Lately, I haven’t been fucking.
I’ve been fucking tired. I’ve been fucking drunk. And I’ve been fucking entertained by the sheer comedy that is my new and unexpected single life. But I haven’t been fucking, and that doesn’t sit right with me.
As a woman on the cusp of another turn of the decade—the third decade, if you are dying to know—getting in touch with my divine feminine spirit and sexuality and all that has played an integral part in the process of growing all the way up. It touches upon that whole well-seasoned woman, aging-like-fine-wine folklore: the idea that the older we get, the more intimately we should know ourselves, our bodies, and what makes them tick.
Most adults spend much of their waking day living in their heads, exercising the same parts of their brains until the clock strikes five: a regular human in a regular body trying to remember what all these body parts were designed for in the first place. Outside of work, we’re supposed to remember to live in our bodies—shift out of autopilot, get back in touch, and start feeling again. Yet, far too many grown-ass women (myself included prominently) can identify two, maybe three ways to make themselves cum. I’ve got one precious life, and without a partner, I’m going to settle for three basic modes of pleasure?
Up until recently, I’ve been a chronic relationship person, and “pleasure” has been constrained to the king-sized cis heterosexual bed of a couple with a somewhat dull combined imagination. Outside of the old-fashioned birds-and-the-bees dance, I am wholly inexperienced in the arena of what I’ll call explorative fucking, which includes fucking myself. Beyond a baby Je Joue G-spot bullet vibrator and an unused feather tickler recommended by a kind associate at Babeland last year, I’ve historically preferred to go au naturel: no futzing, no fancies, just the tried-and-true pointer finger. Now, as the shadow of that wretched 3-0 number looms large, au natural is beginning to feel too safe…too predictable. And, as I said, I hadn’t been fucking, and a finger does not a “fuck” make.
So, for you and me both, I embarked on an adventure to figure out what I really like and how I can get back to fucking without laying a finger on an actual human (men, mostly, because we really don’t need them). I’ve compiled a beginner’s guide to some of the best sex toys, vibrators, and suction simulators currently on the market for people with vaginas. As a sexual novice and someone who rarely if ever experiences vaginal orgasms—I’m a clitoral orgasm elitist—I’ve rated each product for its effectiveness (is she giving me “ooh lala” or “my clit feels like it’s being gargled by a vacuum cleaner, call an ambulance?”), discretion (can I keep her on my nightstand, or is she a girthy girl better fit to occupy the shadowlands?), aesthetic (is she akin to a Modigliani, or a misplaced Halloween decoration?), and creativity (did she sign up for extra credit, or is she the “Do the bare minimum” sort?)—and ranked them from good to great to best in show.
If you’re interested in swearing off men, women, or whoever broke your heart, all of this to say: You don’t need a partner, baby. You don’t even need a human! You just need a working outlet and a little buzz. Let’s get fucking.
