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Tuesday, Feb 9, 2010
My daughter discovered the art of self-pleasure when she was 2. I was a late bloomer.
May 23, 2001 | It's official: I am at the stage in my life where I am randy as hell 24 hours a day. The innocent molecules of air brushing up against my body can turn me on, creating an electromagnetic storm even when I am standing still. The supercharged air currents in my private atmosphere begin to vibrate and caress my skin, giving me instant goose bumps. Then my imagination kicks in and my nipples become "eraser tip" erect and I feel my wetness as I begin to drip.
Do people even notice my highly flushed post-orgasm skin? "What brand is that blush you are wearing -- you have this healthy glow about you," my friends say.
Because of my state and the lack of consistent male companionship over the last four-and-a-half years, my most reliable, trustworthy and constant lovers have been my dildos and vibrators. They all have names and I have my favorites: "big blue," "the G-man cometh" and my first purchase, the "silver egg." They all serve a purpose -- clit, G spot and just plain penetration. But my most expert and subtle lover still happens to be my hand.
I wasn't always so well versed in the art of self-pleasure. I was actually quite repressed and didn't learn to take full advantage of this incredible machine that I was born with -- my own body -- until I was truly alone and set aside time to study and practice.
But, along with research, my daughter was my mentor in masturbation. When she was about 2 years old she found her clitoris and began loving it.
One might conjure up the visual of the soft timid exploration of an innocent child curious now that she wasn't bound by a diaper all the time. Not my daughter. We're talking a full-on, sweaty, flushed, moaning orgasm. She especially loved to please herself while watching TV in the living room in front of guests. Diligently placing her favorite stuffed animal under her hips, squished between her chubby legs, she rocked and grinded and made preternatural noises to an unmistakable ecstasy-ridden crescendo.
My ex-husband was mortified. What were we to do with our freak "oversexed" girl-child? "Is this normal?" he would chant as we consulted the vapid "What to Expect" handbooks. "God forbid a man might see her and not be able to prevent himself from getting turned on" is what he really meant to say.
I was just plain blown away. I am a product of Catholic schools, and those nuns took great pride in messing with our heads with their sin-speak.
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