Valentine’s day approaches and I am still on a romance reading strike. So instead of a review……
One of my favorite ways to celebrate Valentine’s Day was introduced to me while I was an undergrad. The faculty adviser of the student feminist organization (in which I was heavily involved) was a sexpert–not sure she would appreciate the label, but it fits. She studied sex and wrote about it for her career. I am still so jealous.
Every year she would give a masturbation seminar on or around Valentine’s Day. It was our most packed meeting of the year.
Valentine’s Day is becoming a day to love one’s self, and self-care is a burgeoning industry. One key component of taking care of one’s self, that seems to be largely missing from this self-care/love revolution is sex. Good, healthy, safe, satisfying sex. That can be hard to come by when you rely on other people. Viola: masturbation.
I have not read too many romance novels where masturbation is described. Maybe that’s due to what I choose to read, or maybe the genre in generally is lacking. Here are my two suggestions for masturbation in romance (both written by the lovely Tessa Dare):
In Surrender of a Siren, the heroine is talked through what appears to be her first orgasm by the hero. He basically instructs her on how to masturbate. It is titillating. My problem with the scene is the aftermath when the heroine starts crying and the hero has to convince her masturbation is not something to be ashamed of. There is enough shame around female masturbation as it is–for me, it would be nice if it was left out of the fictional accounts.
In When a Scot Ties the Knot, there is a scene of mutual masturbation. They watch each other bring themselves to orgasm. Yes, it is as friggin’ hot as it seems. Also, it’s written from the heroine’s perspective, so it doesn’t come off all creepy male-gaze-esque.
And then, in my never-really-published-romance novel, I wrote a masturbation scene. I’ll just leave that below:
You should try it. Masturbation. It evolves. It has always reflected the general vibe of my life in that moment. Whether I’m single, or not. Feeling adventurous, or conservative, or anxious, or sexy, or not. In that time of my life, I had a particular form of masturbation, a method, if you will. It was my favorite; it still is a favorite.
I’d bath or shower, it didn’t matter which one. If, during the bath, a certain mood struck, if I brushed a certain nerve, or a saw a certain image flash across my mind’s eye, I’d rush through the rest of the obligatory cleansing, and let the dirty water run down the drain.
Once the tub was clear, I’d plug the drain and set the faucet at a steady, tepid flow, checking the temperature and pressure with the inside of my knee, not wanting the water hot enough to cause my sensitive skin to flinch. When it was right, I’d lay back, letting the cool, creamy tub, cradle my flushed skin. I’d sink lower, until I was on my back, waiting to feel the timid warmth of the flowing water down my thighs.
At the thrill of that intimate caress, I’d press the soles of my feet against the wall that held the faucet. Sliding my feet down the wall, I’d bend my knees and spread my legs, drawing the water closer and creating the outline of a butterfly on the enclosed walls of the tub. Exposed, I let the water explore me. It penetrated the creases of my hips, rolling down the curve of my belly, diverting its direct flow to slither under each of my breasts.
Licking my fingers, I explored with the water, complementing its tracing of the lines of my body. I traced wet circles around my nipples until they prickled with the sensation, pinching the tip to watch the pink blush bloom. I’d roll one breast into the now filling tub to feel the sharp contrast of water and air.
My fingers slid down my stomach to part my folds of skin to the rush of the water. I’d arch to meet the water at its source and take in the constant pressure, then roll back into the pool of water to relish the gentle current pulling at my skin. I arched and rolled, feeling the lapping water like sucking kisses up and down my body.
Knowing myself, I pushed to my limit, almost succumbing to throbbing pleasure, but tucking away at the almost-peak to rock in the self-made waves. The outline of the butterfly fluttered against the walls as my legs quivered under the demanding stream and my teasing, tickling fingers.
I could feel my orgasm coming, but it always surprised me. I thought I could push it off a moment longer, relish in the tilt of the climax before tipping over. But then it came upon me, stealing my breath, clenching my core, carrying me off downstream. As I thrashed in the tub, reminding my thread of consciousness of an exotic fish caught in a net, I saw waterfalls with me in their midst.
Because wasn’t a kiss part of the start of loving? In truth? Honestly now? Wasn’t a kiss the tug of a string, a ribbon, a dance, a thread turned and interlocked that began with the lips and ended with his thing inside you? ~Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros
