I finished my ice cream while I was reading, and my biggest surprise was feeling a stir in my core as I read the sexual fantasies the writer masturbates to. I relate so much to her story because what I had been taught was sexual purity, wasn’t it? My husband had been so sexually controlling that he wouldn’t even allow me to watch intimate scenes in movies. He selected the movies I watched and the books I read. He made me believe that women were supposed to be sexually pure–even married women. And the women at church had reinforced that belief. One time a young wife was made to fast and pray for a month because she was foolish enough to confess to enjoying her husband touching her.
The writer, Bunmi, had written about feeling guilty for pleasuring herself until she learned otherwise. The difference between Bunmi and me is that I didn’t even know pleasure. Not yet, anyway, but that is going to change. That throb I had felt while reading her fantasy had felt good. Really good, and I want to explore that. Will I be able to touch myself as she does? Will I have the courage to slip my hand down to my womanhood and try to find my clit, to stimulate it? How would that feel if I could do it? I chuckle nervously as I think about it. If the slight wetness I am feeling by just thinking about it is any indication, it would feel very good.
Turning off my laptop, I place it on my bedside table, nervous excitement rising in my chest. My hands shake slightly, and I will them to stop as I take my nightgown off and giggle to myself at my foolishness when I jump quickly into the bed and cover myself to my chin with the blanket. Who are you hiding your nakedness from, Asantewaa? But I can’t help it. It already feels illicit because I am planning to masturbate; I can’t do it uncovered. That would be too much. Baby steps.
My hand slides slowly down, but I lose my nerve right before my fingers touch my mound and stop. Maybe I should start with something less intimidating?
I move my right hand up, brushing it over my left breast. I manoeuvre my fingers to brush over my nipple, snatching my hand away when I feel a slight jolt of pleasure. I try it again, more firmly this time, and a surprised moan escapes me at the pleasure that small touch brings. Huh. Who would have thought? Emboldened now, I try my right breast next, using my left hand to mould it gently before slipping my fingers over my nipples. Heat pools into my vagina as I cross my arms and do both breasts at the same time, caressing and flicking my nipples. I’m surprised by how good it feels, and the pressure I feel in my core instinctively carries my hand down to find the source of the pleasure, but I’m still too nervous to touch myself down there, so I bring my hand up again to my breasts, flicking my hands over my nipples again to stimulate more of the pleasure I felt before.
From the story I read, I knew that having a fantasy would help things along, but I don’t remember ever having a sexual fantasy. I don’t even know what I would like. I don’t recall ever seeing a man and thinking “I would want to have sex with this guy.” Now that I think about it, I don’t really look at men. Brempong had hated it when men spoke to me, even at church. My hands stop their lazy exploration of my breasts when I recollect that detail. Funny how until now I had forgotten that bit of conditioning, as Dr. Fosuah called it. It had happened within the first two years of our marriage. The scolding and tantrums I had to endure because I had responded to a man’s greeting, or worse, smiled at a man. The jealous rages he would display, and the punishments I would endure if the man happened to be young. After a while, I avoided looking directly at men. I had forgotten how that came to be. Until now. Why did my demons decide to make an appearance at such a time? When I was trying to have pleasure? Why did it have to be now? Suddenly cold, I wrap the blanket more firmly around myself, and for the first time in ten years, I wish I have someone I can be with, someone who would hold me in their arms and give me some comfort. What would it be like to cuddle? To be touched by someone whose touch doesn’t make your skin crawl?
I will have to call Dr. Fosuah tomorrow with these new revelations from my memories. Until I get a new therapist here, she is still my therapist. I lay awake for a while, thinking about what to do next. I want to feel more than I already did. It felt good, and I want more of that. But I also have to deal with my demons while I am at it.
Closing my eyes, I try to think about something I would like. The fantasy in Bunmi’s story started to come to me, and with it, a dull throb of excitement at my core, but I let that fantasy go. I want to try making mine. I am handicapped, because I don’t have any experience in pleasurable sexual relations, but I liked my hands on my breasts and my fingers tweaking my nipples. So I begin to imagine someone else’s fingers on me. With my eyes closed, I imagine bigger, elegant hands on my breasts, touching me, fondling my breasts, and pulling at my nipples. The hands belong to a man who smells really good, and I feel his warmth behind me. His body is hard but not too taut, and I feel his nipples rubbing across my naked back, his warm breath against my neck. A soft moan escapes my lips as my core begins to throb, and I feel strangely proud at the wetness I feel.
My fantasy man kisses my neck as he hardens the pressure of his hands on my breasts and nipples, and I hold my breath when his hands travel down, hovering over my mound. His hands brush my labia lightly, experimentally, forcing a surprised gasp out of me. He stops, unsure, but he doesn’t understand that I have never felt that kind of pleasure before, and I want more. So he continues, fingers hesitant but adventurous, flicking two fingers over my labia and making me moan at the sensation. This was good; much better than I had expected, and I haven’t even done much yet. I know that the most sensation will come from my clitoris. I looked up the word after reading Bunmi’s story. Vulva and labia too. Isn’t it strange how little I had known about my own body? All l knew was that I had a vagina. There is so much that I don’t know, so much about myself and life that I have to discover, and I am excited to explore and try.
I don’t think I am ready to try inserting my fingers into my vagina just yet. I want to try just stimulating my vulva, and hopefully, it will bring me more pleasure. The large hands brush over my labia again, causing more throbbing and I revel in the wetness. Then a thumb gently flicks my clit. I moaned loudly, enjoying the sensation as more wetness spilled from my core to coat my labia. The fingers continue rhythmically, two fingers stroking my labia while the thumb works my clit. The pleasure is unreal. It is unbelievable that one hand could bring me so much pleasure. How could it be possible? How could fingers be that powerful?
The more I rubbed and flicked, fantasising, the more the pressure built. Something is building up inside me, so much pleasure, but there is something more that seemed a little out of reach. I don’t know what it is, but I want it very badly, and my instinct tells me that I need the fingers to keep up the pressure to give me what I want. I don’t know if it was greed or instinct, but one hand moved up to fondle my breast as the fingers on the other continued their assault on my core, and the pressure built as if something in me would burst. I let out a loud moan when intense pleasure suddenly explodes in my core.
Laying in bed afterwards, I feel good and proud of myself. My last thought before I fell into one of the best sleep I’ve ever had was “I want more. I can’t wait to find more inspiration from the bedrooms of other African women.”