I was careening down the highway in my Sprinter van, headed to a shamanic retreat, my vibrator on a low setting, pressing through my jeans. It’s not what I usually think of as practice, but given that I orgasmed and then went at it again fifteen or so minutes later, I think the repetition alone counts. 

We’re taught that practice makes perfect but I find the perfectionism of current-time Brokenhearted Society brittle and rather tiresome. What about practice for its own exploration and discovery? With curiosity and wonderment as the goal, I can discover some new joyful spot I didn’t know I liked before. Like the exquisiteness of the seam of my pants hitting my clit in that particular way, in that particular moment, mixed with my most recent fantasy about this new person I’m dating. The one where I send them home to their husband wearing both a vaginal plug and butt plug and when he receives them, he sucks them off almost to the point of orgasm but then makes them do something else instead of come. Walk the dog maybe, or clean the house a bit. And when they’re desperate and can’t take it anymore, he makes them come till they’re begging for a break. And when he does finally give them a break, three or so orgasms past the place they thought they had to stop or surely they’d melt into a cosmic puddle of stars and goo, the two of them sink into pillows and covers in a tangle of warm limbs and soft satisfaction. 

Just this brief snippet of fantasy lately brings me quick over the edge for at least three orgasms. Me and the hubs volleying this sweet person back and forth. It’s co-topping but in a way I’d never thought about until recently. Part of what turns me on is the time it takes for the scenes to play out. We’re cities apart so when they arrive home, they’ve been double stuffed for almost three hours, and I imagine them throbbing with a pleasure that’s almost pain. 

My sighs echoed loud against the metal of the van walls, and sounded both desperate and commanding. 

When I’m home, I usually jerk off laying down in my bed. Or standing, pressing my hips against the side of my bed. Or sitting on a floor chair I keep in the living room for this purpose. Sometimes I drag the full length mirror out of the hallway so I can watch myself. Sometimes I read erotica. 

My practice tends to go through phases where I masturbate a lot and then not as much. A lot being everyday or several times a day. Not as much being once every couple weeks. Masturbating might last a few minutes or hours. When I’m with partners I prefer penetration, but solo I like either clitoral stimulation alone or a combination of clitoral stimulation and vaginal penetration, usually a barbel or other toy that won’t catapult out when I come. And when the planets are just so, I like anal penetration. Which is to say, I’m not always in the mood, but when it’s right, it’s right. 

 Masturbation is one of my repetition practices that, along with the other things I do regularly, creates well-being. Repeating the things that work is the stuff that makes up a surprising amount of our lives. Eating. Brushing our teeth. Laundry. Working out. I also tend several shrines to various elements and energies, and I call in those energies most mornings. Likewise, I meditate daily and practice qigong. When and if masturbation starts to feel like a chore, and it does sometimes, I do something to shake it up like switch fantasies or take to the freeway instead of the bed. 

 I love masturbating with a partner. I enjoy doing the things that work for me and watching another do the same. And I’ve said this before but it’s important so bears repeating, I like to get to the place enough orgasms in, where everything looks different, where I’ve had a heart opening or timeline shift. This space happens to be easier for me to reach when I’m with someone else, and harder if not impossible when I’m somewhere so stimulating that it blows my circuits. Like at a sex party. I like watching a person being pressed into a wall, their ear being whispered into. And another person being flogged in the nearby corner. But I’ve discovered that watching six people being spanked, three others tied up and/or debased, and topped off with a gang bang over there, is rather too stimulating for me. Mixed with the temperature at these events usually being about 15 degrees too cold, my body just shuts down. So instead of trying to get off at these events, I put all the hot scenes into my spank bank for later, when I’m home and can get warm.  

 To cap off my latest fantasy, next time I send them back to their husband, I want to gag them as well. Not a razzle-dazzle ball gag, or open-mouth gag that would have them drooling all over their lap as they drove, although that would be hot. But something discrete like a large marble, or maybe one of my jade eggs. Something only they knew about, and would come into play if they had to pop into the store to grab something and then couldn’t speak when spoken to by the checker. 

As I reached into the passenger seat for my vibrator to practice rubbing out one or two more orgasms, I put my turn indicator on and moved over into the far right lane so cars could pass me. And made a mental note to get the cute person I’m dating’s thoughts and edits about this scene for the next time we hang out.           

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