I know its a bit long, but I thank you for letting me share.
I am a 43 year old divorced mother of two teenage girls. They are the love of my life, even though at 15 and 13 they are often pushing the limits of my parenting knowledge and patience. We have been on our own for almost six years now, and while it has been outrageously fun much of the time, at times I was unsure I would be able to make it. The women who are reading this who have been the victim of cheating husbands who promised to be faithful 'till death...' know exactly what I mean. Especially when those husbands turn their backs entirely on their family, to the point of refusing to send, or delaying, child-support they can easily afford.
The other part of being a single mom with girls is the difficulty of deciding how much of my own life to sacrifice to make my girl's lives, even with the divorce, as good as possible. There are the little things that I don't even consider anymore, such as whether to spend money on myself or my children. I am most happy when I can spend on them and see the delight in their eyes. So while it may seem like sacrifice, I actually get the benefit.
The other side is dating and relationships. I was very slow to delve into that whole arena after my husband left, and to be honest, fell among those women who began to hate all men because of their chromosomal link to the lying cheater I was married to. This would be fine, except for the fact that at 37 I was not feeling less sexual, but was revving up to that dreaded peak that women have so much worthlessly later than men. So yes, I was single, and I was horny.
I wasn't about to go trolling for men, though. My husband and I, the whole family really, was active in our local church. Yes, we believed, well -I- believed, in all that it stood for even to the point of considering masturbation a sin. In fact our Sunday School had had discussions about that very thing. Pornography we knew to be a scourge on the world and a destroyer of families, and since masturbation was end result of pornography, we in our ignorance had surmised, it is better to not masturbate at all.
The question of whether it was ok for women to masturbate was only slightly more problematic to our legalistic thinking. Men had been Biblically prohibited from masturbating because of the story of Onan, who had been struck down because he had spilled his seed on the ground. I distinctly remember the day we discussed that and glancing over at Wendy McElroy when we were listening to the description of what was really Onan pulling out of his sister-in-law and ejaculating on the floor instead of inside her because he didn't want anymore kids. It was a running joke that Wendy and her husband didn't want anymore kids but they thought it was a sin for him to have a vasectomy. She had told me privately one evening that she had tried to talk him into pulling out. He refused. Her solution was to start letting him cum in her mouth, which may have been a sin, but he didn't seem to care when he was about to pop. So after six children that solution seemed to work.
We women had no female counterpart to Onan, much to the consternation of the men-only clergy of our church. So what was prescribed was a combination of a dash of 'your body is God's temple' and that to masturbate is to defile and pollute that temple, with a pinch of 'you're body is not your own, but it is your husbands.' But what looked on the box like a beautiful sexual bliss cake ended up, in reality, ended up being a blob of fallen frustration that was totally unpalatable. But as a dutiful church wife, I abstained from sexual satisfaction for the sake of my family and my soul.
This all worked out fine, well, at least on the surface fine, for almost a year of separation. Then in a world-shattering morning, it all began to melt.
First let me say I am, or was, no stranger to masturbation. While I had come to think that doing it was a sin; there were exceptions.
The first was when I was 12, just a month from turning 13, and had gone to church and Sunday school because my parents went, but had yet to internalize all of the propaganda. On a beautiful summer afternoon I had been swimming at my aunts house while my mom and her sister chatted. After getting my fill of sun and water I went inside to their basement to take a shower and stumbled across some magazines in my uncle's basement office; magazines that showed beautiful women naked in the arms of strong, naked men. It showed their hard penises in the hands, mouths and wombs of the women; and a pearly liquid apparently being expelled from those hard penises onto tanned tummies and matted pubic hair of the beautiful girls.
I immediately felt flush and almost ready to pass out from the sight. Not for fear, but excitement. My hand immediately went into my bikini bottoms. It took all of ten minutes for me to have my first orgasm standing there in his office. I can still vividly recall every smell, the feeling of the plush carpet under my feet, the feel of the magazine paper in my hands. It was the best feeling in the world. I tried to recreate it every time I went over to their house. I begged my mother to take me swimming virtually every day that summer.
