Last week, after we heard news that one of those local lit-chiks was shopping around a memoir, Thanks For Coming, about her lifelong failure to have an orgasm, we urged you all to come forward with your first self-made orgasm stories, in faint hopes it might put this young lady out of her misery and also, keep said misery from killing any more life-deserving trees. And boy did the tales, er, come. Much to our admiring disgust, the bulk of you been coming since before you could read, thanks to sometimes-serendipitous help from hot tub jets, "Squiggle Pens", and parents on the Renaissance Faire circuit. Still, some of you, like, er, some (or like one) of us, were late-blooming about this stuff. One of you figured it out, probably coincidentally, at the age you were legally allowed to become President, another of you endured a whole orgasm-free marriage. But one of story stood out, if only for being equal parts embarrassing and somehow universal — the stuff great memoirs are made of! — and that would be lapsed Protestant So5MinutesAgo's tale of being drunkenly, publicly shamed into it by friends on her 24th birthday, unabridged here.
I grew up in an extremely religious Lutheran household. So pervasive was religion in my family that my dad started a Christian music festival called Spirit in the Park when I was in middle school. I used to have to sit at a tent and make God's Eyes (a craft where you wind yarn around popsicle sticks) and listen to the bands from all the churches sing such classics as "Shine Jesus Shine" and "Open the Eyes of my Heart, Lord." Obviously, masturbation was not encouraged. I'd played with myself since elementary school, but hadn't really given it a true go since my grandma walked in on me when I was 7 or 8 and forced me to pull down my nightgown and go wash my hands. As I got into high school and college (and started listening to Loveline), I became aware of the sexcapades of my friends and their successful forays into O-land, but my feeble, uncomfortable attempts didn't yield anything more exciting than a massage-like feeling. I figured that, being a late developer (I didn't get my period until I was almost 15), I probably just wasn't capable of it yet, and I would come when I came. This view was solidified by a Lifespan Developmental Psych class I took where I learned that some women don't reach sexual maturity until age 30. I figured I must fit in to this unfortunate demographic.
Fast forward 5 years. I'd lost my religion and gained a small vibrator. One of my best friends had started to become concerned over my lack of getting off, and gave me a cheap bullet vibe encased in soap. I made my first true attempt in years, and finally thought I was getting somewhere. I was getting the rhythm down and starting to get really turned on when I hit a particularly strong patch of nerve (probably right over the clit) and hit the button on my cheap-ass sex machine. It went still and WOULD NOT TURN BACK ON. I hit it, shook it, pulled out and replaced the battery, but nothing would work. I didn't think that women could get blue balls, but after the agony of the rest of that night I can assure you they can. (After that kind of stimulation, my hand just wouldn't cut it.) I replaced the evil thing with a full-sized vibe, bought mostly because it was purple and sparkly and I was drunk, but was still afraid of another near-cum experience, and pretty much left it alone.
And so it continued until my 24th birthday party, when a drunken revelation thrust my O-less existence into the spotlight again. Since my 15 closest friends (everyone at the party) now knew about my sexual
inadequacies, and had spent the next half hour offering tips to help solve my problem, I figured I had to try and try again or be forced to wonder, every time I saw a friend or acquaintance, if they were laughing at my lack of self-love. So I pulled out Mr. Sparkle (he'd been no good to me thusfar, so a more creative name was out of the question), and spent an hour going back and forth, up and down until finally I felt a tingling stretching from my nether regions down my legs and had the first orgasm of my life. Surprisingly, this was followed by the first jizz excretion of my life. In my exhilarated state, I ran into my living room, grabbed my camera, came back and started snapping away. I called a friend and told her my story, and a few minutes later got a call back from another party attendee wanting to know all the sordid details. This was enough to assure me that the news would now spread to everyone who had been so concerned for my sexual well-being.
My excitement at now having a productive sex life was short-lived, however. My clitoris was angry at me for robbing it of years of pleasure, or maybe it was just a bit overexcited at all the new possibilities opening up to it. Either way, I'd hardly finished up when my cunt decided it was time to go again. And again, and again, and again. Fortunately, I was unemployed at the time, so I was able to let my clit call the shots. But after the sixth or seventh time in a day, I was getting a little sick of it. I was incredibly dry, for
one (lube hadn't entered my thinking yet), and I wasn't getting anything else done! I started doing everything I could, running, talking with friends, job searching... anything to distract my from my
newfound, crisis-level horniness. A week into this marathon of self-sex, after several packs of double As and several sleepless nights (my cunt had decided that it was more important than sleeping,
eating and most other needs), at 4:00 AM, I finally won the battle: I'd tired it out, it could come no more, and my clitoris admitted defeat. It was only then that I took the time to reflect on what had just happened. I made myself some coffee, watched the morning news shows, and basked in the glory of my now orgasm-full life.