For the last few weeks, I have been feeling much better than I have in a long time. I am finally waking up and showering and feeding myself. A few days ago, I found myself leaving my place to do groceries instead of relying on the non-perishables in my cupboard. I had gotten them when I was still taking better care of myself and have helped me avoid going outside these last few months. I am now back at work full time and have started repairing my friendships, although I still don’t go out as much. I am not in a hurry to meet a new love interest. A part of me is scared I might slip back into depression and feel overwhelmed by a partner needing even the slightest attention when I barely have capacity for myself. Besides, I haven’t been feeling desirable. I definitely haven’t been thinking about sex. I’ve started masturbating every day again though, and while this is a good sign for me, something about it still feels empty and unfulfilling.
I noticed recently that my masturbation seems to have become shorter and shorter with every session. When I started touching myself as a child, I had no access to porn or toys and hadn’t developed the kind of over-familiarity I now feel with my body. Back then, no thanks to the conflict and guilt spewed by my religious upbringing, touching myself was something I sat and contemplated deeply, for hours, sometimes days, sometimes even weeks. I explored my body as the temple and place of worship I was taught it was, with reverence, respect, and absolute admiration. I revelled in the slightest feeling of pleasure, never taking for granted any part of my body as my curious and naïve fingers ventured out.
Now, at my big age, I barely even touch myself when I want to make myself cum. I pop my rechargeable batteries out of their charger, search the same old keywords on my favourite porn sites, put my vibrator on its usual frequency, and make myself cum as hard as possible, as fast as possible, and then pass out. This process is even more uneventful when I am struggling with my mental health, and I am surprised I haven’t burst into tears after masturbating because some of the ways I have handled my body in pursuit of an orgasm make me sad to think about. Imagine if a lover had treated my body like that? Unfortunately, my depression made me lose so much touch with myself, my body and sensuality that I found myself having to relearn pleasure. Orgasms became a need, not something I did out of excitement or genuine desire. I don’t think there is anything wrong if all I want to do is scratch an itch for the sake of doing so, but I know my relationship with pleasure is different now. I rely on it to feel something outside of the cold emptiness that has made a home in my mind and, seemingly, my body too. The orgasms are a way for me to feel something, instead of the nothingness I hated so much. I am grateful for this outlet, but also, in hindsight, this pattern has robbed me of a more intimate and empowering experience with my own body.
It is a weeknight, and I am thinking about all this again. I want to try something different. I am tempted to find my vibrator and have my evening ritual, but I don’t pause the movie Hustlers to go find it, even though I am barely concentrating anymore. For some reason, the movie creates an air of nostalgia for me over the relationship I used to have with my body. It makes me crave a different kind of self-induced orgasm, not one that is just driven by a desperate need for an escape. I want a self-induced orgasm that reminds me that I am the best person to turn to for love and care. I want a self-induced orgasm that makes me feel as revered and as sexy as I did when a partner touched me, as when I did when I used to enjoy money being thrown at me while I danced around a pole in my best lingerie. I want to make love to myself. And so, I abandon the idea of finding my vibrator, knowing that is not going to give me what I need. I put away the unfinished movie, shut my eyes and wait for sleep to find me.
As I doze off, I am reminded of an old and sometimes clichéd truth that I have never had to pay so much conscious attention to. Sex, or pleasure, often starts in the mind. Like with everything else, I had to start in my mind to revive the relationship I once had with my body. I needed to be kind to myself, to be attracted to myself, seduce myself, before I could enjoy my body the way I wanted to.
I wake up in the morning and instead of having my usual lazy fap in bed, I sit with the desire between my legs and breathe deeply, guiding the feeling to the rest of my body. I take a selfie and have a good chuckle at my morning face, smudged with the mascara and eyeliner I was too lazy to wash off the previous night. I look even closer as if I were staring into a stranger’s face. I pick out features that strike me as beautiful. My high cheekbones. My eyes always look like I am smiling even when I am not. I am grateful to see the spark back in them, the kinky, naughty glint everybody keeps going on about, and how it conflicts with my innocent and reassuring smile. I have long eyelashes. There is nothing special about my nose, but I am grateful it suits my face. I giggle, feeling silly, but I allow myself. I slip off the top I am wearing, the only item of clothing on me, and I admit, I feel a bit awkward wanting to ‘touch myself sensuously and deliberately.’ I stop the attempt in fear of faking something I don’t genuinely feel, lest I only make myself miserable at the end of it all. I take a picture of my nude body; the first nude I take in months. I look at the photo and feel a natural sense of pride blooming inside of me. I allow myself to think, ‘Damn. I woke up like this.’
My shower is not as exciting as I thought it would be, but at least I am showering and looking forward to going outside. I’d not fake feeling sexy or force anything that doesn’t come naturally, the same way I would not expect that of a lover who simply wasn’t in the mood. The same way I may have to be patient or work a little harder to seduce or excite a partner, I too, have to earn my own trust again and be just as gentle in my pursuits.
I stand in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear to work, and I secretly wish I had a better knack for fashion. I still don’t like clothes. Looking presentable and neat is still my only go-to on an average day. So even today, I struggle to put together an outfit that would elicit that “thing” I am trying to achieve. So, naturally, I resort to my drawers that hold the most exciting pieces of clothing I own: my underwear. I still am a sucker for a good piece of lingerie and yes, I still spend ridiculous amounts of money on it, thanks to my old stripper days. I realise, it has been almost a year since I looked through that one drawer. I find a black garter belt and stay-ups. I decided not to bother with panties and a bra. I slip on a black pencil skirt, a black shirt and black heels and I am almost surprised but happy to recognise the woman in my reflection after missing her for so long. I am happy it is her I have to live with today.
I am turning heads just walking out of my apartment. I know it’s not the outfit, I have worn it many times before. It is the self-awareness of the body I live in that radiates even more than any other day when I might have taken it for granted. I get into the car, slip my seat belt on, and catch a glimpse of my thighs under my steering wheel. I am aware of myself and my body in a way that inspires love and appreciation.
I spend the day checking myself out in every mirror, in every window and every glass I walk past. I conduct my meetings cross-legged, half-listening while I imagine what my colleagues’ reactions would be if they knew what I have on, or did not have on, under my outfit. The thought has me clenching my thighs and biting on my pen as I hide the smirk on my face. After a few hours, I decided I had worked hard enough to go home. I had done a decent job of deliberately avoiding anyone or anything that would contaminate my energy, so I keep the same energy by avoiding rush hour traffic. I feel excited for the evening, even though I don’t quite know why.
Written by Kgothatso Motshele
