Anonymous

I must have been 13 years old when masturbation first occurred to me. I was sent an email of cartoon characters performing various sexual acts and one of them was Princess Jasmine, her hand moving back and forth on her vagina, looking vaguely bored. Up to that point, my sexual experience had included only a hand mirror and me after an interesting guidance lesson in Grade 7. I couldn’t fathom how this strange mess of flaps and folds could give me any pleasure.

In the years that followed, wanting to know what sex felt like without actually having sex, I poked and prodded and am embarrassed to say I even used the back of a hairbrush once in the hopes of knowing what all the fuss was about. (The hygiene-freak I have become is queasy at the thought.)

By 15, I started dating, and sexual exploration became something naughty. My vagina and I got disconnected— it wasn’t something for me and my enjoyment, but something I could use to get boys to like me. After a while, though, I learned that boys liking my vagina was actually very different to them liking me and I started to respect my body and myself more.

I fell in love with a boy when I was 18 and had sex for the first time. We had a lot of sex: excellent, good, average, and ugly. Sometimes I loved it and sometimes I hated it, but I felt like it was something we had to do.

My friends and I spoke about sex quite thoroughly, but masturbation was never mentioned. The only time the topic was ever raised was when men brought it up in a drinking game, like Truth and Dare. My friends always vehemently denied that they did it.“Yuck!” they said, and they still do. I think it’s something to do with the word ‘masturbation’. It conjures up images of dirty sex shops or shady men wanking in their car in public places. It’s for perverts and 12-year-old boys.

It was only recently, some years later, that I gave masturbation serious consideration. Having been single for a number of months, I was beginning to get frustrated, dreaming about sex almost every night and waking up pining for a man to put me out of my misery. I was still reluctant to masturbate—it was masculine, dirty and I probably wouldn’t be able to do it right anyway. Luckily, I came across an article in a magazine about orgasms being good for your health, and one morning after a particularly vivid dream, I decided to give it a go.

I wasn’t sure where to start having sex with myself—I closed the curtains and took off my clothes, but then thought surely some kind of ceremony was required.

Should I light candles? Should I bath first? I got back into bed and concentrated on reviving the dream I’d been having as I tried to work out the mechanics of the clitoris. When there was no immediate sensation and I couldn’t even remember the dream, I almost gave up.

But I was determined not to fail. Soon I was fully aroused and I realised that a little bit of light rubbing can go a long way. I couldn’t believe how easy it was; it was the most natural thing in the world and I didn’t feel dirty at all. In fact, I felt totally liberated. I now see it as a way of looking after myself, like healthy eating and exercise.

It is so empowering to know that the thing that makes me sexy is me, not how I look or what I wear, and certainly not because a man thinks that I am.

The writer loves daisies, chocolate and taking herself for long walks on the beach.