quizzical pussy

I’m no one’s sterotypist laureate or anything, but it seems to me conventional wisdom holds that men and women fap very differently. Some sources actually contend that women can’t fap at all, and that they only “schlick”, but that’s misogyny for you. Schlick isn’t even a word, and it sounds off-putting.

So let’s just all agree that girls can fap. And do. Some more frequently and enthusiastically than others. And perhaps it really is true that men and women tend to gratify themselves differently. Maybe men and women are from different planets, and those planets have very different masturbation rituals. Like…

“How men masturbate”

Let’s look at a fap in the life of your average bloke. He’s going to want a healthy clutch of porn, his hand, and ideally a bottle of lotion. A quick click animates the pretty naked things on the screen and his dick snaps to attention. He’ll graze on different porn scenes, flitting over whatever catches his eye and discarding it when it loses his interest, moving on to the next stimulus, and then the next. Alternately, if he’s in the shower or another place where porn isn’t readily available, he’ll use his imagination and fantasize about fucking his friends’ girlfriends or his wife’s sister or his squash partner. He focuses on the most sensitive spots on his cock with a fast and heavy, practiced touch. His orgasm is quick and workmanlike. He’s done this thousands of times and faps with efficiency, for results.

“How women masturbate”

Women don’t masturbate so much as make love to themselves. Women don’t like regular porn. They like “erotica”. There are special porn companies that make smut with story lines and character development and poignant portrayals of intimacy, but everyone knows that most women prefer their erotica in text, be it slash featuring anime characters or bodice-ripping plucked from the grocery store.

When a woman decides to masturbate, it is an event. She pours herself a glass of wine, lights some scented candles, and luxuriates in a bubble bath or lays back in bed with a favorite toy. And there she escapes into an erotic fantasy, becomes other people, slips into breathless moments and exotic roles. Her hands wander all over her body, teasing her neck, thigh, nipple– like a lover might, tracing circles that spiral ever closer to her sacred center. Finally, when she’s ready and she’s at an especially hot paragraph, she stimulates her clitoris or impales herself tenderly with a dildo. It’s spiritual, vital, powerful. It’s part of the process of falling desperately in love with herself. Hell, she might even have an orgasm!

…Yep. That’s definitely how men and women masturbate, respectively. But I’m such a special snowflake that none of it applies to me.

How I masturbate:

I’m actually much closer to the male stereotype when it comes to fapping, but I suspect that many women are. I can’t relate to its female analog. It seems too damn elaborate, like a lie that tries to cripple your skepticism with irrelevant details. I may need to put in a lot of work to seduce someone else, but myself? If I can’t be my own sure thing, we have a problem.

I think lots of women actually do like porn, and not just “girl porn”. Plenty of us like the really hot, exploitative kind. When I’m in the mood for video, I’ll watch mainstream, gay, or lesbian porn: hot people fuckin’, preferably saying derogatory things here and there.

But usually, I don’t just masturbate like a guy; I masturbate like a fourteen-year-old boy. I browse through pictures of hot naked chicks, my vibrator poised on my clit (or I’m actually jacking off, but we’ll cover that another time), eager eyes darting to the next picture, and the next, and the next. I’m not thinking about aught but the scandalous things I want to do to these women: there’s no grand backstory, no character development, just me-on-them action. In my mind’s eye.

Sometimes I do this for literally hours. Because although I normally pride myself on my will of adamantium, once I start getting off it is really, really tough for me to make myself get back on.

It’s a relief to be able to admit this aberrant behavior now. I spent a long time lying to boyfriends and telling them I thought of nothing, absolutely nothing, or just them when I fapped. We’re all mature enough here to realize that our partners are lying through their teeth if they tell us that, right?

Of course, sometimes I will think about fucking guys, usually things I did with partners in the past, things I wish I’d done with them, or things I intend to do with them.

…Or I fantasize about fucking my friends’ girlfriends. Just kidding. Kinda.

