for a good cause

So, the Masturbate-a-Thon is this weekend – Saturday, in fact. Why have I completely missed that May is (annually!) Masturbation Month? Usually I am well aware of this fact ahead of time. I have in fact participated in the Masturbate-a-thon three times in the past. I’d love to do it again.Also? On the Masturbate-a-Thon webpage is a fabulous little musical ditty by the Wet Spots: “masturbation, it’s okay, we all get to do it in a special way …” which then goes on to describe the different ways various animals masturbate … porcupines, a lioness, a spider monkey …

The Wet Spots – a “sophisticated sex comedy” duo – are somewhat infamous now from their YouTube video Do you take it (in the ass)?, so I was happy to run across their webpage & their other work.

But. Back to the subject at hand: masturbation.

I’ve actually been feeling somewhat scared & traumatized about masturbation lately. Don’t get me wrong – let me explain. Not to get too into my own private … um, practice, but I usually don’t really have any hangups or issues or blocks when it comes to getting off. I just do it, it’s pretty easy (I do know what I like, after all) and that’s that.

But lately? Since the breakup. I just haven’t been able to do it. Haven’t been “in the mood”, no, which is fine, I’m not rushing it, but sometimes I guess I kinda have been in the mood, or at least, I’ve been at home alone for multiple hours, which in a usual case scenario would involve me getting off, at least once.

But now … when I get turned on, I think of her. I still have so many bodily memories of her, of us together, especially when it comes to sex, which is where she was at her most raw, and where I was at my most … perfect. Everything snapped right into place. Jigsaw pieces. I knew exactly how to read her, how to respond to her body, her eyes, her movements, how to shift myself, how to take, how to give. I’ve never had anything like that, I miss it.

It’s hard to write that, actually. Hard to feel that grief well up in my chest. Impossible to feel it, when I’m also simultaneously trying to get off.

Her fantasies wove themselves deep in me. She tapped into so many things that I wanted, so much of my desire. It’s hard not to think of sexy things when getting off, and sexy things, right now, for me, are, well, her.

I’ll unlearn that, right? I’ll find other women attractive again, someday, somehow?

I used to walk down the street and just swoon, fall in love with every third girl, and it’s summer now, god, the strappy sandals and swirly skirts and bare legs … I have been so easily influenced by the sidewalk parade of femininity the last two summers I’ve spent here in New York City.

But this time? Barely. An occasional redhead catches my eye. An occasional perfectly shaped ankle, or swishing skirt. I even worry that if – when – I get back into bed with a girl, I’m going to freeze up, thinking of her (or saying her name, lord).

There really is a very small, small percentage of the population to which I am attracted. Femme women, yes, but even more specifically: poise. Legs. Posture. The way she looks when nobody’s looking at her.

I guess this comes back to a new resolution of mine, which is to date myself. For a year, approximately. I will be in an open relationship with myself, which means I am free to date other people too, but I am going to be my primary partner. I am going to focus on my needs, emotionally, creatively, sexually. I am going to take myself out to fancy dinners on occasion, to films, to museums, to days in the park. If there’s one thing this relationship has taught me it’s that I am good – good – at seduction, at courtship, and I am going to turn my own charms inward and see if I can sweep myself off my feet.