits have been the subject of shy questions from suitors. How often? How long? This time, however, it was not shy. My boyfriend, partner and “first” lay by my side, under the weight of post-fellatio lethargy, when he asked “Can I see you masturbate?” (Neither of us use euphemisms when requesting sex.)

My clitoris quivered at his voice, and my brain sifted memories of his hands pinning me down for orgasms beyond my control (but within my consent). Once, I asked him to give me a back massage, but I got more than that. He squeezed and kneaded my back, using his knee to force me to orgasm not once, not twice, but five times… But, I digress…

I assented, slowly peeling off my cotton boyshorts with the teal-blue lacy trim and opened my legs. I was already slick with arousal. He stirred from his sloth-like state to reposition himself so he could see me pleasure myself. His hazel gaze did not make me self-conscious, nor did his open adoration make me think twice about sharing MY time.

He kissed my thigh, nipping it lightly with his canines. By reflex, my back arched, and my fingers began their journey across my corporeal terrain. First I traced my erect nipples, and then I wandered to the fertile valley in my pelvic region. Ah, but the first contact between fingertip and clitoris- it must be put off for maximum pleasure. I circled and circled in the slick petals around my clitoris. It felt so good I could scarcely breathe, but I remembered to do so when he made eye contact with me. When I could no longer wait, I stroked myself to orgasm. Each orgasm followed a more lackadaisical path, and the sheets became more and more soaked. When I lay still trying to regain clear sight and calm my heart, he broke the silence- “Could you do it again?”

Breathily, I replied, “I could, but I feel like I’ve just had a buffet of delicacies, and I want to savor this.”

He felt the wetness between my thighs and squeezed his newly-erect penis. “You’re lucky, you know.”

I let my head fall back onto the pillow, “I know.”

At the age of four or five, I had discovered that humping my teddy bears, pillows and even my fist not only made my little girl bits feel good but after doing it long enough a calm feeling of relief and peace would soothe me unlike anything else. This was an activity that I would do on rare occasions and always in private (in bed before falling asleep); this changed when I became a latchkey kid.

My parents both worked full time and although they had daycare for my baby brother they couldn’t afford to pay our neighbor that watched him to also watch me after school. At the age of five I was alone at home for several hours each afternoon with nothing but a television with very bad antenna reception to keep me entertained. I quickly found myself with a lot of time to explore my body between the time that the afternoon sitcoms went off and when my parents got back with my little brother. Masturbation became an almost everyday afternoon activity for little Lidia.

I never told anyone about what I did in the afternoons; I didn’t feel any shame for doing it; I knew that this was a private activity. I somehow had an intuitive knowledge that if I told my mother about this wonderful thing that I did to make scared little me forget I was home alone in a scary big world feel better that she would freak out.

I never told anyone until the day that I showed my friend down the street how to make herself feel better by humping her teddy bears. My friend had parents that were going through a divorce and her mother had a lot of different strange men and women in and out of their house. My friend was always anxious and scared so I decided to share with her my very awesome secret for soothing oneself.

Like I said, I knew it was a private activity so I never really showed her by doing it in front of her. First, I tried explaining to her verbally and when she quite didn’t understand I used two teddy bears to simulate the humping. I remember even explaining to her that it was better to use the “snout” of the stuffed animal on the privates instead of the lower part of it. I explained to her that “it” would feel better and work faster that way. So, off I sent her to one side of her bed with one of her stuffed animals and to the other side of the bed I went with another one.

When we were together we would hump stuffed animals in the same room but apart from one another as often as we would play board games or Barbies. Masturbating “together” became a normal part of our play and it also became a part of my friend’s life when we weren’t together. I clearly remember that I taught her this one weekend during the school year and that it was something that we did for many months before we were caught in the act.

One Saturday afternoon the summer after our masturbation play had started there was a huge family party at her house. My parents never let me go to the parties at her house because of all the random people coming and going but this time they had agreed to let me go. I was extremely excited about going to this party because I had never played on a slip-n-slide before and her mom had just gotten the latest greatest one on the market.

After hours of sliding down that long yellow piece of plastic that could never seem to keep enough water on it for us kids to not get at least slightly hurt we went inside. Her older cousin had been hanging out with us all day but she was busy doing something when we decided it was time to go “play” with the stuffed animals in our special way. Her cousin walked in on us, screamed for her mom and aunt and that was the beginning of the end of playing with my friend down the street.

Her mother called my mother. Her mother called the neighbor that could translate for her what she wanted to tell my mother. My mother and her mother through the translator got into a huge argument. After some very tense moments the translator, the neighbor that watched my baby brother, left after telling both mothers that the conversation made her feel uncomfortable.

My mother and her mother kept arguing. My very judgmental mother kept asking me if I had been doing that very nasty thing that they said I had. I felt the rush and heat of shame come over my body when any of the adults looked at me. My friend’s mother kept insisting that I admit to my mother that the little pervert that had damaged her daughter was me. She wanted me to admit that her daughter and nobody else at her house had ever taught me that. I could not do that. My mother kept screaming in Spanish that Americans were dirty, perverted and all so incredibly fucked up. As quickly as things had escalated after we had gotten caught it all ended.

My friend’s mother had resolved to never let me play with her again. My mother had resolved to never let me play with my friend again. The neighbor that took care of my little brother never treated me the same again.

