Not for the squeamish or easily offended.
If you’re one or the other click here.
Ok. So the whole mature warning thing may have been a bit overblown. But I’ve recently found out that at least two twelve-year olds visit here kinda regularly. Forgive me for being paranoid. Not that a warning label ever works, of course.
I suppose it’s a measure of how hide-bound we are as a people when even in the relative freedom and anonymity of our blogs, we worry about what other people will think.
I was at a small forum today where people were talking about sexuality and the speaker asked for a show of hands: “Who masturbates?” Believe it or not, no one raised a hand. Not even me.
But when she asked – at other times – who had hit a child in a moment of pique, i.e., not with any disciplinary purpose but just because you were annoyed, or who had smoked weed, or who had shoplifted, hands shot up in the air with little hesitation.
So …. it’s okay to admit hitting a kid, doing drugs, and engaging in felonious activity but it’s shameful to admit that you sometimes make yourself feel good? How twisted is that?
Since confession is good for the soul and all that …
I first learned about the wonders of myself earl in high school. I heard a couple of older girls talking about it in the comfort room. They went on and on in such great detail that I almost imagined that they knew I was eavesdropping and so decided to give me an earful.
Whatever it was, I went home that day eager to give it a try. They had used words like wonderful and shivery and I wanted to see what that was all about.
When I got home, I hit the books right away, startling my mom who knew that I was a bit of a slacker. Not that she complained. She just stood there and beamed down on me, totally oblivious to the fact that for the first time in her life, her daughter was being motivated by sex.
I wolfed down dinner and promptly yawned and said I was going to bed – a full thirty minutes before bedtime. I zipped through the rituals and was in bed before my mother could adequately express her amazement.
With the door closed and the lights turned out, I shed my PJs, carefully folded them, and slid them under the blanket. SO there I was, with only my panties on and I swear, my knees were shaking in a mix of fear and anticipation.
I got under the covers and marvelled at the feel of the sheets against my bare skin. Then, with a deep breath, I started doing what the girls said they did. At first, there was nothing. I was just kinda mashing things around. No big deal. Where was the wonderful? And where the hell was the shive – OH!
There you go.
It didn’t take long for me to discover how to set myself off. It took much lnger to actually get off, truth be told, but as first experiences go, it wasn’t bad at all.
I fell asleep with my fingers still wandering idly around the new playground I’d just discovered. I don’t remember dreaming that night. But that was less because of my discovery that night, and more because of my discovery the following morning.
When I woke up, my hand went sliding back to where it had been the night before and … well let’s just say that I screamed when my fingers came away red. And it wasn’t just a girly girl squeal either. I let loose with all the air in my lungs and brought my mother crashing through the door. In the throes of panic, my brain just barely acknowledged the fact that she had gone through the bathroom door, having apparently found my bedroom door locked.
I was sitting there, with the sheets all bunched up at my feet, buck nekkid, waving my fingers at her and franctically pointing to where I was sure I was haemorraghing to death.
My life was flashing before my very eyes and my final confessionwas spilling out in a rush.
You could’ve cut the silence that followed my confession with a knife. Then my mother rushed to my side laughing and hugged me hard. You’re not gonna die, she said in between fits of giggling.
“MOM!” I shouted, hardly able to believe that there was anything funny.
“I’m sorry Rom,” she said, trying hard to keep a straight face. “I thought I had a little more time before I had to tell you about this. You remember those little diaper-things that I buy at the grocery …?”
And so began my birds-and-bees session with my mom. I didn’t go to school that day. We just sorta chilled together around the house and the garden and talked.
I calmed down and eventually got to remembering what I had confessed to. But my mom she steered clear of those things – well, except for that butt ugly vase which she said I had to pay for out of my allowance – and so kept me on tenterhooks for hours. Finally, after dinner, she took me up to my room and gave me the capstone speech that – years later – she would tell me that she had spent the whole day composing.
“Rom,” she said and I was like ogodogodogod. “That thing you were doing last night? It’ll make you go bald.” She then kissed my dumbstruck face and walked out of the room without a single word.
So, instead of listening to the older girls and – visions of my bald head flashing through my mind – their obviously bad advice, I eventually worked up the courgae to go to our health counsellor in school and get the low down from her. I realized my mom had made a funny and was mighty pissed at her for a couple of weeks afterward. I decided to get back at her by doing it every night, and every morning wailing about the hairs on my pillow. She always looked at me with a slight smile on her lips and eventually got a hair-loss shampoo.
When I saw the damned family-sized bottle on my pillow one night – with a big red bow no less – I cracked up and finally got over my angst. Approaching masturbation with humor, I guess became a kind of safety valve that prevented me from taking the thing too seriously.
In a kind of epilogue, on my fifteenth birthday, she once again pulled me aside and let me off the hook with a big cheshire cat grin on her face. By then, of course, I was already savvy and we had a big laugh about it and that stupid bottle of shampoo. Her strategy worked, I told her, and – in that inscrutable way she has – she goes, “I know,” and walked away.
“You know whaaaaat?” I screamed, running after her.