I'm A Sexually Repressed Ex-Mormon Who Found Vibrators And WHOA

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I'm A Sexually Repressed Ex-Mormon Who Found Vibrators and WHOA
Self, Sex

It all started with a massager.

I didn't masturbate until I was twenty years old. I'm not sure if this is late or early. I was born and raised in the Mormon church and as a well-trained, young latter-day saint, I was taught masturbation along with sex of ANY kind before marriage is just wrong, wrong, wrong. Sex is for procreating and all "good" little girls should save themselves for marriage.

Consequently, pleasuring myself wasn't something I thought much about. Until the day my much older, married boyfriend bought me an industrial-sized, heavy-duty back massager.

Lying on my bed, body racked with cramps, I struggle to forget the pain and absorb myself in mindless daytime television. Every month, it feels like someone shoves their gigantic hand up my vagina, grabs my uterus in a vise-like grip, and attempts to yank it from my body. I've already ingested a near-fatal dose of Ibuprofen and soaked in a warm bath to no avail.

My eyes fall upon the back massager my boyfriend had recently given me. If I use the massager on my stomach, maybe it will loosen the muscles and release some of the pressure in my roiling stomach. I hoist it onto my lap and innocently flip the switch to the "on" position. Immediately, an orgasm rips through my body. I've had orgasms from intercourse, but not like THIS. My body shudders to completion.

Cramps forgotten, I place the massager in a slightly more strategic position (if you know what I mean) and flip it on again. The results are the same.

Shocked at this development, I let the massager drop to the floor and dart to the bathroom for a look in the mirror. I inspect myself. I still look the same. Dishwater blond hair, blue eyes. The same acne-covered chin courtesy of my monthly visitor. 

Did I really just give myself an orgasm? Is that okay? Am I supposed to have fun, alone with my own body? Is it perverse? AM I A PERVERT? After all, my body isn't an amusement park. Or is it?

Eff it. The dirty deed diminished my abhorrent cramps. I tiptoe to the front door of my condo and twist the deadbolt securely into the locked position, as I peer worriedly through the blinds of my window. I'm not sure why. Perhaps making sure the Masturbation Police don't have the place surrounded, guns drawn, chief addressing me through the bullhorn. "We know you're in there, pervert. Put the 'massager' down and come out with your pants and hands up!"

I scuttle back to my bedroom and climb into bed. I try to watch television, but my eyes keep wandering to the massager. It lays innocently on the carpet while my internal monologue debates.

It's wrong.

But screw that, it's my body and boys do it all the time.

But you're supposed to treat your body like a temple (popular church mantra).

But I'm dating a married guy AND I babysit for his wife, so I'm already going to hell already. So I might as well masturbate.

I've never been into faking orgasms. Often I say, "It isn't going to happen, just do your thing." But sex while using a vibrator is a sure-fire thing. Plus, it's joyfully clean. No sperm leaking from my body for nearly an hour after he fiddled and tweaked his body to an orgasm. They should have commercials for vibrators with just that slogan. No muss, no fuss... and fast-acting! I only have to set it on my clitoris, even with my clothes on, and within seconds I am on my way to heaven. (Or hell, depending on your point of view.)

Suffice to say, I didn't leave my condo that weekend. I eventually admit to my boyfriend exactly how much I've been "enjoying" his gift.

He was also raised Mormon, from the Ward Cleaver era of husbands who jovially handed out cigars in the hospital waiting room while their wives rip from vagina to assh*le giving birth. Naturally, he's appalled, simply shocked at the notion of a woman masturbating. He says it feels like I've replaced him. And in a way, I have.

He eventually manages to make me feel so lewd and inappropriate for using the massager for such an "obscene" purpose, that in a fit of shame one afternoon, I throw it away in a dumpster. (I find that immediate destruction or elimination is my best bet to successfully avoid or quit an unwanted part of my life. This theory includes food. If tortilla chips are anywhere in my home, I will eat the entire bag in one sitting, unless I fill the bag with water, rendering the chips soggy and tasteless.)