I had learned on a hot afternoon in Miami that masturbation was something that adults thought was very wrong… at least for kids to do. I had learned that my mother thought masturbation was it was something shameful, dirty and forbidden. I no longer thought it was something that just made me feel good and soothed me… I know knew that it was something sexual.

For weeks my mother kept a watchful eye on my every move. I learned how to become better at hiding my masturbation from my parents. When I realized that my mother was always checking my stuffed animals and pillows for “something” I learned to accommodate my needs by using bunched up towels or my fist instead. I also made it my quest to never get caught or be shamed about that again.

Yet, as often as she could my mother would remind me that “it” wasn’t something that good little girls did. In fact she told me that it was only something that little girls that had been abused did. She insisted that my little friend had a rough life with so many men and women in and out of her lesbian slutty mother’s life – that one of those adults most have taught her that awful thing that I should forget all about.

Since I knew I had taught my friend all about that wonderful thing that always made me feel better I decided at that young age that EVERYTHING my mother had said and would ever say about anything sexual was wrong! I didn’t know why my mom thought so negatively about something I loved so much but if humping myself to my happy place was what bad girls did I never wanted to be a good girl.

Getting caught in the act of masturbating then being shamed for it didn’t make me stop masturbating, it forced me to decide between what I thought and knew felt was right and what the adult that I should have been able to trust said was right.

Ultimately, I decided to keep having private parties that soothed me and connected me with the joy within me no matter what anyone else thought and I think my sex life turned out all the better for it.

© Lidia-Anain May 3, 2012 ~ All Rights Reserved.

I didn’t make this phrase up myself but I have lived by it since as long as I can remember. This saying comes from Betty Dodson one of my heroes. Betty Dodson liberated masturbation almost forty years ago and she is still doing work to assure that masturbation is celebrated for what it is…

Masturbation IS the foundation of human sexuality!

I don’t think enough people celebrate or realize the importance of masturbation and how crucial it is for having a healthy, knowledgeable and empowered sex life. While to some National Masturbation Month might be a silly “made up” holiday for me it is an opportunity to bring attention to one of the best things we can do for ourselves as humans.

My purpose as a sex educator is to help adults have information that will help them create and enjoy healthy mindful sex, love, joy in their lives… the best way to do this is by making sure that adults embrace masturbation as the best way to learn about their own sexual responsiveness.

For me this month, is all about celebrating the art of masturbation.

Today’s lesson is about toys for jilling off. I bring to you the grandmother of masturbation Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross talking about their favorite sex life accessories.

Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross on Toys for Jilling Off

I have a lot of articles planned for you this month but if you have any questions that you would like to ask me about masturbation please send them my way.

© Lidia-Anain May 2, 2012 ~ All Rights Reserved.

Time to start jilling and jacking off like mad!

Yes, May is National Masturbation Month but if you didn’t know you aren’t the only one because many Americans aren’t aware about it either. If you’d like to find out about how May became National Masturbation Month there is an article here that explains how it all came about (no pun intended).

Today, I bring to you videos and more information from one of my favorite fellow sex educators, Jayme Waxman, that will help those of you with male parts improve your jacking off.

Jamye Waxman on Toys for Boys…

This weekend after I presented with two others about polyisoprene condoms, I had the pleasure of watching Jamye and another sex educator give an energizing and detailed presentation on the topic of toys for boys. Their presentation focused on the pros and cons of the Cobra Libre, the Man Eater by Big Teaze and the Screaming O Vibrating Ring.

Jamye explained that the Cobra Libre is a waterproof, rechargeable vibrating masturbation sleeve, manufactured by Fun Factory. She detailed that it has dips and ridges on the inside of the sleeve that add stimulation to the frenulum of the penis, while two independently vibrating motors provide a variety of pulsation and massaging sensations. Jamye did mention that although the Cobra Libre is a great masturbation sleeve it will not fit the head of every penis out there.

You can watch Jamye ‘s previous reviews of the other two sex toys for men that the presentation focused on right here.

Jamye Waxman reviews the Man Eater…

Jamye Waxman reviews the Screaming O Vibrating Ring…

You can read more of Jamye’s recommendations for sex toys for men here. And just because Jamye is a woman unafraid of helping men figure out what kind of sex toys are best for them for jacking off, don’t assume she’s not also an authority about women’s pleasure. Jamye has written a whole book on women and masturbation! Her book, Getting Off, is for any woman who wants to know how to get herself off, and for anyone interested in learning a little more about the wide world of masturbation.

Jamye is one of the most awesome people I’ve met this year and she’s a wealth of knowledge when it comes to all things sexuality. Whether she’s teaching about love and relationships or masturbation and sex toys she really knows her topics. There are many reasons why I am a fan of Jamye but one of my favorite reasons to love her is that she lives by a truth that every woman should incorporate into her living…

poor is the woman whose pleasure depends on the permission of others

She has this truth tatted on her and she is teaching people everywhere how to live by it with each podcast she records, every book she authors, each film she makes and every workshop she teaches.

I hope that this post has encouraged those of you not already familiar with Jamye Waxman to learn more about her and her empowering work. Her website, her Facebook fan page and her Twitter page (@jamye) are great ways to connect with Jamye.

Tomorrow I will bring to you an article about toys for jilling off but until then you can read my post: what’s better than bacon? masturbation!

I wish all of you a very pleasurable May filled with tons of self-loving!

© Lidia-Anain May 1, 2012 ~ All Rights Reserved.