Gal's party for one

So I was in bed a couple Sunday mornings ago with a pretty hot guy.

It had been a great Saturday night dinner/drinking date that ended with an inspired, creative, exhausting romp back in my bed. I postponed my necessary morning coffee for another go 1’round — hey, you never know when a guy like him is going to be back.

After the mutually fulfilling a.m. session, we weren’t quite ready to vertically face the day. Following some post-O bonding conversation, I realized I wasn’t finished with my horizontal to-do list. He didn’t have a choice, thanks to biology preventing another uprising. Poor guy.

No problem for me and my own well-trained hands.

Ah, the best of both worlds. Perfect self-pleasuring enhanced even further with his willing fingers to pinch the areas I couldn’t and his strong shoulders to bury my face in while I squirmed. My most private of moments became a shared experience of intimacy with someone who was admittedly almost as turned on by it as I was.

Lucky girl, I was that morning. Lucky guy too, but this isn’t about him.

Like most people, whether they admit it, I’m inclined to a little self pleasuring once in a while — certainly not just when it’s also a performance for a guy, though that’s fun. Most of my masturbatory sessions are alone, and I like it that way too. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. It’s like a rejuvenating trip to the sexuality spa. I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way.

Just as Lucinda Williams croons: off come the bracelets and I think about “you” (we’ll get to that definition later); the television sound gets muted and the lights dim – I hate sensory distractions; the ceiling hears my moans as I’m undoubtedly on my back.

Ah, right in time. Just like she sings. Right. In. Time.

Like great sex with a partner, its simple pleasure is spiritual, I guess, in the way it can physically overpower me while rejuvenating my mental energy and heightening all my senses. I refocus. I feel cleansed if a little messy. I actually stop talking and privately think only about my own physical sensations for a little while. That great liberating wave of pleasure starts as a wrenching, rising twist in my core that eventually releases as muscles twitch, tense and ultimately relax into their own exhausted peace.

If I pay close attention — and that can make any sex even better, when I’m that in tune with myself — I feel my breath suck shallow and my heart pump hard. When the moment hits, the view on the backs of my eyelids goes bright purple, sometimes with spiraling flashes of lime green and orange if it’s extra intense.

I suppose experiencing this intense pleasure alone is selfish and therefore immature, especially if I do it following a partner session that leaves something to be desired. Maybe it wasn’t that he wasn’t good, it’s just that right then, I was better. Do I get out of bed and subconsciously resent him or just get the job done?

Or, like that Sunday morning a few weeks ago, which really left nothing to be desired, do I let him experience my moment with me when my nearing-middle age libido just could use a little more? If it’s the right guy, yes.

Speaking of partners, when I’m full-on making love to, having sex with or fucking a live one, sometimes I feel like I should narrate or at least afterward give them a good summary of what happened from my end, so to speak. I want them to know their efforts are appreciated, that pleasure is shared, that they’re just that goddamn good that the screaming was a necessary release. I’m nice that way. I’m all for emotional connections with a worthy partner.

But goddammit. What responsibility! By being alone … well, sex is almost easier, I guess. I know exactly what just happened. I’m clear on the sensations and the quality. I don’t have to take the time to explain it. I don’t have to worry about what it will represent in the relationship. Ah, a few less tasks to complete in a day’s work.

Sometimes I host a party for one with daily frequency or more. Sometimes it’s weeks between sessions. Sometimes the occurrences increase even when I’m dating someone – they can turn me on just that much.

Sometimes it’s a fair substitute for the real thing that just hasn’t been available for a while. Hell, some of it’s better than some sex I’ve had with a partner. But truly, the ultimate is when the guy is comfortable enough with me touching myself while he’s there too. His cock in, my fingers on. Wow. Get ready to wash the sheets and hide the claw marks.

Some mornings masturbation helps me gear up for a stressful day. Some nights it relaxes me. Some Saturday afternoons, it’s just nice to be able to sneak off and have my own forbidden naughty moment while the neighbors are walking their dogs or cleaning their fish tanks. Sometimes I think about it all day and rush home to take care of myself. Sometimes it just spontaneously happens when I’m filing my toenails.

Mostly it’s with my fingers. Occasionally a few toys are sprung from the nightstand, lubed up and sent sexually spelunking. It’s always clit and vag – hey, I’m a Gemini, you know, duality rules – and always, always it’s with fantasies.

The “you” Lucinda so aptly describes becomes a current lover or a former partner (well, one favorite ex-boyfriend in particular). Sometimes I relive that tent on the Lake Superior beach, that hotel in New Zealand or that suburban evening we made it to the bed before the dinner table. Sometimes it’s that stereotypical faceless stranger and a dark alley.

Admittedly the accompanying fantasies can be men doing things to my body I’d certainly win rape and assault convictions for based on the restraint marks and the puddles of DNA evidence they left all over me if it was the real world.

But it’s not, and that’s the one of the best, necessary points. It’s the same perfect orgasmic conclusion but the story line can be whatever I want it to be at that moment. Kind of the opposite of life, I guess. We can’t control the daily cast of characters we must interact with and the plots we get ensnared in.

But alone under my blankets, well, life for about three and a half efficient minutes can be exactly what I want it to be and it always has a happy ending. People act just as I want them to. They understand me perfectly, and I’m only demanding of them in one simple way — please help me climax.

Sessions like that, I guess, simplistically reflect first the feminist notion that the self-derived female orgasm is empowering and liberating and secondly, the conservative criticism of the woman who doesn’t simply resign herself sexually to a husband for the sake of reproducing. Whatever.

I like taking a few moment to appreciate my own body and forget to care that he’s seeing my tits aren’t as perky as they used to be. I suppose women stroking their own flower-petal parts, fingering themselves, buying their own accessories at dinner parties with their girlfriends and loving every moment of it are asserting their independence in an understandably disquieting way. Is this solitary refinement indicative that we don’t want men in other aspects of our lives? Hell no!

Like most issues and events in our world, over analysis leads to too many false conclusions. Mine? I just do it. For a lot of reasons. If there’s no convenient participant at the moment the mood strikes, well, I’m always game for myself. I’d get bored with some guy at my sexual beckon call. Besides, he’s perfect when he’s not there save for my imagination. And I like doing it. It feels good.

Why is this fun so forbidden, so not talked about? We discuss if we had a great time with a partner the night before, why not with ourselves? We say “He was great,” why not “I was great”? Are we really still that shy and repressed?

I like to think my sessions with self in my own wet wonderland are simply evidence of my raw emotions and thrill-seeking nature. They’re part of my basic instinct of sexuality and inherent lust for life. Best when shared, but partners are not necessary for certain types of fulfillment, excitement and living.

Clearly my quest for orgasm isn’t limited to solitary confinement, but I don’t apologize for that part of it either.

Now, if you’ll excuse me … the inspirational power of this topic is reciprocal.

See Also:

Stand up, Salute!
It started at age 12 — with a Playmate.

Anne Arche is a pseudonymous Detroit-area writer. Send comments to [email protected]
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