TOUCHA TOUCH ME (Quietly...)

With the exception of the strongly religious and the radical anti-sex organizations, more and more people are embracing this sex-positivism (which I will rant about another time) that encourages the belief that masturbation is a healthy, normal part of being human. Brushing your teeth is a normal part of being human, and most apartments provide sinks. Eating is natural, and most schools offer meal plans, and apartments have kitchens. Sleeping is natural, so every living arrangement has a bedroom of some sort. Accepting that these are natural things to do, it would seem silly if at EVERY point in your life, circumstances made it mind-numbingly, off-pissingly, wanna throw thingsishly difficult for you to do these things. Then why is masturbation (this natural, wondrous exploration of my literal 'inner womyn' so different).

I started masturbating when I was sixteen, mainly to convince myself that I wasn't in love with my almost-sort-of-well-it's-complicated rapist, and maybe to some degree to try to prove to myself that I wasn't gay. Neither of these things worked. I was fairly careful about masturbation, I'd do it late at night, in my bathroom, with the door locked. I swear it felt like every other time my mother would get up, pound on my door, and go, "I forgot to give you a goodnight hug!"

I'd tell her not to come in, using every excuse under the sun and moon. "I'm naked, I'm getting in the shower, I'm on the toilet," usually all of those in unison...sometimes all of those in unison were true sadly, and she'd say, "It's okay I won't look!"

Creepy.

Why didn't I do it in my room, you ask? Because I tried this, and learned the VERY hard way that I'm a female ejaculator. I was wearing a pad, like you'd wear for a period (even though I wasn't menstruating that day). Not just ANY pad, a kotex OVERNIGHT WITH WINGS. A frickin diaper if you will...and by the end of my masturbation session, my underpants, the pad, the pants I was wearing (I was masturbating through the clothes), my bed sheet, and several layers of blanket on top of me were positively drenched. Think I'm exaggerating? I WISH!

Then when I got to college, my roommate was one of those people who I'm pretty sure never masturbated in her life. Try as I did to be quiet, she would subtly cough or start thrashing like I had just hit her with a cattle prodder if she heard the slightest sound on my side of the room. Worse, I fancied vibrators during that time, and had to go to extreme measures to mute the noise AND keep anyone from noticing me throw my towel robe on and crawl off the sopping bunk at night.

Even in my own place...the walls are paper thin and my new vibrator is loud as hell. Plus my air mattress is awkward and doesn't like to be treated like a bathtub. I swear...bedrooms should be like churches were for Quasimoto. You should be able to walk into them and shout, "SANCTUARY!!!!!!!!!!!" and not have to worry about your porn, your vibrator, your squirt, etc. because it's YOUR ROOM. But...alas...we do not live in such a perfect world:-(