Nairaland Forum Welcome, Guest: Wednesday, 07 November at After nearly 20 years of marriage, I have no reservations about owning what I want and how I want it in the bedroom, and doing it on my own when necessary.
But owning this fact about myself was no easy feat. My husband and I met when we were 16 and married two years later — so in the early days of our marriage, when we were both young and uninitiated in the ways of good sex, I masturbated in secret.
It wasn't that our missionary-romance was bad; it just wasn't enough to get me there. I didn't want to hurt my husband's pride by telling him I never came during our sex sessions, and previous attempts to show him how to touch me left me with a bruised clitoris and him with a bruised ego, so I kept a lid on Any women masturbate for there husband sexual frustration. As soon as my husband would jump out of bed to clean himself in the bathroom, I would quickly and silently bring myself to orgasm.
A year into my covert masturbation operation, my husband surprised me by walking out of the bathroom too early, catching me pleasuring myself. On the brink of an orgasm, I tried to cover my tracks, but he knew. Through stilted breaths, I salvaged the moment by claiming I was simply still in the mood. He seemed puzzled but accepted my explanation. That Christmas, he gave me my first Love Machine.
I accepted his gift with elation and the understanding that sexual satisfaction was my own responsibility. Although we never spoke of it, I was convinced my husband knew I was unfulfilled. When I reached for the intimacy gadget as soon as he climaxed, he didn't protest. Instead, he tenderly kissed my breasts and allowed me to finish myself off, establishing what would become our sexual norm.
But our sex lives were on a loop, the same moves getting replayed over and over — and in autumn of the fifth year of our marriage, my husband and I separated. By then, we'd had two children in quick succession, and spent the majority of our time either fighting or too exhausted to touch one another.
Sensing our demise was near, I foolishly reached for religion in the hopes it would fix us.
It was kismet, then, when two Mormon missionaries knocked on our door with a message of salvation and eternal family bliss. I gave everything I had to my spiritual conversion. Determined to follow a path that promised a happily ever after for my marriage, I threw my beloved Love Machine in the garbage the day of my baptism.
Casting orgasms and Satan aside, I waited for God to make my relationship feel like heaven on earth. Not surprisingly, that moment never arrived. A few months later, we filed for legal separation and I moved a state away with the kids for a fresh start.
In my new apartment, I flipped God the middle finger by masturbating my heart out once the kids were asleep. Those orgasms were some of the best I'd ever had. I formally ended my relationship with religion not long after, preferring the sweet release of sexual fulfillment, even if it meant eternal damnation.