Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish
Page 22
“I just had it reupholstered!” she yelled. I ran, trembling, for a towel.
We scrubbed and scrubbed, but there was nothing we could do to get rid of the white splotch in the center of the seat cushion. The Jolen’s had only touched the material for a mere instant, but it was too late. We couldn’t take our eyes off the stain.
I felt horribly guilty, but then something else hit me. The white patch on the dark blue seat cushion glared at me. “If that’s what it did to a chair, just imagine…” Our arms began to sting unbearably all over again, if only in our imaginations, and we pledged, right then and there, never to bleach our arms again.
Masturbating Class: A Hands-on Experience
By Alix Strauss
I’M GOING TO BE HONEST WITH YOU. I’m a terrible masturbater. I’ve tried. Late at night in bed or in the shower. Nothing.
I was frustrated (who wouldn’t be) and tired of hearing from friends that I was missing out. So in 2001 when Self magazine said they’d pay for me to go to masturbating school to write an article about the experience, I threw a ready hand in the air and jumped at the offer.
I grew up in Manhattan on the Upper East Side. Born to overly traditional, we-don’t-talk-about-that, neurotic Jews, I never received any sex information from my parents, who as far as I can tell, had sex only once, and even that’s debatable.
I did my homework and found that sex therapist and masturbating guru Betty Dodson Ph.D., was the “it” person to see.
Over the phone, Betty, who has more than 30 years experience teaching women the how-tos of “self-pleasure,” tells me that a private session runs about three hours and costs $900, though some people, she adds, need a little more time. We’re talking about a four-inch area, how much extra time could I need?
When I arrive for my “lesson,” a stocky woman with cropped gray hair who fashions matching black spandex T-shirt and shorts, greets me at the door. Please tell me this isn’t Betty—that it’s some wayward student or dressed-down butler. Sadly, it’s Betty. Great. I have enough trouble masturbating alone. Doing it in front of a woman older than my mother is jarring. Still, I compose myself and follow her into the living room—which is all gray—gray carpeting, furniture, walls. She points to a pair of gray chairs and gets right to the point.
“What do you hope to accomplish today?” she asks, as we both take a seat.
“I’d like to learn how to have an orgasm on my own, not just with a guy,” I reply, feeling oddly calm.
For the next 20 minutes, we talk about my past relationships. All my life I’ve been the good girl. I pay my taxes on time, can hold down a job and have never needed an AIDS test. For me, self-pleasure is a white sale at Bloomingdale’s.
“If you can’t please yourself how can you expect someone else to do it for you?”
She has a point.
With that, she tells me to shed my clothing and asks if I want a T-shirt, which I gladly accept. The only other person I’ve stripped down naked in front of was a natural healer—another article, don’t ask—who insisted that for $400 she could channel Jesus.
We move from the chairs to an area by her window. Set up on the floor is a purple towel, goose-neck lamp and round mirror.
Betty sits beside me, hands me the mirror and asks me to spread my legs. We stare at the reflection in silence until she announces that I should masturbate at least once a week to tap into my sexual energy. Once a week? I can barely make it to the gym that often. Then she hands me a mint.
“We’ll be sitting close to each other,” she says.
For a second I have no idea where she wants me to put the mint. Technically there are two places it could go. When she pops the candy into her mouth I do the same as relief fills me.
Next it’s look-see time. “You should name your vagina and make her your friend,” Betty informs me. “She wants you to visit on a regular basis. How about ‘little Alix’?”
How about not? I counter with “Julia?” I have no idea where this name comes from. I don’t know any Julias or even anyone who knows anyone named Julia, but Betty nods in approval, pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and like a session with my gyno, she explains all of my formerly private parts.
“Since you’ve only been with a handful of men, your vaginal muscles aren’t stretched.” Terrific. “Here’s your vagina, your urethra and your clitoris,” she says as I follow along in the mirror. “You’ve got a lovely clit,” she adds, touching me. “See?”
Yes, I see. How can I not see. You’re touching my woo-woo! This is more than I bargained for.
Next, Betty takes out a bottle of Charlie Sunshine massage oil, applies it to my hands and watches me touch Julia. As instructed, I start off with small round circles, then add in some stroking. When I feel nothing, she takes over. $2.50 a word, I remind myself. I’m getting $2.50 a word. I can do this. My neck muscles tighten, my jaw clenches. I want to go home.
Betty hardly seems to notice my discomfort, and moves on to the next exercise. It’s time to try the “vaginal barbell,” a metal bar about six inches long with a knob on either end. Once I learn this is going in me, I ask if it’s been sterilized. Generally, I have trouble inserting a supertampon, but with the amount of oil I’ve got slathered on, I could probably fit a small Chihuahua inside. I’m amazed at how far in the contraption goes. I insert and remove it a few times. I have no idea how this is going to help me have an orgasm, but Betty seems impressed.
“For someone who hasn’t masturbated often,” she says with a wink, “you seem to know what you’re doing.”
What can I say, I’ve good motor skills.
Once I’ve mastered the barbell move, we move to another area—the middle of the floor, where a large gray towel has been placed over an even larger zebra throw rug. Several pillows are in a pile.
“Sex,” Betty shares, “is dancing lying down.”
Oh, let me put that on a T-shirt.
As I get comfortable, as if that’s really possible, the battery-operated appliances make an appearance. I’ve not used them before and I’m hoping this will give me the orgasm I’ve been trying to have on my own.
I start small, choosing the Water Dancer, a vibrator about the size of a roll of quarters. Betty slips a condom over the device, turns it on and instructs me to run it over my clitoris. So far, this part feels the nicest, like a light tickling sensation. As if reading my mind, Betty tells me that the clitoris has more than 8,000 nerve endings, adding that I’ll get better results if I throw in some pelvic movements and a few moans.
“I’m not big on talking,” I say. Apparently, making any kind of sound during sexual activity reinforces the message to the body (and brain) that you’re doing something pleasurable. Before I can really get going, she adds more direction.
“Now rub your nipple and breast.”
I return to my money mantra, $2.50 a word, $2.50 a word… and force myself to mutter a few half hearted yeses, skip touching my breast and yet somehow still feel like I’m performing a porn movie. There are too many directions to follow and everything feels fake and too constructed. Whatever happened to just enjoying the moment?
“Any kind of sound you can make that lets your body know this is pleasurable is important feedback. Most women masturbate silently, when in reality they should be letting out sounds so their body can learn that this feels good.” Betty calls this positive self-loving affirmation.
I try to breathe as a third component is added, the ball bearing. Betty oils it down again, stating that vaginal penetration on a regular basis promotes vaginal lubrication. “No man wants to put a dick into a dry pussy,” she says.
We add more oil.
She instructs me to move the vibrator with my left hand while inserting the barbell with my right. As I start to get the hang of circling and the slow in-outs, I have a revelation: I’m having sex with myself. A numbing tingling starts in my fingers even though it feels as if it’s happening somewhere else deep inside me. At 4:47 I have my first mini-orgasm.
The final part of the lesson happens when Betty hands me the magic wand, the Big Daddy of vibrators, which looks like a large microphone. It’s really just a large massager, like the kind you’d use to relax tense neck or back muscles—I know this because it says so on the box, which makes me feel better when I see real people using it for something other than what I’m using it for.
As instructed, and with Betty sitting in front of me like some sort of birthing coach, I move the vibrator back and forth. At this point, all bets are off. I feel drugged and disoriented. What was in that mint? I can’t believe I’m doing this, and in front of a total stranger. $2.50 a word. $2.50 a word. With no other choice, I decide to just pretend I’m home, by myself. Within minutes the tingling starts in my hands, my hips are moving and I’m sailing into the great unknown. As sexual tension mounts, Betty’s voice fades and I go deeper into myself. My breathing quickens, my heart speeds up and a little shudder rushes through my body. The tingling increases and I notice that my right hand is gripping the blanket and my body is moving in tiny convulsions. I feel euphoric, like I’ve had several small, pleasurable seizures. Then it feels like one large one is happening—in my head, in my chest, in my insides, certainly in my vaginal area, and then something warm and wet comes out of me, causing me to stop.