That is until I was discovered in my pleasure-palace. On day, after an hour of realizing they hadn't heard peep one out of me, my mother and aunt caught me in my favorite place - standing at my uncle's desk with an imported hard-core porn magazine on the table, my bikini bottoms around my ankles, and my right hand buried in the folds of my labia.
Spinning in my mind with the feelings of shame, fear, and lust, are now only memories of loud exclamations and a spattering of words mixed from both mouths. 'Jesus... Carol...oh hell...Carl...trip to Holland... masturbating... disgusting... trash... private... embarrassed... grounded... never again...'
That didn't stop me from masturbating. But as I got more involved in church and learned that only dirty girls had sexual thoughts, and thus masturbated, the practice diminished. I would occasionally lose the battle of horniness versus shame, though, and invent a way for something to rub my pubis on. The orgasm brought only the dam that burst into more shame and self-hatred.
That is until my husband-to-be joined the church when I was 16.
I quickly discovered that it was much more socially acceptable to be with a guy and deal with sexual feelings that way. The first time his hand went under my skirt and into my panties I knew I was in love and wanted to marry him. The orgasm he gave me that night confirmed it. We were both virgins when we married, but our hands knew every inch of each other.
The sex was incredible the first five years. Just the thought of his penis inside me brought me to orgasm during the first two, and after he tried a 'secret he had heard about' one night, I felt so naughty, yet delicious then next two years I was even happier. Oral sex will do that to a girl.
Then came the Saturday evening I wish hadn't come. We had been doing yardwork together and were engaging in playful sexual banter all afternoon. We had worked each other up to a heated boil. We went in and took a shower together, building up the tension, then went to the bed, as usual. His mouth found my pussy and I expected a raging orgasm within a minute, but he started teasing me and not letting me orgasm.
I pouted, ordered, virtually cried, then tried a tantrum, none of which worked in getting him to finish me off with his tongue.
Then, without warning he reached up and took my hand. He pulled it down to my pussy, but my fingers in the wetness and then, in the most devilish voice told me, no, commanded me, 'make yourself cum.' My hand pulled back in an instant and I virtually shouted, 'NO. I can't do that.'
'I know you can do it,' he said.
'I can't,' Was all I could say.
He froze and, with a look I had never seen in him, said, 'I'm your husband, and I want to see you make yourself orgasm.'
The tears started streaming down my cheek, even though I wasn't weeping. But they were clearly there, and he clearly seemed to be enjoying the whole picture as my damp cheeks and pussy excited him to the point of him taking is own penis in his hand and stroking it.
My finger moved to my labia, but my eyes never left my husband's. My hand remembered and knew exactly what to do. I began to masturbate. How long I did it I don't know, but I felt the familiar feeling come upon me as my orgasm built and then became inevitable. While he watched and stroked I began to orgasm. Hard. The belief that orgasms from masturbation are different from others is very true, none so much as that day. It felt exquisite to make myself cum.
The orgasm was just subsiding, and the feelings of shame and guilt starting, when the words hit me.
'You fucking bitch.'
'What,' I asked?
'You are a fucking bitch.'
'You have been masturbating while I'm at work and that's why you don't want to have sex as much any more.'
'I don't, I...' My mind was again spinning. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I even hadn't as much washed myself for longer than a couple of seconds for fear of stirring up feelings. Almost every orgasm I had had since I was 16 had been not only with him, but because of him. And now this.
His face was now flushed with anger as he moved over to me. I feared he would hit me until I realized he was still stroking himself. He moved a knee on the bed, and closer to my face. My confusion was reflected in every move I made and every expression I had as he began to ejaculate onto my face emptying a copious amount of semen on a place that had never felt it before. The last spurt was immediately followed by a loud wet slap. It was hard to believe that it took a second or two for me to realize that sound had come from his hand coming in contact with my semen covered face.
I rolled over into the fetal position and stayed there as I heard him get dressed, jingle his car keys, and start the car.