One thing that may be more stereotypically feminine about my system is that I actually do prefer “tasteful(ish) nudes” when it comes to pics. I don’t really need the spread-eagle pussy shot; in fact, occasionally it just looks tacky to me and I move on to something with a little more mystery: a wall to scale, a thicket to penetrate.

Sure, I’ll fap to hot text sometimes: a well-crafted erotic story or a field report from a fellow blogger. Not often, but it certainly happens. I’ll also masturbate casually while watching TV or reading a completely neutral book: it’s like fidgeting, but much better. I honestly do masturbate too much, the more I think about it. But really, every single other guy from my planet seems to have the exact same problem, right?

My voice gets deeper, huskier when I’m really aroused. Yeah, when I’m in the middle of a screaming orgasm it can get a little shrill, but in general I’m much less “excited chipmunk” than “scary sex tiger ready to fuck you up”.

Which is why I was surprised when I started training to be a phone sex operator. To me, the vocal Viagra archetype has always been along the lines of Kathleen Turner, Scarlet Johansen, Dr. Girlfriend (…too far?): deep, throaty, seductive. When I got hired on part-time at a phone sex company, I was ready to exercise my contralto range. Turns out, what I would consider a “sexy voice” wasn’t my work horse. At all.

Millicent, my boss, was a seasoned PSO who oriented me over the phone. I was sitting in my apartment and clutching the landline phone that I’d bought especially for my new career, leafing through the training booklet she’d sent me in the mail. I was a little nervous to get started; I’d had phone sex with boyfriends before, but who was I to know what complete strangers liked?

“You have a naturally sexy voice,” she assured me, after teaching me how to simulate the sound of fingering myself by using my hands and a little spit. “but you’ll find that guys tend to react better when your voice plays into their fantasies.”

“Like a Jessica Rabbit-type thing?” I offered. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. Who doesn’t want to play patty cake with Jessica Rabbit?

“Not really,” Millicent dashed my fragile dreams. “Actually, they usually like it when you make your voice higher and giggle a lot.” She demonstrated for me; it was like she was the most vapid demon-possessed helium junky on Earth.

Really? Huh. I followed her lead. I immediately wanted to punch myself in the face. “Perfect,” she said.

I was skeptical, so I decided to split the difference. Millicent suggested I create two stock characters based on the pictures I’d be assigned on the website. (No, fellas: those pics are not actually the broads you’re talking to. Cry for me. Mmmm, your tears are so yummy and sweet!) Faun had light brown hair and a gymnast’s body, and she was a perfect candidate for the squeaky, maniacal rodent voice. Thumper had dark hair and blowjob lips, so I gave her what I considered a sex bomb voice, a little lower and smokier than my regular timbre. We would just see who the men liked better.

Would we ever!

Faun and Thumper had about the same number of calls, but Faun’s shrill laughter and adolescent wonder at everything the masculine mind could think to utter consistently kept the call times longer and the callers happier. Once, a guy actually gave a lame excuse to get Thumper off the phone, called the company back for a new girl, and then talked to Faun for hours.

I’m willing to accept the possibility that my Jessica Rabbit impression is crap, but it’s also possible that there’s something more sinister at work. It’s troubling to think that a me with an ice cube thrown down the back of my shirt may be more aurally enticing to the average man than a gagging-for-cock me.

I’m not afraid of much. I love heights, I relish the chance to get up and make an ass of myself in front of a crowd. When I’m walking alone at night it crosses my mind embarrassingly seldom that I might get jumped. My grandma bought me pepper spray as a high school graduation present, and I never bothered to bring it with me to university: it lay scorned in a desk drawer in my old bedroom until my little brother discovered it while snooping and unleashed its wrath on his own face. I’m not afraid of snakes, spiders, or ceolacanths. Maybe I’m a little afraid of commitment (commitment and velociraptors), but even that bogey doesn’t leave me in a cold sweat. I’ve had my share of ugly experiences. I know that bad things happen, and I’ve learned that this isn’t a safe world. I still just can’t manage to work up much day-to-day fear about things; I have this bizarre and baseless confidence that I can manage whatever nasty surprises come along in life.

