I’m learning how to masturbate on my back. Do you know how hard it is, after doing it on your stomach since you were 11? It’s like trying to write fluently with your left hand after being a righty all your life. Why am I doing it? Boredom, mostly. I’m at home by myself a lot.
I’ve tried many modern devices, hoping they’ll help. Stimulating creams, shower heads, dildos and vibrators. But, I must admit, fruits and vegetables are my favorite. They’re more organic, pliable, and I can warm them in the microwave first. My boyfriend wonders how we’re spending so much on produce each month: cucumbers, bananas, zucchinis. I chunk them in the compost bin when I’m through. Why are fruits and vegetables called produce, anyway? The word brings to mind marketing, belching factories, and goods for the masses.
Sometimes, I’ll stick a radish in my butt like it’s an anal bead. I’ll pop it out by pulling the leaves as I climax. My boyfriend’s always out with his friends, so I do what I want. But I always, without fail, fantasize about him. What can I say? I love him. And he happens to be a stallion in bed. Sometimes, I think about being married to him, and that special gleam in his eye he’d have if we had a baby. When he’s out, though, who knows what he’s doing or who he’s doing it with. I don’t ask questions. Mostly, I just set up my iPad on the bedside table and diddle myself while watching porn to while away the time.
He and his friend Matt caught me once, a cucumber jammed to the hilt in my bits, RedTube streaming on our 65” plasma TV. Tits and twats and dicks look so real on this TV. I can see every pulsing vein, every ass pimple, every dribble of spit. When my boyfriend and Matt interrupted, I was just about to cum, my legs clenched hard on the couch cushions, my imagination focused on him saying he loves me while burying himself inside me.
The two of them burst into the apartment, half drunk. I struggled in my sex-daze to pull a blanket over myself, but they saw everything. They had a good guffaw, and Matt claimed he was bigger than the cucumber, half-jokingly asking if I’d like to see. My boyfriend just laughed and looked at me pointedly. I could tell the idea turned him on, and I stormed to the bedroom. I slammed the door so hard a hinge broke.
There’s no more phallic produce now. My boyfriend goes shopping, and brings home cauliflower, eggplant, apples. These don’t help me with my situation. After he shops, he leaves for the night. Sometimes, he isn’t home until morning. He knows about my self-pleasuring escapades now, and that’s ok with me. If he only knew, only cared to know more. But no, I can’t let that happen. He can’t know. He just can’t know
how lonely I feel.
published 8 May 2013