I never found out what had caused him to imagine that I had been cheating on him with my own hand, but clearly the fact that I looked like I knew what I was doing cemented, in his mind, the mistaken belief that I spent afternoons masturbating while he toiled away in the salt-mines of life insurance sales.
Our marriage degenerated quickly after that although it took five more years to get to the point where he no longer cared whether I knew he was fucking another woman. I suspect that is the point when you know a man really wants out of a marriage. All pretense of disguising the other relationship is gone. She showed up with him one afternoon, dropping him off because his 'car was in the shop.' I just said, 'Hi, honey!' to her. And smiled. Not a knowing, or condescending or even an eat-shit smile. A real smile. It did my heart good.
Within the year he had moved out and me and the girls were alone together. Three women, ages 38, 9, and 7.
The first couple of months were the hardest. I cried almost daily, in spite of the fact I knew for those many years it was coming. Still, I cried. Once school started back and I found a job at department store through a friend of mine things began to get better. We got in a routine and I kept busy with work and caring for the girls. I barely even remembered I was a sexual person, somehow turning that incredibly powerful part of my person off for the sake of everything, my past and my present.
All of that came crashing down one quiet Sunday morning.
I had gotten up at my usual time, six-o'clock, to do some laundry and make sure the girl's clothes for church were ironed. (Yes, we still went.)
I took my shower, put a robe on and decided to sit down to rest for a few minutes. I flipped on the television and began moving through the channels to see what was on that early Sunday morning.
We had just subscribed to HBO because I was making a little more money and figured we would save the money we normally spent each month going out to a movie by watching them at home. The girls liked the idea and I loved making our own popcorn and watching with them.
As I flipped through the cable channels I got to HBO and saw some recent kid's movie on. I thought about seeing if the girls wanted to see it, but decided to let them sleep for another hour or so, as it was still before 7 a.m. I hit the up button one more time and my eyes fell upon a naked couple writhing together on a beautiful couch. I stopped and gawked. At first I felt disgust but that was quickly replaced with something I remembered from many years ago.
My eyes were transfixed as I became entranced by this soft-focus cable-porn coming through on the west-coast feed of HBO. The man's body was thick and undulating as he kneaded the beautiful woman's buttocks, his mouth smothering her nipples and then uncovering them to reveal her excitement. Before I even thought about it my legs had opened and my hand had found its way toward my stomach. I began to feel my pubic hair. I stopped an inch from my clitoris.
I tried everything I could to think of what to do besides masturbating at that moment, but nothing was enough to keep me from dipping my hand that one fraction of an inch lower and giving in to the feeling I hadn't felt in almost three years. Yes, three years. Three years without even the hint of a sexual release. The last two of our marriage and the first on my own, all orgasm free.
I had gained a little weight during those three years and noticed that my pubis felt very fleshy. And wonderful. Although it was my own hand caressing my own sex it felt like someone else's. I stroked my pussy with a laziness, yet an intensity that I hadn't felt since...who knows. I looked at the tv and saw the beautiful couple writhing in movie ecstasy and I began to feel wanton. I spread my legs as far as they would go and undid the belt of my robe, letting it fall open as my body was exposed to the spring air.
I felt my wetness dripping out of my vagina. My index finger split my inner labia and I wiggled it as the first knuckle came into contact with my clitoris. After a few seconds of wiggling my finger I would then move my hand up and down at a moderate pace so the knuckle could work on my clitoris. This is how I masturbated when I stood at my uncle's desk, this is how I masturbated for my husband, and this is what I did as I built to an orgasm that was certainly going to crush me.
It felt so delicious I knew it was going to be terrible.
I watched and rubbed for what had to be only five minutes or so when I felt that point come, the point of no return. My orgasm was starting to arrive, and with that dangerous finger, I beckoned it come hither.
As the pleasure began to emanate from my clitoris out to my pelvis, my stomach and thighs, the muscles tightened. My legs went straight as every muscle in them contracted, my toes pointing. My free hand grabbed the couch as I pitched forward, my abdominal muscles forcing me to do a half sit-up. When the orgasm hit my brain, I shut my eyes tight, opened my mouth wider than Edward Munch's pitiful subject in 'The Scream' and came. The orgasm coursed through me and time became non-existent. I could have orgasmed for ten seconds or ten minutes, I had no idea.
