Rating: NNNNN
There are two problems with having a Masturbate-athon on a Sunday. The first is that if you’re Catholic like me, you have to deal with the guilt of defiling yourself on the Lord’s day. The second is that, with spring in the air and parties suddenly everywhere, the chances of having a hangover are pretty high.
Though admittedly, a nice, big juicy orgasm is sometimes just the thing to cure a nasty hangover. For those of you not up to speed, May is Masturbation Month, and a couple of Sundays ago women and men across North America spent the day jerking off to raise money for women’s sexual health organizations. I was one of them.
I decide to start off traditional –just me and my hand. With all the anticipation and buildup to this day, I’m fearing it will be a quickie. But the nice thing about knowing you have to masturbate all day is that you don’t worry about coming and having it be all over with. There’s no need to hold off.
Still, I want to pace myself. I pick up a copy of Nerve, a new magazine from the fabulous nerve.com Web site. I actually read an erotic story from beginning to end without skipping to the dirty bits.
I’m bored
After 10 minutes, I’m bored. I need some visuals. Nerve has some sexy pics, but I need something hardcore. I pick up an old issue of Hustler I have lying around. Yeah, it’s an annoying, sexist, racist porn rag, but it has explicit images and words. It takes me about 30 seconds of splayed crotches and “fuck me in the ass” language to achieve orgasm number one. I fondle myself a little until things calm down and I’m ready for round two.
I decide to go with some battery-operated assistance to cut down on the chafing, and bring out my most reliable new toy, the vibrating silver egg. Orgasm two takes less than a minute, and I head straight for number three, wondering if there’s a limit to the number of orgasms a woman can have in a row. Is there a Guinness world record for this? I make a mental note to check.
Just as my toes curl into orgasm three, I remember a friend who told me about a particularly feisty session she had with her plug-in vibrator, when she had six orgasms and then threw up. The worst I have at this point is some numbness in my hand from the vibration. I consider going for quality instead of quantity. You know, build myself up all day and then have one big earth-shattering, Hallelujah-type orgasm.
Fuck it. I go for number four — a doozy, an orgasm that demands to be immediately followed by number five, which obviously isn’t happy about this since it gets all finicky and doesn’t want to come out.
Number five finally limps out. Still no nausea.
An hour has passed. I deserve a break. It’s too early for a drink, especially given the previous night’s indulgence, though I begin to wonder if a cocktail might be helpful. I usually take longer to come after I’ve had a few.
Instead, I decide to try one of the Go-Go drinks recently sent to me by a U.S. company called Energy Brands. It’s packed with things like yohimbe and ginseng, and the label promises that Go-Go will give me “that sexy type of energy.”
I suck back two cans. I don’t feel any different, though it does quench my thirst and makes me burp a lot, which I figure might be helpful if nausea does set in.
Next in the bag of masturbate-athon tricks is a new line of vibrators called “Natural Contours” put out by porn director/producer Candida Royalle. It’s nice to have a vibrator that isn’t penis-shaped and fits the, uh, contours of a woman’s body. They also come with their own custom-designed “Power for Pleasure” batteries.
Turns out I need a lot of power for my pleasure. On high speed it sounds like an electric razor and doesn’t vibrate strongly enough to get me off. Note to vibrator designers: Just because something vibrates doesn’t mean it’ll make you come. If that were the case, hell, I’d be way more enthusiastic about taking the bus.
After 10 minutes and still nothing, I fear that maybe I’ve killed it. I check, using the silver bullet.
Whew, I manage to squeeze out a sixth, but I’m suddenly a little freaked out that I might cause permanent damage down there, and decide to take another break. I make another mental note to try Candida’s vibrators again when I haven’t already had five orgasms.
Accumulated masturbation time: one and a half hours. Number of orgasms: six. Nausea: still none.
It’s a nice day, and I decide I don’t want to waste all of it inside masturbating. A trip to the video store to rent some porn seems a good way to contribute to the cause while getting some fresh air.
I opt for three less wham-bammy titles: an erotic thriller called Kissing Game an Emanuelle film, because I’ve never seen one, and if I’m in my usual wank mode I rarely have the patience to watch this kind of stuff and a tape in Playboy’s Making Love series hosted by Dr. Ruth Westheimer called Arousal, Foreplay And Orgasm.
I figure it might have some tips.
In the middle of Dr. Ruth, my guy comes over and watches the tape and me while I finish my business. It’s no picnic masturbating to Dr. Ruth, let me tell you, but after 45 minutes I manage orgasm number seven and we pop in Kissing Game.
We soon realize that me after seven orgasms puts me about where he is at the get-go. Let’s just say my eighth orgasm doesn’t qualify for the masturbate-athon, but it shames the previous seven to bits.
Running total: two hours and 15 minutes. Number of solo orgasms: seven. Total number of orgasms: eight. Nausea: none.
It’s time for food. After a nice dinner, I come home alone and get right back to business. It’s time to haul out the ultimate masturbate-athon tool: the wearable butterfly, a G-string-type contraption with a vibrating, rubber butterfly that lies right over your clitoris and labia. Turn on the remote and, bingo, hours of “look ma, no hands” orgasms.
I imagine myself buzzing around the apartment, doing housework and various other tasks, enjoying orgasm after orgasm. Turns out the butterfly needs a fair bit of adjusting to make it buzz in just the right spot. But it does the trick and orgasm nine comes while I’m watching Felicity.
Then the damn thing overheats, and I have to go manual for number 10, which I achieve during the weird arty angles of naked bodies in Emanuelle 5.
By this time the butterfly has cooled down, and I slip it back on while I make some phone calls and sit down to write this column. Work will never be the same.
I finally pack it in around 11 pm. I don’t know if I’ll ever masturbate again. I’m exhausted and tender down there, though admittedly very relaxed and fully satisfied. And I didn’t even throw up.
Final total: four hours. Number of orgasms:10.
Now the hard part — chasing down the money from my sponsors.
Reprinted from Hour Magazine
