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Touching Me, Touching You (but mainly touching me)

October 23, 2012, 10:00 pm
By Caroline Morgan

A few years ago, when some douchebag was hitting on me, I told him that I could probably find an electric toothbrush at the 24-hour CVS around the corner that would do a better job than he would. The girls standing next to me turned beet red and immediately looked at the floor.

I had forgotten the cardinal rule of modern womanhood: unless you’re Tori Amos, female sexuality is supposed to be shrouded in secrecy (until things get a little giggly-at-a-sleepover or drunk-after-prom, and suddenly everyone gets all, “I totally masturbate… isn’t that CRAZY?!”). Life wasn’t always so unfulfilling.

Early Roman men loved to put all hands on deck, and the women weren’t ashamed to paddle their pink canoes. People loved themselves (and each other) up until the 1700s, when some dumbass published the Onania (aka “The Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution, And All its Frightful Consequences”).

After that, it’s been somewhat taboo to discuss basting your turkey/buffin’ your muffin’ (unless your name is Darling Nikki and you live in Minnesota). The fun was over for centuries to come (or not).

For men, the solo-sex taboo is all but lifted (though one of my male friends recently scoffed at the idea of investing in a Fleshlight—or, as he called it, a “mildewy cum-container”). Ryan Gosling even received critical acclaim when he starred in a movie with his blow-up doll girlfriend.

For girls, it’s different. I’m fairly certain I’d be listed on the national sex offender registry if I starred in a movie with my battery-operated boyfriend.

As a child, I was terrified I would become a social pariah if I admitted what I REALLY used my Jacuzzi bathtub jets for. In middle school, my best friend went to the principal after proudly announcing, “Sex can wait. Masturbate!”

Even today, a friend of mine was ashamed to admit that she recently got herself off at 10K Waves. Her guilty confession reminded me of a friend from sixth grade who shamefully whispered to me that she would sometimes use her teddy bear for more than just snuggling.

Recently there’s been buzz (haha, get it?! batteries buzz) about Love Joule, a bar in Tokyo marketed as a safe place for females to discuss masturbation. But why do women over the age of five need a safe place to discuss petting our little ponies?

The reality is that people who masturbate are more likely to have fulfilling sex lives and health. Squeezin’ the cheese or dialing the rotary phone has a plethora of psychological and physical benefits (including counteracting insomnia and increasing one’s mood and confidence).

So, dear readers, take some advice from Cyndi Lauper and don’t stop messin' with the danger zone. Stop feeling private about your privates.

Prostitution may be the world’s oldest profession (at least according to Cobra Starship), but masturbation is the world’s oldest pastime.

 

As usual, I’m curious about you. Have you been caught in the act of double-clicking your mouse? Ladies, what’s your favorite way to flick your bean? Email me at caroline@sfreporter.com.

 

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