By ROSIE WATERLAND
I recently had a chat with a 25-year-old friend who admitted to me she’s never had an orgasm. After I picked my chin up off the floor, we tried to assess what the deal was. Partners? Not terrible. Confidence? Pretty good. Vocal about her needs? Yep. Hmmm.
“So, you haven’t even given yourself one?” I asked.
She recoiled. “Ewww! No!”
How can you expect to delegate that part of the business if you aren’t already a successful manager? I guaranteed her that if she learns how to take care of that situation herself, she’ll have no problems explaining to someone else exactly what works for her. Boom. Done.
But just the idea of it made her squirm. It’s something only guys do!
Ugh. Who says? Once again, I need to give brilliant advice through the use of an embarrassing story from my past. Hopefully being so open will encourage my friend to stop being so… closed. It’s ridiculous how selfless I am.
Once, when I was younger, my mum busted me touching my special place. And when I say young, I’m talking like, fourth grade. Don’t ask me how or when I figured out how to do it; I don’t remember. All I knew was, if I worked hard enough, I could make something ‘special’ happen down there. So it became known as my special place.
However, given I shared a room with my sister, it was often hard to find a private moment to get things underway. It took careful scheduling and a very particular set of working conditions before I was able to pencil in an appointment with my wee wee.
It couldn’t be at night, because my sister slept on the bottom bunk (not that I didn’t try it once, but after she repeatedly asked me why I was breathing so loud I got spooked); it had to be in my bed, because the only successful way I could make it happen was face-planted on my mattress; and, I needed about half an hour (it was hit and miss, but generally if I worked hard enough for that amount of time I could get positive results).
So, all that considered, the only possible opportunity for some ‘me’ time was after school, in my room, when I was watching Rugrats.
My sister was three years older than me, so this was one of the few shows we didn’t agree on. She watched Degrassi Junior High in the living room, and I ‘watched Rugrats’ in the bedroom. With the door closed. In my bed. Under the covers.
Never mind my head faced in the opposite direction of the television and sometimes I was in such a rush to get things started I forgot to turn it on completely (hey, this ends with me getting caught – obviously it wasn’t the perfect plan). I’d then leave the bedroom, sufficiently flushed, and join my sister in the living room for Trap Door and Clarissa Explains It All.
The perfect crime. Or so I thought.
One afternoon, I skipped into the bedroom for my daily appointment. I closed the door, switched on the TV and swung up onto the top bunk with anticipation. Lying on my stomach? Check. Covers all the way up to my head? Check. Is the coast clear? Ch – wait a second, I was already off and running. Bless my eager little heart.