There are two ways I masturbate. Either I plug in the Hitachi Magic Wand and take a supersonic jet to the moon. Or I go slow and use a manual trance-mission. The second way takes me to Mars, Venus, sometimes other solar systems.  

The difference between the two ways is gray matter: the brain, the sexiest part of the body.   

My own richly imagined fantasy life is what makes the difference between compulsive twitching and moaning versus a truly ecstatic, self-loving experience.

In my best days, I make it a ritual. Candles help. So does a beautiful story in my head, sparked by real-life interaction, but taken to a realm of imagination and crafted scene.   

Oh, and there’s the whole rest of my body. Not just the brain and the nerves between my legs — all the other erogenous zones too. I love ’em up when I’m on the mission to Mars. I get naked.  

I think about my sweetie, or if I’m between sweeties, a crush. I cook up a whole imaginary conversation, a dinner, a date. I get into what we’re wearing, the weather, everything. I have a romance novel in my head. Lots of back and forth. I kiss pillows. I mean, it’s a little silly. I kind of feel like a twelve year-old sometimes, but it’s fun. Nothing wrong with getting a kick start from some erotica writers or romance writers if that’ll jump-start your engine.

For me, the danger of this approach is I can get so caught up in the fantasy, I lose the point. And the point, despite the title of this article, is not actually getting off.

If the point was was just to have an orgasm, I’d always use my vibrator and never bother with this slower method.

Just coming doesn’t really satisfy.  It scratches an itch. It feels like I’m flossing almost. Like, damn, okay, self — you haven’t had sex in awhile; you oughtta have an orgasm. Or my body is achy and horny and twitchy and just wants to get off, so I yank that vibrator from beside my bed and comply, almost like I’m the servant to the master of my body. That never feels quite right. I’m not sure this is even self-love.

The point of masturbation for me is the “soul gift” to oneself, that is to say, creating a ritual of ecstatic solitude. If sex between two or more humans is a way of deepening a bond, sex between one person is strengthening the love we feel for ourselves.

How about a re-frame. When I am doing the mechanical method, I am taking care of my physical needs. When I am lingering and setting my brain ablaze and letting my body burn, I am giving myself a soul gift.   

More Radical Reads: What I Would Tell My Teenage Self About Sexuality

You know how people always talk about when they perceive someone as self-involved, they call their activities intellectual or artistic “masturbation”? Well so the fuck what? Why is masturbation an insult? It feels pretty good to me!

We are so afraid of intimacy in our culture, but what that paradoxically boils down to is that we are so afraid of solitude.  

We cannot love another until we love ourselves. I like to talk about this principle a lot in my other articles. I call it the “oxygen mask principle.” You know how on an airplane they say not to assist another until you assist yourself with that pesky oxygen mask? What if we thought of that pure air as love? If we are so busy trying to get that love to others, but ignore our own needs, we might pass out!

Masturbation is ecstatic solitude. It is showing ourselves that it’s more than okay to feel good alone, that in fact, it’s a really fucking good idea.

But there’s another shadow of a doubt in here that chills me many times when I am sexual, whether alone or with others.

I am a sexual abuse survivor. Is the ache, the twitch, the horniness I feel rising to the surface sometimes just a residue of that trauma? When I scratch the itch, am I picking a scab, or cutting into scar tissue?

Whether it’s sex with another, or with myself, I’ve had to learn to accept the shadow. It’s going to wind its way into me. I can either fight it or ride it out. I can integrate.

Last summer, I started exploring kink and BDSM with more seriousness. Although what I love about BDSM and kink at their best is that they can be deliciously irreverent. But I got a little burned. I went too far and went there with someone I didn’t really trust. So this stuff isn’t easy.  

It took me a while to get my mojo back after that, but I did, and then I ended up engaging as a top in a scene with a new partner, where I’d previously been an exclusive bottom with the previous partner. Kink yields a lovely alchemy.

So it may be time to go back to the laboratory of solo sex before I’m ready to engage with another human in this kind of play for awhile. But the experience certainly expanded my repertoire of fantasy, and it gave me the satisfaction that fantasies can in fact be realized.

And fantasy between lovers with masturbation is not only fun, it’s instructive.  It moved me from point a to point b.   From one planetary body to another.  Which is not to say I’ll never be a bottom again.  On the contrary, my fantasy life is not telling me that.

But fantasy is funny.  It reflects the psyche of the moment, but can’t predict the future.  I have no idea what my next relationship will be like.

More Radical Reads: Almost 26 and Never Had Sex: The Importance of Radical Self-Love for Older Virgins

The goal of imaginative, ecstatic solitude masturbation is to get me to a place where I know how to get my own body to feel good, not only so I can tell a partner how I want it, but more importantly because I deserve to give that joy to myself.

My relationship with myself is growing and evolving in all aspects of my life, and the ecstatic solitude of masturbation makes sure that relationship–the most important one of all–thrives.

(Feature Image: Photo of a person laying on a bed on their stomach. They have long dark hair that hides their face. They appear to be naked except for a light grey scarf that covers their lower back and butt. Their feet are in the air.  Source: Yellow Girl)