Masturbation. Or, why you shouldn't delegate a job you can't already do yourself.

By ROSIE WATERLAND

I recently had a chat with a 25-year-old friend who admitted to me she’s never had an orgasm. After I picked my chin up off the floor, we tried to assess what the deal was. Partners? Not terrible. Confidence? Pretty good. Vocal about her needs? Yep. Hmmm.

“So, you haven’t even given yourself one?” I asked.

She recoiled. “Ewww! No!”

Bingo.

How can you expect to delegate that part of the business if you aren’t already a successful manager? I guaranteed her that if she learns how to take care of that situation herself, she’ll have no problems explaining to someone else exactly what works for her. Boom. Done.

But just the idea of it made her squirm. It’s something only guys do!

Ugh. Who says? Once again, I need to give brilliant advice through the use of an embarrassing story from my past. Hopefully being so open will encourage my friend to stop being so… closed. It’s ridiculous how selfless I am.

Once, when I was younger, my mum busted me touching my special place. And when I say young, I’m talking like, fourth grade. Don’t ask me how or when I figured out how to do it; I don’t remember.  All I knew was, if I worked hard enough, I could make something ‘special’ happen down there. So it became known as my special place.

However, given I shared a room with my sister, it was often hard to find a private moment to get things underway. It took careful scheduling and a very particular set of working conditions before I was able to pencil in an appointment with my wee wee.

It couldn’t be at night, because my sister slept on the bottom bunk (not that I didn’t try it once, but after she repeatedly asked me why I was breathing so loud I got spooked); it had to be in my bed, because the only successful way I could make it happen was face-planted on my mattress; and, I needed about half an hour (it was hit and miss, but generally if I worked hard enough for that amount of time I could get positive results).

So, all that considered, the only possible opportunity for some ‘me’ time was after school, in my room, when I was watching Rugrats.

My sister was three years older than me, so this was one of the few shows we didn’t agree on. She watched Degrassi Junior High in the living room, and I ‘watched Rugrats’ in the bedroom. With the door closed. In my bed. Under the covers.

Never mind my head faced in the opposite direction of the television and sometimes I was in such a rush to get things started I forgot to turn it on completely (hey, this ends with me getting caught – obviously it wasn’t the perfect plan). I’d then leave the bedroom, sufficiently flushed, and join my sister in the living room for Trap Door and Clarissa Explains It All.

The perfect crime. Or so I thought.

One afternoon, I skipped into the bedroom for my daily appointment. I closed the door, switched on the TV and swung up onto the top bunk with anticipation. Lying on my stomach? Check. Covers all the way up to my head? Check. Is the coast clear? Ch – wait a second, I was already off and running. Bless my eager little heart.

I’d been going at it for about ten minutes, and it was a particularly tough appointment that day, so I was panting and I was sweaty (the mattress also had a pretty aggressive bounce happening).

In my frustration, I decided to change positions. I had to shift my head so that it would be facing the door instead of the wall. Yep, that would do it. I didn’t want to lose what traction I had though, so I did a kind of awkward swing around without using my arms. It took about three almost-flips (you try lifting and turning your whole upper body when your arms are obviously busy with another project), but I managed it on the final swing, all without losing my rhythm. And it was just as my face was about to land back down on the bed, my body heaving around like a mental person in a straight jacket, that my eyes locked with my mum and sister, both standing in the doorway, mouths agape.

The mattress slowly came to a halt.

I froze. Like an animal that knows it can’t outrun the lion but if it just… keeps… still… The sound of Rugrats combined with my slowly diminishing panting was all that filled the room. My mother gave me one final, pitiful look and began to drag my sister away, closing the door behind her. (“But Muuuuum, what’s wrong with her? What is she DOING?”)

I’m not even kidding when I say this: I then proceeded to finish what I started. I was mortified, obviously, but it certainly wasn’t worth not getting the special feeling. Nothing was worth that.

When I came out of my room twenty minutes later, it was business as usual. My mum must have had words with my sister, because to my amazement, she kept her mouth shut. She couldn’t look me in the eye, but she kept her mouth shut.

Personally, I think my mum handled the situation with aplomb. She never said one word to me about it, but made sure I had the room to myself from 4-4:30 from that point on.

In fact, aside from warning me to always wipe from front to back and to scrub it properly in the shower, she pretty much left me to own devices when it came to my special place. Which I think is the way it should be. She didn’t make me feel ashamed and didn’t embarrass me with a talk about my ‘body’; she just let me figure things out for myself, in a healthy, private way. Which I did, thank you very much. I didn’t actually watch one episode of Rugrats that year, but I certainly took care of business.

And guess what? I grew up to be a great delegator. I may have stacks more experience than my friend, but she’ll catch up, believe me. So start managing your business, sister – it’s never too late to be your own boss.

Rosie Waterland is a writer based in Sydney. She finds her own jokes particularly hilarious. Follow her blog here or twitter here.

Have you ever been caught in an, ahem, compromising position? How would you react if you caught your daughter having some ‘me’ time? Do you think there is still a stigma attached to female masturbation?

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