I’ve never been a rule person. Breaking any and all guidelines for being a good kid was my thing. Screw conformity. I’m scaling the fence as my brain registers the “No Trespassing” sign. Unabashedly. Tell me I’m not allowed to go there, and I’m doing everything in my power to figure out why, and then do it. Not always a good system in the real world, but sometimes, it’s the perfect mindset that allows us to experience things we never thought possible within the space of freedom in our mind.
Ever since I learned the difference between pink and blue booties, I’ve been curious about my sexuality. Not in such a way that at the tender age of sand boxes and jungle gyms I was dry humping my living room pillows, but more of a conscious effort to learn all I could about every inch of my body. Long before my b-cupped funbags made their first appearance, I was exploring my goods elsewhere. I was fascinated by the fact that one day, a real-life human baby would be able to come outta there – that place – beyond No Trespassing.
A product of Catholic school and a bat-shit crazy mom of her own, my mother made painstaking efforts to never discuss “down there”, and if she ever did, she always gave it a cartoon-ish name like Fuffy, or Pee Pee. I didn’t get it. It’s my body and I wasn’t allowed to ask questions or even acknowledge its existence? Fuck that.
By the time I was in high school, my body and me were dialed in with one another. And thanks to a perfect storm of personal curiosity, longing to connect with this incredible vessel covered in freckles and a cocoa buttered tan, and one, tell-everything-to friend – my life changed forever one summer.
Leah was a blast and we had way too much fun breaking the rules together. She was also the kind of chick you wanted to hang with after too many wine coolers, gabbing about intimate sexual details, thinking that just because we boned a couple of dudes, our shit was beyond cool.
“It’s fun, but I don’t get the big deal.” I professed to my adorable partner in crime, talking about having sex.
“So, you didn’t come?” The look on Leah’s face was priceless. Far removed from judgment, plastered with excitement. She was bursting out of her ESPRIT Sweatshirt, actually squealing.
“I thought just the guys…” My face tilted to one side, as my voice elevated, attempting to tear off the wrapping paper, which was obviously covering this magical secret.
“No…no…no! We can too! You just gotta know your body!”
Our conversation dove further into the complexities of penis vs. vagina awesomeness (like we knew anything about joy-sticks). And when I woke up the next day, I flew into the bathroom, ready for my first assignment.
You just gotta know your body.
When you don’t know what you’re missing, it’s kinda weird to be so pumped in your quest to find it. But after hearing Leah’s declaration of how awesome having a Lady O was, I was dying to go there as quickly as possible.
Running the bathtub water was foreplay. And within seconds, my ass scooted under the faucet and Operation Orgasm was underway. After a few minutes of feeling kinda silly, (and a little anxiety I may drown in the tub if I took too long), I finally let myself go. The warm water felt amazing as it flickered against my body. Remembering what Leah said about relaxing and being in tune with how good it would feel, I closed my eyes and went there. My mind wandered to Mickey Rourke in my [then] favorite movie, 9 ½ Weeks (still does sometimes) and it was ON. Fifteen minutes later it was on again. And again. And, well, you know where this is going.
The next time I had sex with my guy, I knew exactly what I needed to do – and what to say [to him] about how he could help take me back to the earth-shattering land of body quivers and erotic numbness. Of course, most teenage boys could give two shits about their gal finishing – they’re just happy someone else is in the room. But I got lucky. The dude I had naked playtime with was really into me getting off as much as he did. We even got to a point where we could ride the wave together (if you’re reading, call me).
They say things get better with time, and when it comes to rubbing one out – how true, how true.
But first, we need to climb our fences of inhibition. Face the uncomfortable, awkwardness of touching ourselves – alone – in the privacy of our personal space. Think about how absurd that is for a moment. It’s your body. You’re not hurting anyone, and you’re exploring the avenues of providing what we all strive for – which is sheer pleasure of the senses.
For some women, it’s forbidden to do, much less discuss. Others are completely comfortable talking about and regularly going at it by themselves. There’s a scene in Sex and the City (television series, not movie) when Samantha asks Charlotte if she’s ever seen her vagina up close with a hand-mirror, which got me thinking, I wonder how many of us have?
Thanks to my friend Leah and her wonderful friendship and encouragement, I was able to explore (hand-mirror and all), and take myself to my pleasure zone. In many ways, and in record-breaking numbers (I never left my room that summer). This inevitably led to mind-blowing sexscapades with a handful of fabulous partners through the years. And all because I dared trespass the one place so many of us women feel ashamed to explore. =
We are all a product of our upbringing. And with no disrespect to religious practices, beliefs, or parental rules – when you get to a certain age in your young adult life, as a woman especially, it’s so important to blaze your own trail, tear down that “No Trespassing” sign, grab your mental magic marker and write “Welcome” all over it.
And if you’re lucky enough to have a friend to share your personal experience with, call her up immediately. Chances are, she’s got a story for you too.
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