My Masturbation Journey

I haven’t always been one to share my ~personal stories~ on the internet, but here’s what I’ve come to learn—personal stories are precisely what makes people feel heard, seen, less alone, less weird, less shameful, more comfortable, and like they have permission to move forward. 

Today’s spicy lil tale is all about my masturbation journey and how the church hinders our self-expression. 

To preface this story, I am the oldest of three gals (I have a much older half-brother, but he didn’t live with us for most of my growing-up years). Being the eldest daughter growing up in a Christian household and community is, well, an invitation to be the most perfect child that ever existed.

I took this role very seriously, and by “role,” I mean the one that is often more pushed upon you than intentionally chosen. But here’s the deal—I loved this role. This role got me endless validation, made people love me, and allowed me to excel at being the perfect, kind, gentle, loving, people-pleasing, and mother-natured child. After all, those are the qualities expected of women in the church.

What does this have to do with my masturbation journey, you may be wondering? Well, I loved to be perfect. So I sure as hell wasn’t going to break the rules.

Here’s the funniest and most tragic truth—I genuinely did not know women could masturbate until I went on a mission trip at 19 years old.

I watched women get up in front of our entire class and repent for masturbating (yes, really). I literally thought to myself, “Excuse me, what the fuck? I can make myself orgasm?”

I also attended a Christian high school, which only added to the pressure I felt to be perfect. I was never a grade-A scholar, but I did excel in being social. I was on the student council for years in the Big Brother Big Sister program and eventually became Student Body President. Teachers told me regularly that I was an example, students looked up to me, and it was my job to “lead” them.

To be clear, I stretched my own “perfect Christian girl” rules for certain things. Like doing sexual things with my boyfriend—never vaginal sex but just about everything else. For some reason, since this included someone else and brought him and me closer together, I decided it was okay. But to make myself orgasm all willy-nilly on my own time? Absolutely not.

So, once I learned it was even possible, I still kept myself from feeling the pleasure of my own two hands… for four more years. Yes, really, four.

Of course, I wasn’t exempt from the occasional vulva itch that I prolonged scratching for longer than the itch required. After a few seconds, I would think, “That felt good; I should probably stop.” I never let myself ~explore~ myself in any sexually curious ways. That remained purely for partnered pleasure, and even then, I had limitations for myself.

The conversation of masturbation in the church, in my experience, seemed solely reserved for boys and men. Men had accountability groups and books to help guide them because their sexuality was difficult to control (this is what was taught, anyway). On the other hand, for women and girls, I never heard mumblings of denying self-pleasure (hence me not even knowing it existed). Instead, our job was to protect the purity of boys and men. We were not to “taunt” them with our exposed shoulders and scandalous kneecaps.

Women not only held the responsibility for their own sexual purities but for everyone around them as well. To me, it always felt like women’s sexualities were never for themselves. There was always a general understanding that women “owed” men their purity, but men didn’t necessarily need to return that favor.

The language in the communities I grew up in was incredibly heteronormative and gendered. The friends I have who came out as part of the LGBTQ+ community did so in early adulthood when they were out on their own.

The language around sex, sexuality, pleasure, and our bodies in Christianity hinders everyone.

It creates shame in folks for being even the slightest bit different than the status quo. Shame that creeps into adulthood and controls our sexual relationships with our own bodies and our relationships with our partners. There should be freedom in pleasure, freedom in personal exploration, and freedom in self-expression. 

It wasn’t until the summer of 2019 that I let myself fully dive into self-pleasure—and I honestly acted like I had just discovered my own clitoris for the first time. Because I guess, in a lot of ways, I had.

In 2019, my partner of 7 ½ years and I broke up for three months. We had been dating since high school and felt like our only options were to get married or break up. We weren’t ready for marriage, even though we loved being together, so breaking up seemed like our only option at the time (thanks, religion).

We were also in a period of questioning everything. Our upbringings, what we believed— absolutely everything. During our time apart, I started doing a lot of work to connect with my body. I began to realize that my approach to “listening to Christian teachings” was to completely deny my body of pleasure of any kind. So, I started going to yoga daily, upped my skin-care routine, and bought my first vibrator. 

So, as a newly single gal with lots of time on my hands, I spent quite a bit of time getting to know the parts of my body I had denied for so long.

That summer was about coming home to myself in many ways. Making my body my home and treating her as such. I explored rooms I had only ever peered into but never stepped foot in. It felt like the first time I had a curiosity for myself without shame. One of those being personal masturbation.

It sounds incredibly dramatic to say, but I genuinely feel like masturbating changed my life.

Not just because orgasms are amazing but because I was no longer denying myself good things. I was feeling good just for the goddamn pleasure of feeling good.

Something I was shocked by was my lack of shame. I still can’t fully articulate this today, but I got to the point where if something felt so good and brought me so much joy, how could it be wrong? I felt like I unlocked another piece of me—a part of my body that had been dying to be close to me, this little world that was all mine to explore. And that just felt too good to be wrong.

In hindsight, I reached a place of feeling fed up with rules. Rules that kept me from understanding myself. Rules that kept me from a relationship I loved being in. Rules that felt like they weren’t intended to keep me safe but in the “good Christian girl” box. I got fed up and rebellious.

But my rebellion felt like coming home to myself. Reclaiming my body, my mind, my peace, and my joy.

Once my cutie pie partner and I got back together, we had loads to discuss. Over our short breakup, we managed to live a lot of life. We were both deconstructing our religious beliefs and considering options for our relationship that had never fit into a Christian mold (like living together before marriage—gasp).

Having my own masturbation practice and finally acknowledging my physical body completely changed mine and my partner’s sex life. We have always been incredibly comfortable with each other, but I was never entirely comfortable with myself. Having language and a better understanding of my own body allowed me to share and open up with my partner in new ways. He was able to better explore my body because I could guide him and, most importantly, because I felt deserving of pleasure.

I share all this as a little reminder that 1. your body is so, so, SO worth your time, love, intentionality, and care. 2. you are NOT alone in the experience of feeling shame—AND shame doesn’t have to control your life. 3. there is always room for personal change or growth in whatever capacity that looks like for you.

It’s all about coming home to ourselves, pals.

It’s about uprooting the initial foundation and getting down to our roots. Even if it sounds a little woo-woo, I really do believe life is about unlearning and discovering. One of the most challenging journeys can be quieting all the noise and listening to that little voice inside of us whispering to us who we are. And let me tell ya, that little voice is the most important.