From day one as an only child, it was all about ME: my toys, my clothes, my world and ultimately my body. When puberty hit, it became all about ME time; a contemplation and reflection space with a piece of equipment that I suddenly understood after discovering a missing chapter in its user’s manual. An interlude to explore and indulge in any and every twist and turn of a sexual fantasy world that was vertically and horizontally expanding faster than West LA. Yes, there was a little shame in the 15 seconds after planting my flag at the summit, but by and large I felt entitled to this pursuit in the same way many feel about firearms and pedestrian right-of-ways. “I’m doing this and it’s gonna get done. Try and stop me.” Continue Reading
Ever since images of Batgirl, lingerie catalogs or snippets of erotica made the rounds at Garfield Elementary, I’ve been conditioned to perform that one sacred sequence: get turned on, then stroke myself until I climax. After several long-term relationships and a few years of marriage, “touch and release” got a little boring (albeit still necessary to avoid some sort of internal sexual combustion).