One sultry summer night about a month later, I'm watching a rented movie with a particularly steamy sex scene. All worked up with no massager in sight, I curse my boyfriend, then myself for throwing away a perfectly good back massager. In desperation, I began to touch myself, trying to stimulate vibration with my fingers. But as I wasn't raised on X-Box or Nintendo, I just don't have that kind of manual dexterity required. And I feel dirty. Me touching me.

I need an intermediary. A hand-to-p*ssy liaison, if you will. I grab a hairbrush and try to move the handle in small quick movements against my clitoris. One minute, and a very sore clit later, I end up feeling justifiably perverted. All right, this is ridiculous, I think. I may as well come to terms with my masturbatory nature and purchase the proper tools.

The next day, I climb into my car and head to "The Boutique," the only place in Mormon Country I know to tell such sinful you-are-going-to-hell items. I nose my car into the parking space, switch off the engine and glance guiltily around. What if I run into someone I know? What if I'm in the vibrator section when we see each other? GAH.

It occurs to me then, that for me to run into somebody I know, they would also have to be shopping for their very own vibrator, chocolate body paint, or whips and chains as the case may be. Our sex shopping run-in would transform us from acquaintances into sexual accomplices, not likely to share the story with gossip-mongering cohorts.

Upon entering the sex store, I'm certain I can feel the employees' eyes scrutinizing, judging. "That dirty little pervert is probably here for nipple clamps and anal beads!" I feel naked and dirty. In actuality, nobody pays me much attention.

I take my time, picking up and feigning interest in various items for sale. Fast acting hot sex oils in all flavors! Naked board games, nudie playing cards, feather boas. And then I reach it. The Back Room. Where all the good stuff is waiting, including the vibrators. Going through those curtains is a tacit acknowledgment that yes, I am a perverted sex addict on the hunt for dirty sex toys.

To act casual is to imply, yes I do this often, I am a sex toy junkie. To act nervous and embarrassed is just as humiliating. So there I am, fingering the nipple clamps, edging closer, ever closer to the aforementioned curtains. Slowly now. Act cool. A couple feet from the gateway to certain embarrassment. I glance nervously around the boutique and make my move!

The back room is smaller than I thought it would be, which makes the enormous dildos hanging across the back wall seem all the more obscene. I feel like a druggie, meeting my dealer for my latest fix. There are rows and rows of rubbery looking penises in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Two-headed, rubber monstrosities that are the size of my arm. From medium sized-white-guy to giant-black-man, all races are properly represented and adorned with bulging, authentic-looking veins. Too much.

I dart to the vibrator selection. From tiny little gadgets you slip on your finger to crazy contraptions containing two penises and what looks like silver marbles that rotate in the base. There's even a pink bunny rabbit with creepy rotating ears. (I cannot envision f*cking a toy with an adorable animal face.) There are even little "pocket vibrators" you slip in your underwear — pleasure for the working woman!

I have to pick my poison and get the hell outta here. Every time I hear the woosh of the curtains I crane my head in that direction, certain my bishop, my mother, or both will be standing there, arms crossed disapprovingly, toes tapping, waiting for an explanation.

Finally, I decide on a space-age looking number, sleek metallic silver. It's shiny and clean, almost sterile. There are no throbbing veins or terrifying little animal faces. Very anonymous and non-perverted.

Within minutes, I'm zipping out the door with my purchase, now wrapped in a discreet brown paper sack, clutched securely to my chest. After a quick stop for batteries, I'm home staring at my brand new vibrator. I can no longer tell myself I am only "massaging cramps." This bad boy is built for masturbation only.

I turn it on, then quickly off; the noise alone makes me flush with embarrassment. Oh well, if I want to masturbate, I'll have to endure a little noise. I shrug my shoulders and get to work using my vibrator.

Thus begins a new era for me. A time of alternating shame and pleasure. But mostly pleasure.

This article was originally published at The Girl Who. Reprinted with permission from the author.

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