I had a date with my vibrator this morning. In the quiet coolness of the autumnal air circulating throughout my home. No noises, aside from the occasional whining of my very needy pup outside my bedroom door. We started slow, allowing my body to fall into rhythm of relaxation and in the moment pleasure. No words or interruptions, no missed moments. Just me and my trusty extension.
Society hates when we, women, talk about self-pleasure. The “boys will be boys” tales. of tube socks and ridiculously embarrassing faux pas moments infiltrating mainstream media since the time of warm apple pie in American Pie, and so many more before and after. You see, the penis is something of intrigue. The ancient Greeks thought so much of it that it is forever etched, soft and hanging in statues of the gods. But my vulva…hell, even it’s true name is a thing of ‘unclean’ and ‘we don’t speak of that’ whispers.
Show me a painting of my vulva or any other, and I will show you the millions of commentators trolling to share how ugly or disgusting such a thing is.
And yet…the word itself derived from the Latin word for “womb.” In every essence it’s power supersedes that of a penis. As my vulva is the hungry opening from which life itself emerged. Show me a penis that can do that. It’s outer folds house inner folds and the powerhouse of all, my clitoris. Which enjoyed quite a bit of attention this morning. I know where it is, and wonder at a society that does not teach those that seek to impregnate women how to pleasure them. Or arouse them.
My arousal is not of physical manifestation. My arousal lies within my mind. Sure, touch certain spots and it will feel good, but arouse me with hearing how I feel, what I think, who I am and I will be the puddle that you seek on your lips, or hands, or whatever. This is the truth that women scream into the endless void waiting to be heard, and when we are not we shrink into ourselves and lose our own clits. We become dry and bitter, hating and resenting the very desire you throw in our face. You become yet another chore because you could not take the time to LISTEN. You who demands and pleads and coaxes and and forget that we are not the hole that squeezes around you but are a fully fledged human with very real needs. Needs that you refuse to meet.
Yes. I had a date with my vibrator this morning and in truth it wasn’t even for pleasure. It was release that I sought. One, brief, pulsating and relaxing moment to exist in without the grief and pain and confusion and disconnect of my life. I did not care if an orgasm presented itself, only that I could be in my body. This bold and phenomenal place that houses a brilliant mind and beautiful soul aching to simply be in a year filled with death and angst and trauma that forces me to relive horrors I would rather forget. I find myself in my body through lifting heavy shit as well, but sometimes the weight of all I already carry exhausts me and I just want to rest while I exist.
I become in these moments. I become my hand and my clit and my vulva and my vagina and my legs and my aching toes and arching spine. I become fully aware that I am breathing. I become my pounding heart beat. I become as I come and I am filled with knowing that here I am.
Me. Woman. Jessica.
And as my shaking legs fall to the bed I lie there and think of nothing as my body settles itself, resting in one exquisite moment (or 2 or 3 or 4). It is here I can be okay. Be alive. Be true to myself. No one will ask about the tears that follow shortly after. No one will ask if it was good or okay or if I need anything. Because I don’t. I just need this moment.
I just need me.