I might have stayed there forever, but a noise began to enter my head as I was trying to recover. It only took seconds for me to realize it was the sound of my youngest daughter, my beautiful 8-year-old Ashley, standing in the open passageway between the hallway and the den. She was looking right at me and starting to cry.
My heart sank. Guilt, shame, regret...
'Mommy, are you okay?' She sobbed. 'What's wrong? Why are you hurting yourself?'
I quickly sat up and closed my robe and called her to me. She started to me and then of all things, stopped a foot from me. I didn't let her stay there. I grabbed her and pulled her to me.
'I'm okay, honey, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay...nothings wrong...I'm not hurt...I'm okay...'
The words poured out of my mouth, but it became my enlightenment. My mantra.
I pushed her back and smiled as the tears flowed from my eyes. It must have confused her terribly, but I kept telling her. I'm ok, see my face, I'm not hurt, I'm fine.
Her tears eventually stopped and she looked at me and saw that I was indeed all regular like she was use to. I kept smiling and crying.
'I'm really okay honey, I wasn't hurting myself. I wasn't hurt at all.'
'What were you doing then? You looked like you were having trouble breathing or something.'
The rush of all my personal history hit me like a shotgun blast. I stopped.
And I thought.
And I said...
'No, honey, I was masturbating.'
'Masturbating?' Her eyes got wide.
'Yes, masturbating. It doesn't hurt, it feels very very good and there is nothing wrong with it. It is something grown-ups do to feel good sometimes. It is what we call part of our sexuality, and it is a gift from God, and it's very good. I really enjoy masturbating and I hope you will too some day.'
I was 38 then and have made it another five years. I have my two girls that are the loves of my life. And yes I masturbate regularly now.
I enjoy masturbating. I adore masturbating, and I look forward to doing it virtually every day. My girls know I masturbate because we have talked about it; not just that day not just with my beautiful Ashley, but with Amanda. They know its ok, that there is no shame in it and that it is a healthy part of our sexuality.
How do I know they know that?
I'll tell you.
It was a sunny spring afternoon and Amanda had just gotten home from one of her last days as a 9th grader. She still looked like a girl, yet she was clearly becoming a woman. Her blond hair was in a ponytail and her freckled face was irresistible when she smiled. She went to her room to change, she said, telling me as she passed me doing the laundry, 'I love you, mom.' I told her I loved her and gave thanks for a beautiful healthy daughter. I finished folding and took the basket up to her room. The door was slightly ajar, I figured from the cat pushing his way in. As I glanced in I saw the most beautiful sight. My 14-year old beauty lay on her bed with her jean skirt pulled up, her panties around her ankles, and her blouse unbuttoned, her bra over her beautiful little breasts. Her eyes were closed and the middle finger of her right hand moved in and out of her vagina. Her other hand tugged at a little nipple, pinching and pulling.
Please don't think me perverted, but I quietly put the laundry basket down and stood there watching as my daughter masturbated, enjoying the feelings her body was giving her. She knew what she was doing, and had done it many times before.
In a matter of only two or three minutes she pushed her pelvis up and she gasped. Her orgasm pushed through her.
I ducked behind the doorway and smiled.
About two months later after a day swimming at my friend's house, we made it home late, still in our bathing suits. Fed, sunned, and exhausted we stumbled into the house. I took a shower and collapsed on the bed.
I awoke with a start about midnight and heard the television on. I thought one of the girls had left it on when they had packed it in for the night. I sleepily went to go turn it off.
Looking up as I reached the end of the hall I stopped in my tracks. Ashley, my little Ashley, was still watching television. She lay on the couch engaged by something deliciously naughty on cable. Her bikini bottoms were around her ankle and her hand lay atop but a few sprouts of pubic hair, her fingers massaging the folds of her labia between her spread legs. On her face a look of intense bliss. I thought and realized, she was exactly the age I was my summer of discovery in my uncle's basement.