That said, fisting scares the shit out of me.

Sometimes I’ll watch a video or read a first-hand account of a woman experiencing vaginal fisting, and it’s obvious to me that the pleasure involved is transfiguring, transporting. It’s all so over-the-top and sexy. The apparent intensity of it is incredibly erotic, and that makes me think “Hmmmmm, what if I…” for a split second. But then, my inner realist shuts me down with “Surely any sex act that would require an episiotomy needs to come off the table, sweetie.”

Okay, medical intervention is probably hyperbole here, but I literally do not understand how an entire hand would fit in me. Four male fingers is the most I’ve ever attempted, and my vagina felt like a clown car. A ripping, throbbing clown car. Three fingers is usually too intense, if I’m catching knuckle. Where would the thumb even go? And it isn’t like my vagina is freakishly small. It’s accommodated some beautiful penes in its day (no, never more than one at a time). I’m pleased when a partner remarks that it’s nice and tight, but I’ve always thought that was more a function of my mighty pelvic muscles than an indication that I’m anatomically much smaller than average. So I put it to you, speaking as the possessor of roughly normal-sized equipment: where would the thumb even go?

Also, I don’t think I could feel right about being the fister unless I was absolutely sure the chick was a seasoned veteran. I have huge hands for a woman. Whenever I consider the possibility of fisting someone I look down at my gargantuan mitts and flinch in sympathy. And I haven’t even gotten started mentioning anal fisting! I can’t even grok that at this point, although I’m thrilled that people are having their fun.

So how does fisting work for these courageous women who welcome it enthusiastically into their sex lives? I guess, like most things that are potentially awesome, it requires training. It’s probably like gauged piercings: you work up to larger and still larger sizes until finally you’re absolutely guaranteed to never have a career in corporate America again. I mean, until you can fit the whole thing in. And I know there’s skill involved: the whole “silent duck” entry with all the fingers tapered to a (relatively) comfortable point (aside: is it still a silent duck if I’m screaming in agony?), the copious lube, the necessity of relaxing. It all just seems like it’s a lot of time and effort to put into making sure I’ll have to order a diva cup in size 2.

Fisting might be one of those things I’ll just have to file under “not for me”, along with water sports and nu rock. Although, what if I tried it with a really small-handed woman? That could be sexy. I mean, I hate to think I’m missing out. You know, fear is the mind killer.

I want it. No, I don’t lust after it. Masturbating with a tentacle dildo would be more a matter of novelty than actual desire. While cephalopods are super awesome, and ever since I saw The Future is Wild I absolutely believe that they’re going to inherit the Earth, it’s hard for me to sexualize them, or their appendages.

It would be more in the family of giving a foot job: something to try just so I could say (mostly to myself, and possibly to the internet) that I have.

I get why there’s tentacle porn. Kind of. Apparently sex with octopodes has been a theme in Japanese literature and art since the early 19th century. So when hentai creators were faced with the prospect of forever turning penises into pixelated blobs to comply with censorship regulations someone cleverly dipped into the historical vault and pulled out a writhing, slithery tentacle that was all too willing to get down to business. For the greater good.

I don’t get why that should be hot, per se. I also don’t really like coffee, but I’m not thrown every time I pass a Starbucks. I figure it’s just a personal choice. Some people get off on watching women popping balloons; some people get off on watching cartoon women with balloon tits being forcibly penetrated by tentacle monsters. Or maybe everybody actually just finds both things funny. I mean, even if you did find this stuff unbearably erotic, part of you would realize that it’s hilarious, right?

