No one tells you when you’re young, but having a job just upends your whole life. One minute, you’re more than willing to lie on the couch for two or more hours, rubbing massage oil over your breasts and inner thighs until your primed body is aching for that last gentle stroke that will send it over the edge. And then the next minute you have a few obligations and all of the sudden the only thing that gets you excited is not finding another vagina covered with sores. It’s all about priorities. And, until I can retire, I guess getting down on all fours in front of the full-length mirror and slowly working my trusty purple vibrator in and out of my dripping love canal with increasing speed and intensity will just have to wait.
I only wish I had a man to take some of this work off my hands. If I had a man around the house, I bet I could find all sorts of opportunities to masturbate.
Ah, well. No rest for the weary, I suppose. I’m certainly not going to win any points with the feminists by saying so, but maybe we women simply can’t have it all. Maybe we have to make the choice between being a working woman who occasionally coaxes her pussy into such a lather that her hands are slicked with love juices, or a mother who spontaneously pulls over to the side of the road on the way to pick up the kids from day camp and swirls her fingers over her love button over and over and again and again, faster and faster until she’s screaming, “Yes! Yes!” and slamming her fists on the car horn.
Because sometimes when you try to have it all, you end up losing what’s most important to you: earth-shattering, toe-curling multiple orgasms.