“The female ejaculation,” Betty shouts, sounding as if I’ve won something. “Men love it when you come on them.”
“How come my feet are cold?” I ask.
Betty attributes this to poor circulation from anxiety or fear. Fear? What could I have to be fearful about? That I’m masturbating in front of a total stranger? And when did this become therapy 101? Perhaps I should be masturbating on her couch.
“And you have pleasure anxiety. Everyone does. When you start to get close to sexual pleasure or feelings it makes you anxious.”
I look at the clock: 5:50 p.m. Betty stands and motions me back to the chairs.
“You went to war with your sexual repression,” she says as I get dressed.
“Did I win?”
She nods yes. “Sex doesn’t come naturally. It’s an art form. You have to learn the technique, then you have to practice. You have the rest of your life to perfect what you’ve learned today.”
On my way out the door, Betty hands me the magic wand, a party favor, then hugs me. “You did very well.”
I leave Betty’s a changed woman and a new member of a not-so-exclusive club. And as I wait for the elevator, I think: A visit with Betty, $900. Vibrator, $65. Batteries, $2.50. Orgasming on your own… priceless.
Contributors
REBECCA ADDELMAN is a Canadian writer and comedian living legally in the United States. She has written for magazines (The Walrus, Maclean’s, Bust, TORO), television (CBC, Much Music, the Comedy Network) and the stage. Rebecca can be seen as the host of the monthly stand-up and variety show The Hour of Power in Hollywood. Check her out at www.raddelman.com.
MIKE ALBO is a writer and performer who lives and loves in Brooklyn. His first novel, Hornito, came out in 2000 from HarperCollins. He collaborated with his longtime friend Virginia Heffernan for his next novel, The Underminer: The Best Friend Who Casually Destroys Your Life, which was published in 2005 by Bloomsbury. He’s performed numerous solo shows including Spray, Please Everything Burst, and My Price Point, also cowritten with Ms. Heffernan. Check out www.mikealbo.com for upcoming shows, his spaced-out blog, performance clips and recent writing.
STEVE ALMOND is a novelist whose book, Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America—described as “half candy porn, half candy polemic”—was published by Algonquin. His quite filthy story collection, My Life in Heavy Metal, is out in paperback. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts, and teaches creative writing at Boston College. To find out more about his various perversions, check out www.stevenalmond.com.
JACOB AUSTEN is the editor of Roctober magazine, produces the cable-access kiddie dance show Chic-a-Go-Go and has written for magazines including Time Out Chicago, Vice and International Tattoo Arts. His books include TV-A-Go-Go: Rock on TV from American Bandstand to American Idol and A Friendly Game of Poker.
CARYN AVIV teaches Jewish Studies and directs the Certificate in Jewish Communal Service at the University of Denver. She is also a cofounder and the director of research for Jewish Mosaic: The National Center for Sexual and Gender Diversity. Aviv is the coauthor/editor of three books, Queer Jews (Routledge, 2002), New Jews: The End of the Jewish Diaspora (NYU Press, 2005) and American Queer: Now and Then (Paradigm, 2006). She also blogs for haaretz.com. Aviv is currently working on a book about American Jewish involvement in Israeli-Palestinian reconciliation movements. When not teaching and making the Jewish world safe for homos, Caryn can be found hiking in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with a 3-year-old kid strapped to her back.
D.C. BENNY is a Brooklyn comedian who makes a living playing Puerto Ricans, Italians, Greeks and Arabs on both the small and big screens. For years he produced and hosted the comedic storytelling show Urban Myth, where Dave Chapelle, Colin Quinn and other comedian friends told their rawest, funniest stories. Check out clips of his stand-up at www.dcbenny.com.
ANDY BOROWITZ is a comedian, actor and writer whose work appears in The New Yorker, The New York Times and his award-winning website, BorowitzReport.com.
RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL ( www.rachelkramerbussel.com) is a New York author, editor and blogger. She hosts and curates In the Flesh Erotic Reading Series and is a former sex columnist for The Village Voice. She’s edited over 20 anthologies, including Best Sex Writing 2008, Dirty Girls, Yes, Sir; Yes, Ma’am and Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica, and written for Cosmopolitan, Newsday, the New York Post, Time Out New York, and other publications
American stand-up comedian JORDAN CARLOS has done a lot in his short life. He’s been a Madison Avenue “Mad Man.” He’s hosted a live kids show on Nickelodeon (lotta pees and poops!). He’s played Stephen Colbert’s “black friend” on The Colbert Report. And recently when handpicked by the good people of Trojan condoms for their Trojan College Comedy Tour, he did his best to undo the evils of abstinence education… but ended up getting fractured with college kids. He did try though!
ROBBIE CHAVITZ, writer/director, has written for John Cleese, Sigourney Weaver, Michael J. Fox, Martin Short and others. Robbie spent his 20s abroad as a performer. His film Time Out debuted at the Sundance Festival and his most recent script is for National Lampoon. Robbie is the creative director of IKA Collective.
MATTHEW LOREN COHEN is a classically trained pianist. He is musical director of The Next Big Broadway Musical! and The Nuclear Family, two long-running improvised musicals. He has performed on cruise ships and cable TV, and is a published fiction writer and a columnist for Metrosource magazine.
OPHIRA EISENBERG is a MAC (Manhattan Association of Clubs and Cabarets) Award Finalist for Best Female Comic. She has appeared on Comedy Central’s Premium Blend and Fresh Faces of Comedy, VH-1’s Best Week Ever and All Access, E! Channel, the Oxygen Network and the Discovery Channel. She performs stand-up across the country and her writing has appeared in the anthology I Killed: True Stories of the Road from America’s Top Comics alongside that of Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock and Joan Rivers. She is also a regular contributor for US Weekly’s Fashion Police and The Comedians magazine.
LIZ FELDMAN is a writer/comedian living in Los Angeles. Her parents brag about her writing for the 79th Annual Academy Awards show, writing/performing for Nickelodeon’s All That and writing for the WB’s Blue Collar TV. But they really kvell over her four Emmy awards for her work as a writer/producer for The Ellen Degeneres Show.
JOEY GARFIELD, a native of Evanston, Illinois, has worked in New York film production since 1991. He has directed music videos for Langhorn Slim, Kid Sister, Aesop Rock, EL-P and Airborn Audio. His music video for RJD2 entitled Work It Out was nominated for an MTV award and helped Joey obtain the Emerging Filmmaker award at Fuel TV’s Swerve Festival. Garfield’s award-winning feature documentary Breath Control: The History of the Human Beat Box charts the history of making music with nothing other than the human voice. Additional documentary film work can be seen on the upcoming film Beautiful Losers as well as the 20th anniversary reissue DVD of the seminal film Style Wars and the film The Run Up, which profiles several current urban artists including two from Chicago. He also directed Heeb magazine’s first foray into viral media with the short film Borscht Belt Horror (check it out on YouTube). He has written and directed promos for MTV and Comedy Central with the Bert Fershners. Joey is a contributing writer to Juxtapoz and Stop Smiling magazines. He contributed several articles to The Beastie Boys Grand Royal magazine and, as compensation, was given the role of Octopus Monster in their music video Intergalactic. You can see some of his work on www.ghostrobot.com.
AVI GESSER is an attorney in New York City.
STEPHEN GLASS is the author of The Fabulist: A Novel (Simon & Schuster, 2003). He lives in Los Angeles.
LORI GOTTLIEB, a commentator for National Public Radio, is a journalist and the author of the national bestseller Stick Figure: A Diary of My Former Self, and coauthor of Inside the Cult of Kibu and I Love You, Nice to Meet You. She lives in Los Angeles with her son, Zachary.
MICHAEL GREEN’s mother is surprisingly supportive of her son’s career as a television writer/producer, though of course she would prefer something else. She likes that he is the creator of NBC’s Kings, and enjoys telling people he used to write for Heroes, Smallville and Sex and the City, though she forgets some of the others. She doesn’t really understand why he wastes his time writing that “Superman/Batman” comic every month, and his Batman: Lovers and Madmen she had trouble getting through. Of his occasional journalism she is largely unaware.