I
love sex, but if I had to choose between touching myself and letting my
husband do it for me, more often than not, I’m going solo. After nearly
20 years of marriage, I have no reservations about owning what I want
and how I want it in the bedroom, and doing it on my own when necessary.
But owning this fact about myself was no easy feat.
My
husband and I met when we were 16 and married two years later — so in
the early days of our marriage, when we were both young and uninitiated
in the ways of good sex, I masturbated in secret. It wasn’t that our
missionary-romance was bad; it just wasn’t enough to get me there. I
didn’t want to hurt my husband’s pride by telling him I never came
during our sex sessions, and previous attempts to show him how to touch
me left me with a bruised clitoris and him with a bruised ego, so I kept
a lid on my sexual frustration. As soon as my husband would jump out of
bed to clean himself in the bathroom, I would quickly and silently
bring myself to orgasm
A
year into my covert masturbation operation, my husband surprised me by
walking out of the bathroom too early, catching me pleasuring myself.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
On
the brink of an orgasm, I tried to cover my tracks, but he knew.
Through stilted breaths, I salvaged the moment by claiming I was simply
still in the mood. He seemed puzzled but accepted my explanation. That
Christmas, he gave me my first dildo. I accepted his gift with elation
and the understanding that sexual satisfaction was my own
responsibility.
Although
we never spoke of it, I was convinced my husband knew I was
unfulfilled. When I reached for the sex toy as soon as he climaxed, he
didn’t protest. Instead, he tenderly kissed my breasts and allowed me to
finish myself off, establishing what would become our sexual norm.
But
our sex lives were on a loop, the same moves getting replayed over and
over — and in autumn of the fifth year of our marriage, my husband and I
separated. By then, we’d had two children in quick succession, and
spent the majority of our time either fighting or too exhausted to touch
one another. Sensing our demise was near, I foolishly reached for
religion in the hopes it would fix us. It was kismet, then, when two
Mormon missionaries knocked on our door with a message of salvation and
eternal family bliss.
I
gave everything I had to my spiritual conversion. Determined to follow a
path that promised a happily ever after for my marriage, I threw my
beloved dildo in the garbage the day of my baptism. Casting orgasms and
Satan aside, I waited for God to make my relationship feel like heaven
on earth. Not surprisingly, that moment never arrived. A few months
later, we filed for legal separation and I moved a state away with the
kids for a fresh start.
In
my new apartment, I flipped God the middle finger by masturbating my
heart out once the kids were asleep. Those orgasms were some of the best
I’d ever had. I formally ended my relationship with religion not long
after, preferring the sweet release of sexual fulfillment, even if it
meant eternal damnation.
In
my newly single life, I reacquainted myself with dating and casual sex,
which meant a lot of shaving (so much shaving) and an introduction to
types of sex I didn’t know existed. The sexual education I received made
the excessive cost of razor blade cartridges more like an investment.
During
this time, I learned how much I love oral sex. My husband had never
been interested in trying and therefore I didn’t know what I had been
missing. Once I got the weird “what if you smell or taste bad?” voice
out of my head, I found the experience liberating. I no longer had to
(or wanted to) masturbate immediately after sex because I was satiated.
Suddenly I had a right to expect equal satisfaction to my partner, and
it was incredible
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