November 2021 (continued)

Self Love In The Shower (continued)

Adele has a confession to share with you. It's about "self-care", or "self-love"…in other words: masturbation. Enjoy! -- The Editors

I was caught masturbating a number of times when I was a child, and my mother punished me so severely that I never did it again, even in my teens. When I got married at twenty-two, I hadn't given it a thought in years. Then my husband, Bill, fell from a ladder while painting the house and had to spend six weeks in the hospital. I visited every day, but the nights were lonely and long.

One night I found myself lying in bed watching television and, without any conscious intention, began rubbing my belly, stroking myself gently until I felt the first curls of hair under my fingertips. I toyed with them idly, barely aware of the pleasure I was feeling, until I touched my clitoris. Suddenly, all the stored sexual energy of weeks of celibacy rushed to my vagina and erupted without warning.

On the TV screen, cops were chasing robbers, but that all faded away as my hand slid down over the outer lips, now folded over one another like hands in prayer. I slowly pulled them apart, peeling back the covering to the tiny opening beneath. I tentatively curled my middle finger and placed it right at the secret chute and pushed down until I could feel the heat of the inner chamber. I lay like that for a while, not moving, only feeling the sweet sensation.

From deep inside a throbbing pulsation began, a muted vibration that was just the beginning of a profound ache, a hunger to be penetrated that I'd repressed for more than a month. With that, wetness began to bathe my finger. I sighed, spread my legs wider, and pushed my finger deeper inside. I trembled like a virgin being touched for the very first time.

Going still further, I plunged the tip of my finger deeper inside. I gasped with shock at how thrilling it was to probe into the core of my sexuality. My legs stiffened as my buttocks contracted and my hips came alive, starting a slow, rolling, pumping movement, the way I move when I'm having passionate sex.

"You'll pay for this!" said a voice from the TV drama that was unwinding on the screen. That warning brought back all the guilt from my childhood, and I almost faltered, then remembered I was no longer a child but a woman in charge of her own body. I smiled and slipped a second finger inside, groaning as I filled myself for my own pleasure.

It was the first time in my life I was experiencing such self-abandon while alone and the feeling was glorious, allowing me to set my own rhythm, to find my own tempo. I took a deep breath and explored the outside of my vulva again, exploring the folds leisurely, touching one spot, then another, probing for the most sensitive area. But after a while, delicacy gave way to urgency, and I wanted to be penetrated again.

I slid my fingertips along the slick sides, returned to the quivering opening and slipped one, then two, then three fingers into the tiny space. I plunged in and pulled out again, again and again, moving faster and harder until I was jamming my hand in and out like a wildly charged piston, my whole body shaking, my breasts rolling on my chest, my knees reaching for the ceiling. When I reached a pitch of excitement I couldn't contain, I brought my left hand down and put two fingers on my clitoris, now screaming to be touched. It was like grabbing an exposed live wire. Sharp, hot flashes of electricity shot through my belly and sent sizzling currents of ecstatic pleasure through my crotch, making my pubic hair practically stand on end. I got caught up in a frenzy of mounting delirium –– delicious muscle spasms, tingling all over my entire body, and scented secretions oozing down the crack between my buttocks and filling the room with the smell of sex.

Then I sank into oblivion, a whirling darkness that had no beginning and no end. It held me for a long, long time and flung me back into the world of light, stunned and shaking until the final spasms of my orgasm died down and I found myself lying naked and disheveled, panting hard, sweating, wondering if I'd indeed screamed as loud as I thought and whether it had been heard in the quiet suburban street outside our house.

For the next few days, I felt quiescent and managed my days without even thinking about sex. Then, one afternoon, after finishing my housework, I was lying on the couch, relaxing, letting my body become heavy and easy. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and as I breathed deeply and felt my limbs getting languorous, I had a sense of how sexy I'd look to someone else in the room. I knew that if Bill were here, he'd be all over me.

I repressed the impulse to masturbate and went into the bathroom to take a shower.

Once I'd taken my clothes off, though, and saw my naked body in the mirror, my desire returned even more strongly. I stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water, momentarily distracted from my mounting tension by the stream cascading all over me.

I started soaping myself and the moment I slid the smooth bar of soap over my skin I knew I'd only postponed the inevitable. My hands glided over my body, cupping my breasts, stroking my thighs, spreading my buttocks, and finally rubbing, rubbing, rubbing over my vagina. I stood there for a long time, fondling and caressing myself, until I grew weak and had to lean against the wall. I closed my eyes and went inward, into that space I was learning could be reached only through masturbation, the place where individuality and eroticism are most intimately joined.

When I opened my eyes, I spotted the long-handled scrub brush I use for washing my back. This time a totally different use suggested itself. By now the stall was steamy, a hot, wet closet. I picked up the brush and rubbed it over my belly, enjoying the texture against my skin. I raised it higher and moved it lightly over my nipples. The sensation was excruciatingly pleasurable, so close to pain that it momentarily paralyzed me, but only momentarily. A few seconds later I was pushing it deeper into me, moving it in circles, sending sharp flashes through me breasts, making me cry out.

At the same time, I brought my left hand down between my legs. The water rushed over my face like a waterfall leaving me blind to the outside. Inside, a river had begun to flow. I slipped one finger inside myself and the dam burst, the hot flow mixing with the shower water and running down my thighs.

I couldn't stand up any longer. My knees went first, bending slowly as I sank to the floor. My thighs parted even wider, and I let out a quivering moan. I moved the handle with one hand and with the other stroked my clitoris. I don't know how long I sat there, riding it and rubbing myself more and more, until the excitement boiled over and I exploded in a shattering orgasm that turned my legs to jelly as I lay under the hot steaming water, throbbing and whimpering.

Needless to say, I've since added masturbation to my repertoire of sexual pleasures, and there has been a bonus. When Bill got out of the hospital, I told him about my breakthrough. He got very excited and told me he wanted to watch me do it. Masturbating for my husband, knowing that after I give myself pleasure, he will mount me and then take me even higher, is an experience that has at last made my sexual education complete. -- Adele S.