ten years in hotel masturbation, a retrospective

My friends and I used to discuss whether we had ever masturbated ‘til we bled. There is that annoying sore thing, which is so self-perpetuating. Girls get sore so easily and once you are sore, you can feel your vagina all the time and just want to keep touching. That frustration-gratification thing like touching a bruise or picking a scab. Besides lack of self-control and overwhelming horniness, in retrospect, my soreness and forthcoming blood was partially caused by lack of appropriate equipment.

 

Let’s talk about family vacations, baby!

 

The first time I ever designated a room my “masturbatorium” (yeah, Augusten Burroughs totally stole my term) was in 1998 in Venezuela. Eighth grade Christmas vacation. Four star hotel. In a “third world” country. What a shithole. We complained about our room, as per Jew protocol, and got promoted to an equally shitty but larger suite with two rooms! This meant I could stay up all night and masturbate. The bathroom was in between the rooms. On previous family vacations, my dad stayed up all night and “read the newspaper” on the toilet. How gross. Way classier, I dragged a chair into the bathroom and masturbated in style! Conquered: the bathroom and my extremely passive dad who relinquished the bathroom to me without a fight. They forced me to go on vacation with them. Oh, the injustice!

 

What all of you have been waiting for: In 8th grade I got off to Judy Blume novels. No, seriously. In 1998 in Venezuela, I stayed up all night and got off to the steamy HJ scene in “Forever.” For giggles, let me relay a select portion of this scene to you. Please, keep your pants on. In case you don’t get it, Michael’s penis is named “Ralph,” a rather unattractive name for something that ejects semen.

 

“When I kissed his face it was all sweaty and his eyes were half-closed. He took my hand and led it back to Ralph, showing me how to hold him, moving my hand up and down according to his rhythm. Soon Michael moaned and I felt him come—a pulsating feeling, a throbbing, like the books said—then wetness. Some of it got on my hand but I didn’t let go of Ralph.” –Judy Blume, Forever

 

And I blame Judy Blume for my obsession with cum.

 

Once upon a time one of my friends handed Judy Blume a heartfelt note, saying she changed her life, at a book reading in NYC. I think this is at least as embarrassing as getting off to Judy Blume novels. Either way, the novels are supposed to be coming-of-age.

 

Let’s fast-forward eight years to Christmas vacation 2006 in The Bahamas, also a shithole. I spent much of the week making up excuses to go back to the room alone so I could masturbate in peace. This was fairly easy as I could say I could say I was changing out of my wet bathing suit. I did throw my wet bathing suit on the bathroom floor before getting off onto their white towels and rinsing my period blood out in their shower.

 

One and a half years later, Summer vacation 2008 in Mexico City, I spent the entire vacation making up excuses to return to the room. This proved more difficult in an urban environment. One morning I was like, fuck this, and decided to stay in that day so I could masturbate all morning! I got off to Tomb Raider. Obviously I’ve matured since my days of Judy Blume. After three orgasms, I pulled my hairbrush out of me and blood on the towel! I thought, thank god for the towel, my brother and I are alternating beds. I pondered, am I getting my period? Then the reality set in. I hadn’t masturbated ‘til I bled in, like, five years. I wasn’t even especially sore. But I reviewed the week and thought of all the trouble I had had. First of all, you are so rushed when you are sharing a bathroom. We started out the week all in the same room, until I threw a temper tantrum because my dad snores and I am a light sleeper and what could be grosser than sharing a room with my dad, and we only had one bathroom. I was constantly getting yelled at to relinquish the bathroom and felt like a sixteen-year-old begging for “five more minutes” before bedtime, while masturbating furiously. Most of all, there is the lack of proper or familiar equipment. The bathroom I shared with my family had a detachable showerhead, but the pressure was a little off. The worst is when you can’t adjust pressure and temperature separately. I think in this instance you could, but there was never enough pressure. Less of a big deal than too hard in which case your clit hides under the hood in fear and you can’t feel anything. But I think I was fucking my hairbrush extra hard to compensate. Or something. In any event, I realized that if I am going to go on extremely stressful family vacations, which necessitate compulsive masturbation to get by, I might as well stay in NYC—sans stress—where the compulsive masturbation has the potential to be better.

 

Okay, so here is the ultimate in terms of masturbatory convenience besides hairbrushes: travel-sized shampoo. You travel with it anyway and in haste, when you don’t have a drawer full of toys to assist you, it is the perfect implement. Granted, it is a little hard to keep something so small from flying out of you because there is no handle to hold it by (hairbrushes are clearly incomparable). But if you kind of move it around inside you and hold it in you with your foot, you can still coordinate spraying yourself with a detachable showerhead. And, of course, keeping it inside you is not a big deal if you are just using your hand on your clit and, therefore, have a free hand. Although, once in a shower with a detachable showerhead, it would seem wasteful not to use it. Who am I to squander?

 

My pick is Aveeno lotion. Pantene conditioner used to be the best—and that fact that conditioner makes great lube only maximized its value—but now it comes with some bullshit key chain hole on the previously-fuckable end. Who attaches conditioner to their key chain? This also would not have gotten past a panel of 12-year-old product reviewers. Although, I didn’t purchase travel-sized toiletries in terms of value as masturbatory accessories. Such elaborate deliberations were only necessitated for permanent additions to the collection. Family vacations, thankfully, are rather impermanent.

 

Now that I am old enough to buy products that are deliberately screwable—that are MADE for screwing (oh, what a delightful concept!)—I no longer have to purchase items according to screwability. Oh, how I have grown since the days of crusty highlighters. 

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