Solo Pleasure with M
I am very lucky to have crafted a life centering my sexuality as a core force. Perhaps I was always destined for it.
I grew up as the kid of immigrants, but strangely to a pair of sex-positive, hippie parents. My father kept his Playboys stacked on the back of every toilet in our house, perhaps fueling a lifetime of embracing my sexuality.
Now in my early 30s, I have since landed in Brooklyn, where I am a creative and writer. To no one’s (and yet, everyone’s) surprise, I am also a long-term lifestyle dominatrix of over 8 years. Kink remains a big part of my life – both in and out of the bedroom.
I am not special at all in Bushwick, in the sense that I am a bisexual switch. I have a weakness for high femmes (to be submissive to) and thick-thighed himbos (to dominate). I also love (good) vanilla, contrary to popular belief. The kind that doesn’t feel like avoidance or distraction, the kind that feels like your whole world stops, the kind that shoots you right back into your body.
Regardless of where it falls on the power spectrum, I mostly just crave connection and intensity in my intimacy.
My sexual awakening came at around 11 or 12 years old. We had just watched 1994’s The Mask, and I remember furiously lusting after Cameron Diaz in the red dress, sauntering through the bank. I did not understand then what feelings were occurring, but I chased them through clandestine dial-up Internet searches and cheeky all-girls sleepovers in middle school where we gathered in the dark around computers, giggling while searching “sex” on the world wide web.
As I stumbled through puberty, I began to develop a more clear relationship with my fledgling femme body. I now sit at an E cup, but was already a hefty C by the time I was 13. I grew fascinated by the way these fleshy handfuls warped the interactions I had—the ways the boys in my class tittered nervously about my breasts, and simultaneously the way my school teachers rushed to cover them up for “decency.”
Thus began a relationship with my body that felt, at times, curious and proud and at others, like a weapon for me to use to get what I wanted.
By my early 20s, that relationship to my body morphed into a larger desire to understand my erotic life force. The feverish masturbation of my early teenage years evolved alongside my exploration of BDSM – I started to see it as something that could be a compass to my desires, rooted in intentionality.
I have long noticed how many of us engage with our sexuality during masturbation. The horniness grows and grows, until it’s nearly barking at us. We take it out, in the darkness of our private spaces – and, blinded by the desire, we furiously and mindlessly indulge in it.
We cum quickly, and then we crash – shamefully X’ing out of all the tabs (whether onscreen or in our brains). Now sated, we stuff that sexuality back into the box and shove it under our bed, waiting for it to inevitably bark at us again.
I saw myself going down that path and by my late 20s, committed to trying to be as thoughtful as possible with my masturbation.
In practice, that meant:
listening to my body’s sex drive and asking, “why now?” Am I stressed / trying to escape? Why am I horny? Is there something here for me to examine?
not being judgmental about what desires, kinks, or fetishes drove my fantasies
committing to using my own hands as much as possible
While I adore (and advocate for!) sex toys during BDSM play, I personally don’t use any for solo masturbation. This is for two reasons: 1) I am super, duper sensitive! and 2) I don’t want to train my body into only getting off one way – one cadence, one pace, one grip, one pressure, etc. (If I ever do use a toy, it is a small pink vibrator I was gifted by an Irish friend. I use her on the lowest setting possible.)
A typical session of masturbation for me volleys between sacred and sick (not derogatory):
I hear the low rumble in my bones that asks me to play. I lie down, usually on my bed and couch, and just relax for a minute, let my mind and my body sync up. If I thirst for some visual inspiration, I grab my laptop and rest it on top of a pillow laid on my belly.
I usually avoid the mega-polished, studio-produced porn – there is a slick of performance that doesn’t do it for me. Most of the content I desire when I masturbate usually has an element of power exchange, so I usually opt for more “niche” genres. On Twitter, I scroll short-form videos of amateur creators I adore – recently, I am so turned on by watching gay men expertly edge restrained hunks until they are drooling, yelping, begging. (As a Mommy domme, what I most crave is being deeply, desperately desired – so much so that it unmakes them. Think: a dog chained on a short leash, frantically yanking itself towards you.)
I also may pop over to Reddit or BDSMLR (essentially a Tumblr for BDSM), and scroll through curated feeds of my kinkier fantasies – usually GIF sets or images involving bondage / restraints, light impact, sensory deprivation, orgasm control / edging. I don’t need to blast my eyes with multiple videos, to be honest – it is the desperation and intensity that I’m seeking.
By now, I am touching myself – very light grazes with just my middle finger, up and down. The pressure is light, yet constant. I am never in a rush to get anywhere. People laugh at gooners, thinking they are engaging in overly indulgent avoidance. I see its possibility as radical presence and embodiment.
I take my time, relishing in my sensitivity. I may keep scrolling, or just set the laptop aside and let my mind run free. My nipples get very hard, so I may lightly run my fingers over them for a sharper pleasure. I try not to speed to my destination though.
Once I feel lush and loose, sunken into my linen sheets, I slide my hand a little further down, to lightly dip my pointer and middle finger into myself. I am always met with a slick wetness that coats my fingers and nails. This is the signal that we’re nearing the end, that acceleration of your heart as you climb the largest peak on the roller coaster. When I feel that wetness, I know it will be mere minutes before I climax.
I slide my wet fingers back up to my very sensitive clit. I very rarely touch it directly – all it takes is a couple light circles around it and I am rocketing off to the moon.
My orgasms are INTENSE. They shake my whole body, my legs get ramrod straight, my eyes fly into the back of my head. And most importantly, I roar.
There is nothing quaint or cute about this noise. It feels like it comes from my bones, guttural and harsh. I let myself touch this soft and feral place.
Perhaps it comes from a lifetime of being told how I am supposed to look, act, and sound as a woman of colour, from a lifetime of trying to contort myself into boxes for palatability’s sake.
Now they can choke on my roar, both sacred and sick.
