Vibrate

“She said/Hold your breath/ So you don’t come…”
White Turns To Gray, Bilal

There are times when you want to be fucked, and there are times you want to be made loved to. And then there is masturbation.

Which isn’t really sex. Because with sex there is touching and groping. Mouths colliding and fingers fingering and legs shaking and all of that. Sex is a communicative act. Even if it’s brief and unattached. Some of the best lovers are the ones who can pick up cues from a quivering thigh or a silent sigh.

Masturbation is about ego. It is a soliloquy. It’s about being in control of your own orgasms. I’ve lost control with many men. But with masturbation, when I feel the fire collecting around my clitoris, I can easily extinguish it, or I can allow it to burst into flames. The most power I can ever feel is the power to pleasure myself, without having to turn my attention to anyone else in the process. The more I concentrate on me, the better things start feeling. The better I can rekindle my own sexual fantasies, the more I learn about how to position myself for maximum pleasure.

This pleasure is not the same as full-on sex. It is a separate but equal feeling. See, one doesn’t necessarily indulge in the act of sex specifically for the orgasms. Sometimes you want to see a naked body, you want to feel some booty. But with masturbation, the goal is to make orgasms bloom like lilies on a spring day.

So as much as I love the little buzz that my trusty, clitoris-stimulation-only vibrator gives me, I have been craving something…different. So one day, I decide to hightail it to the closest sex store, to indulge in some new toy. I end up with this vibrator, a knock off penis with a butterfly positioned to flutter against my clit; an insect with a phallus attached to it.

Batteries charged, my mind begins to churn with thoughts of a phallus tickling the opening of my vagina, and the possibility of evoking two orgasms at once; one with my fluttering butterfly and one with my fake penis hitting my G-Spot. Well, getting this cold and wet fake penis into my vagina became somewhat of a challenge. See, I am usually not the person directing the penis during the sex. That is what the man attached to the penis is for. Plus, that first time entering is always the most discomforting. And a good sex partner knows how to ease the penis in to make all of that wincing feel wonderful.

This penis that was shaking, cold in my hand, dripping with lubricant was not working. Inside of my vagina, it felt like a cold block of bologna, and getting it in deep in order to simultaneously hit my clit was cumbersome and painful. Never had I felt so clumsy with a penis in hand. This was starting to feel like sex. Bad sex at that.

I came. But it wasn’t a happy orgasm. It was an accidental orgasm. As I squirmed and shifted to accommodate this throbbing plastic inside of me, I lucked into some clitoral stimulation and came. It was the most unfocused and unsatisfying orgasm I’ve had since I started having orgasms.

Needless to say, that big flabby pink penis with the butterfly attached that I purchased for $30 ended up at the bottom of my sex bin. There was something about being responsible for the placement of the penis that turned me off. There is a lot of multitasking in making sure that my clitoris is satisfied. Inserting things into my vaginatoo... now that's a promotion I'm not yet ready for.

So I’ll just stick to my clit-only vibrator, my trusty little rabbit that makes my egotistical job of self pleasure efficient, though predictable.