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April 1, 2019 | by  | in Shit Chat |
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Tapping Your Own Potential, And Other Shit Chat

Without speaking in absolutes or signing a contract that binds me henceforth, at this point in life, I’ve realised I’m not that fussed on sex. I don’t need or even really want it. I’ve realised that I often have sex with people because I feel like if I don’t, they’ll get bored and find it elsewhere. I often have sex because I feel like I should be having sex, not necessarily because I want to be having sex.

 

I’ve internalised this complex that if you want someone to stick around, you gotta fuck. That if you’re not having sex with your partner, it’s not a ~real~ relationship. This is horseshit, for the record, in case you needed to hear someone say that out loud.

 

Maybe this is me making peace with being on some kind of demi- or asexuality spectrum, and honestly, I’m not particularly interested in identifying or labelling it. I’m pretty content acknowledging and respecting that—at least for now—I have absolutely zero interest in having sex with anyone, at all.

 

Single-player sex, however, is a whole other story. Just because I don’t wanna fuck doesn’t mean I’m not tryna cum, you know what I’m saying?

 

Masturbation isn’t talked about enough. Specifically, masturbation isn’t talked about enough outside of the cis-male gaze—by and for women and gender minorities. Masturbation is universal, but the discourse of masturbation is steeped in rhetoric that centres cis-male pleasure. Women and gender minorities getting themselves off is fetishised plenty, but we are largely denied agency in bringing ourselves pleasure where it doesn’t cater to that of the cis man. So let’s fucking talk about it, eh?

 

Now, I can offer no expertise when it comes to vulval/vaginal pleasure. I can only be obnoxiously open about my personal experience masturbating as a cis woman, in the hopes that more vajeen-havers will start getting to know their bodies, openly conversing about their pleasure, and ultimately, having more orgasms—which is the utopia we all yearn for, really.

 

The first time I polished Satan’s doorbell, I was 18. I’d recently moved away from home, and my new abode came equipped with a detachable shower head. Experimenting with strumming the clitar via that detachable shower head took away the socially conditioned “ick” factor that accompanied the thought of physically touching my own genitalia, and made both the idea and act of flicking my bean more approachable. That detachable shower head was my first true love.

 

We’re not always blessed with a detachable shower head, which is a genuine tragedy, but there are other ways to visit your batcave that can make the initial experience less intimidating. Dominant culture might have you believe that tinkering with your undercarriage necessarily involves penetration, but that is an egregious fallacy and an affront to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. My clit is the prima donna of this particular one-woman show: she alone commands the standing ovation. Penetration is but one of many supporting acts—welcome, but ultimately unnecessary. Keep it simple, keep it clean: two fingers massaging your bingo spot over your undies is a good place to start.

 

The thing to remember is that vulvas can vary significantly from person to person, and your pleasure isn’t going to directly mirror anyone else’s. Don’t be afraid to get intimately acquainted with your down-belows. Get to know your body. Learn what gets you in da mood, both physically and mentally. Relax. Be patient. Focus on what feels good and what doesn’t.

 

Rub one out. Squat in the cucumber patch. Rummage in your meat wallet. Do a Meg Ryan. Tap your own potential, and, when in doubt, tweak ya nipple.

 

Love you like (I hope) you’re loving yourselves, xoxo

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