Mind Of Man: Why Self-Love Is Sex’s Sexiest Secret
There are two types of women in the world: women who are totally comfortable with masturbation and those who are ashamed of the act. I realize there are more than two types of women in the world, so forgive my rhetorical cheat. It’s for a good cause.
I don’t know why some women are weird about pleasuring themselves. I am not, in fact, a woman. But to those who are embarrassed about it, please, think about rubbing one out for your boyfriend or husband tonight. He will love it. There are few spectacles as captivating as a woman getting herself off. It is pure sex on toast. Watching your girl squirm, growl, and hit the right buttons while you whisper dirty little secrets and improper commands is so hot, it makes my guts ache. It’s vulnerable, and intimate, and epically eye-crossing.
Not to mention: a woman who knows how to detonate her own “O”-bomb, is a woman who is determined to get some when she’s crunching it out with her man. Which is to say, she is more likely to bring the thunder in bed, as you both buck, bite, and claw your way to climaxes that are your birthright. Everybody has the right to orgasms that leave you flush, mildly stinky, and staring blankly at ceilings
Of course, there was that one girlfriend who was such a master of the orgasmic arts that when she introduced her “rabbit” vibrator, all I could ask was, “So, you’re into giant, pink Sasquatches from Mars?” I didn’t really tell her that, as I knew it was a big deal for her to introduce me to her toys. Eventually, I was able to wean her off the alien penis when we were together, because watching her stroke herself with the quick skill of a concert violinists fingers was so much more hypnotic.
So, lesson learned: we love it when you treat your clitoris right, preferably, in front of us, or while our mouth is on you, or when we’re inside of you, taking care of bidness. And don’t downplay the educational aspects of mutual masturbation: it is important to learn the rhythms that a person needs in order to bust the dam down and unleash that tidal wave of yes. This is all so win/win! Sexy AND enlightening!
I don’t know how to make those of you who are freaked about by this get over your complex. I mean, no pressure: you’re gorgeous, desirable, and your immediate nekkidness is respectfully requested. It’s just that I can’t wrap my head around the reasons why you won’t share that which is awesome to all parties. To dudes, masturbating, jerking off, cranking it out, choking the chicken, or whatever charming euphemism you have for it (I’m partial to “wrangling the dragon”) is just an everyday fact of life.
To dudes, masturbation is like a hobby. We do it to clear our minds, or because we’re bored, or to wake up fully, or as a reward. I recently celebrated Flag Day with a little self-love. Granted, the male orgasm pales in comparison to the erotic plastic explosives hidden deep within the female anatomy. Which is why we can pretty much tug it on command – it’s like being your own Pez candy dispenser. With porn or without, fantasizing about the woman we love or her best friend, it’s just something we do. With relish, but also, sometimes, just because it’s Tuesday.
I suppose in trying to empathize with women who are bashful about auto-buggery I could offer the only time in my life I was ever neurotic about masturbation. I was raised a pretty devout Catholic, and self-gratification caused my first ideological schism with my faith. It was the beginning of John DeVore’s Great Personal Reformation, the first of many issue-oriented breaks with my church. Pretty much from the get-go I knew masturbation was a no-no. And I swear I am not making this up, but I would pray for forgiveness after every instance of adolescent self-discovery. Crank it, pray and swear never to do it again, repeat. Sometimes three times a day. I was, and remain, a libidinous little perv. I pleaded for moral pardon, but eventually there came the point where I drew a line in the philosophical and theological sand and declared to the cosmos, “This is awesome. Clearly, Morgan Freeman wants me to continue doing this.” Even at the young age of 14, I possessed the analytical acumen so many of you have come to know and, in some cases, tolerate. That’s my brief flirtation with guilt regarding an activity that is so personal, so human, and so much fun.
That’s my overshare this week. No doubt I will regret it tomorrow. Thank you and have a great day.