Over the years, I honed my method and progressed from dilettante to true craftsman; but with age came the growing pains of knowledge. From various pornographic sources, I soon learned that my acceptance of Mistress Bation had come too soon. I was doing it all wrong. According to those sources, I should be lying on my back, tanned legs akimbo, shaved girl-pearl perfectly displayed, all while daintily gyrating two manicured fingertips. I suddenly realized that my version, which more closely resembled a dog retching on a piece of road kill, was simply not sexy. Once again, the Mistress and I went into hiding.
Strangely, it seemed like the nineties was a time period when guys wanted to watch. Every time, I had to fake…and I was a girl who didn’t fake, so dishonesty was heaped upon the shame. There I sat, my two fingers rubbing delicately, peeking through my half-closed eyelids and hoping that my performance was convincing enough that he would just hurry up and mount. Imagine his confusion when I demanded a little extra in the sex that followed. The fact was, I got nothing out of touching myself with the ole finger puppets. And I tried. Believe me, I tried.
I spent the next year questing after the perfect masturbatory technique. Whatever it took, I was going to be porn sexy. One friend advised me to “get in touch with myself.” Somehow, this involved staring at my naked, unshaven pussy with a mirror, ad naseum. I think the key root word here is nausea. I didn’t feel in touch with myself. I felt like I was being introduced to a drunken Sharpei who had some whisker issues.
Then I met my good friend Susan, and she changed my life. For the first time, I talked with a woman about Mistress Bation. And here’s where it gets interesting. Susan didn’t daintily swirl two fingers either—she humped pillows. Once I got going, I couldn’t stop asking my closest friends about their process. I was shocked to realize that only one woman utilized the porn technique. A particularly enthusiastic friend explained her method in gestures. I watched with some alarm as she went through the motions, using the palm of her hand with the pressure and energy that one would usually reserve for an orbital sander. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so ugly or gross, and it was time to face the facts: I was a couch humper.
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