And that’s why I need this toy. It just can’t get around being funny. I want to bring this tentacle dildo on adventures with me. I want to take vacation photos of the tentacle dildo: in front of the Louvre, gravely contemplating the heretical MacDonald’s there; taking advantage of perspective by pushing his mighty suckers against the Leaning Tower of Pisa to keep it from tipping over. I want tourists everywhere to pose with my tentacle dildo. I want virgins to flee from it. “It’s okay, virgins!” I’d laugh, “he’s friendly.” But they don’t understand English very well. My tentacle dildo and I would have a laugh about the misunderstanding over tea and Turkish Delight.

But the really compelling thing about owning this tentacle dildo is that it empowers a person to say “my tentacle dildo” a lot. You know, without having to do so much imagining. My tentacle dildo. It should be a show or something. Things being what they are, probably an anime.

It was a while ago at this point, so I’m not entirely sure where it all went wrong. The idea was good. I would write erotic fiction for a semi-popular porn website and they would pay me $20 for each short story I cranked out. Not only was this easy money, but it presented an ideal excuse when it came time to actually do my homework. I was always on the lookout for novel ways to avoid homework.

The stories I came up with weren’t the worst to ever infect the genre, but that may be the best I can say for them. Once in a while I’ll linger over the old backup files because I need a good laugh, and will I ever laugh! At the two-dimensional characters fucking through showers of synonyms and tinny dialog (ex: “You geek, there’s no such thing as a superhero. I am, however, a super-human screw, if you care to try it out,” after which the character gives a saucy wink, naturally. Sweet Christ why did no one stop me?) At the more and more absurd scenarios I manufactured as paper-thin pretexts for ineptly written sex scenes. At how altogether silly they seem now. Occasionally, though–out of nowhere, I’ll find a sentence or two that’s almost hot… to me. Usually these sentences tend to somehow invoke the concept of tension.

I was still a virgin: a technical virgin, the most hilarious kind. Believe I knew tension. I’d fooled around with my oddly sex-adverse college boyfriend, but “sex-sex” was an odd taboo between us. Showing too much interest in intercourse was tantamount to spoiling for a fight back then. My inexperience may have thrown the wrenchiest of all the wrenches bogging down my fledgling erotic writing career. Of course virginity really never stopped anyone from writing about sex (I’m looking at you, fanfiction.net), but when a 10-year-old boy first draws two concentric circles and calls it a boob is it really fair to call that erotic art? And he certainly shouldn’t expect anyone to hand him $20 for his trouble. Getting paid to clumsily explore one’s sexuality is, of course, a pretty nice job if you can get it, but the results are bound to be awkward.

When I reread my old erotic fiction it occurs to me that although I knew the rudiments of orgasm, I didn’t really understand how sex works: the logistics, the sensations, the movements and blistering chemistry of bodies really overlapping. I also didn’t, DID NOT, understand attraction. It was all but impossible for me to navigate the murky waters between rawest acquaintance and bareback. All too often that transition was settled with a jaunty “wanna fuck?” proposed by one of the characters, usually the girl because the porn site was (brace yourself) targeted to men, and it seemed to me the kind of thing a guy might like, having a hot-as-only-fiction-allows female offer sex completely unsolicited. Come to think of it, my reasoning there was fair.

If I’m being honest, I still don’t have a handle on attraction, but we’ll revisit that some other time.

It’s odd to me that I never got any complaints from the client. They seemed perfectly happy with my work, although frankly, who reads erotic fiction on a pay site anyway? I could’ve gone on for decades. Maybe I would’ve hit some kind of stride, once I had a little more familiarity with my subject.

Eventually I just lost interest and stopped writing smut. One of the most frustrating things about writing for a glorified Girls Gone Wild porn site with a (for lack of a better term) frat boy demographic was the fact that as much as I didn’t understand my own sexuality I just absolutely,  7,000 times more, didn’t understand theirs. I mean, it’s possible… just barely possible… that that saucy wink I threw in really spoke to them. But if I knew that for a fact, I really couldn’t live with myself.