Two babely friends of mine, A and T, recently put out an awesome, inspiring, titillating, panty-dropping, ‘zine.
The subject matter: orgasms.
A and T, being both babely and brilliant, got in touch with a whole bunch’a folks and said “Listen, we want to talk about women’s orgasms, and we wanna talk about ’em now.”
Well, I am paraphrasing. What they actually said:
“We all have different bodies, so it makes sense that we would have different orgasms. With this in mind we have collected personal stories about women’s orgasms and made them into this ‘zine to hopefully help other women better understand that their pleasure is theirs alone and not what society says it should be. We recognize that gender is fluid and performative, and that “woman” is an unstable category, and thus we welcomed submissions from anyone who has ever identified as a woman.”
Pretty smart, right? I love this point, and I love this ‘zine. It has inspired me to rethink coming, masturbating, fucking, and feeling pleasure, and these are the kinds’a things I was already thinking about all day every day.
It has made me want to write about clitoral orgasms.
It has made me want to write more about the infamous G-Spot O.
I want to write about different kinds of coming,
about self-induced coming,
about the feeling of that earth-shakin’, heart-poundin’, thigh-quakin’ orgasm,
and the just as valid feeling of that quiet-warmth-that-creeps-up-inside-you-gently-orgasm.
Because A and T are totally right. The societal pressures put on women to simultaneous be both sluts & sweethearts makes our ability to quantify, identify and experience our own pleasure on our own terms pretty fucking difficult. It is so hard to just feel straight up good in yer bod without worrying if the other person is feeling good, if you are looking good, if you are doing it right, if this really is an orgasm, plus a whole big butt-load of other unnameable insecurities.
So, I am going to write more about all that next week – about coming on our own terms, by our own hands. Unfortunately, these days my fingers are too busy doing…other, more interesting things…and I haven’t had a spare second to write a whole new fresh post. And so, in lieu of hot tips on finger fucking yourself and attaining that elusive O, I am instead going to reprint for you here my entry in The Orgasm Zine. I promise to post more helpful information next week. In the meanwhile, please consider this half-true story some erotic inspiration.
Better yet, if you want some real, serious, turn-you-on-and-lay-you-out stimulation, and you happen to be in Halifax, Nova Scotia, you should come see myself and a slew of other folks read our own orgasm accounts…aloud…in public.
The date: this Wednesday, June 20th.
The time: 8 pm.
The place: One Block Barber Shop.
Girls Just Do*
When I was younger, I thought girls just didn’t.
My boyfriends would touch me with their calloused farm-hand hands, and I would think: “Oh, that feels nice.”
But I never thought I could touch myself too. Masturbating was for Boys Only. Girls didn’t get to control their coming.
Then, my cousin moved in.
With five years on me, she had it all figured out. She knew how to make Kraft Dinner and how to count cards; she knew that girls do it to, and she even knew that girls could do it with each other.
Best of all, she knew about Prince.
My cousin would have her girlfriends over and I knew that behind locked doors, they were doing more than painting their nails and reading Tiger Beat. I knew they were touching each other, bodies pressed tight together, hands searching between the tight folds of tight denim.
I would be outside the door, my ear pressed tight to the wood, my hands pressed tight to my chest, my thighs pressed tight together, and wondering: “What magic tricks do they know?”
But, I didn’t have the words to ask. So instead, I turned to Prince.
When the house was empty I would sneak into the basement (then a bedroom for familial refugees) and steal her Prince records. ‘Cream’,’ Gett Off’, ‘Little Red Corvette’, and ‘Raspberry Beret’ would ricochet through the house at full volume.
It was Prince who taught me where to put my hands.
His voice would slide over the lines:
“It’s your time,
you got the horn so why don’t you blow it?
You are fine,
you’re filthy cute and baby you know it.”
and I would slide down my underwear.
He would shout out:
“I clocked the jizz from a friend of yours named Vanessa Bet.
She said you told her a fantasy that got her all wet, wet.
Something about a little box with a mirror and a tongue inside.”
and my fingers would slip down between my legs, my body shouting out to be touched.
While Prince sang about needing her body from dusk ‘til dawn, I learned my own body.
I learned how to work my clit, move my fingers in circles ‘til I was throbbing, ‘til my legs were shaking.
I learned up-strokes, down-strokes, and backwards strokes, moving one finger and then two in endless patterns, making my whole, small, self quiver.
I learned how to dip my fingers inside me, curl them up and press hard, and then even harder.
I learned that I could make myself come even quicker than my boyfriends; that my soft fingers were even more proficient than their rough ones. I learned that girls do it to, that I could do it to.
Girls just do.
* For the sake of my flabbergasted family members reading this post: this story is in part fiction. I do have a bevy of older, smarter, better-looking, and queerer cousins who I have been following around and mimicking my entire life. Some of them have, at times, lived in my parents’ basement and some of them do LOVE Prince. But, I swear, I never listened in at the door, and that wasn’t me who borrowed (and scratched) your CDs, I swear.