Why pleasuring myself is better than having a boyfriend
They lied.
I spent most of my childhood being told, and believing, that a dog is a person's best friend. Sure, they're awesome. But no, they lied.
In adulthood, dogs were traded in for books. They'll open us up to worlds of ideas we'd never have the intelligence to consider on our own. I mean where would our most profound Facebook status updates and Tweets come from if Pablo Neruda/ Orhan Pamuk/ Neil Gaiman had never published? In the words of the yuppies, books be awesome. But no, still not a best friend.
So here's the truth that no one will tell you. The one you will realise when you're unwillingly pushing 30, surreptitiously googling the cost of freezing one's eggs and in love with (or, more realistically, habituated to) an emotionally autistic banker/consultant/broke start-upper: no one will EVER be your best friend in the way a solid, dependable, artificially veiny vibrator will. I bet it was a woman who came up with the concept of a 3am friend. And I bet she was gazing fondly at her hulking piece of on-demand manhood while penning down that phrase, to be misused for all of eternity.
I discovered mine on the eve of the birthday I refuse to acknowledge. After years of intermittently, and clumsily, jamming my fingers in the nether regions when I found myself between boyfriends, an older and more worldly-wise friend decided it was time for me to go from being kaccha limbu to professional at this wonderful game called masturbation. Nay, not game, art. Beautiful, (literally) breathtaking art. And now I mourn all those wasted years...
Because to be perfectly honest, opportunity did knock several times. Like every enterprising girl who went to an all-girls' school in the '90s, I experimented with the hand-shower too. But no amount of contorting my chubby limbs in unnatural positions was going to make my middle class once-in-the-day-water-supply hand-shower perform the miracles that the powerful jet from the porn film was capable of. Sigh.
The first fumbling attempt at sex came soon after I escaped into adulthood and was, for the most part, a WTF-is-this-it? experience. And here, let me familiarise you with another bitter truth: no matter what the sex columnists say, roughly 75 per cent of the sex you'll ever have will be of the WTF-is-this-it? variety. The remaining 25 per cent is what they will write about and you will read and wonder whether you're one of few teaspoonfuls of ill-fated women who like sex in theory way better than the real thing. You're not.
So, if you haven't already, make friends with masturbation. As you find yourself putting in crazy hours at work, decide you've f*cked enough acceptable human beings to establish your sex-positiveness and have made peace with the pact that your sex life is always going to resemble more Miranda than Samantha, you'll learn to appreciate self-gratification as much more than sex's poor #ForeverAlone cousin. Masturbation is a lot like Aamir Khan. It may lack Shah Rukh's pizzazz, but is not nearly as pointless as Salman. Like Aamir, it delivers award-worthy performances with quiet consistency...and a surprise Oscar nomination every once in a way.
What's not to like?
When you're in bed with yourself, you don't have to worry about the sights, sounds and smells that your body might decide to produce, mid-act. No navigating an orgasm, faked or real, while trying to suck in the tummy, hold in the fart and hide the visible underarm growth that you totally meant to deal with three weeks ago. The boobs can flop to either side like dead fish and you can order in the most garlicky Thai curry without worrying about the fragrance down there. Bliss!
And once your relationship with this life skill is on solid footing, buy the most powerful, industrial strength, battery-operated trembler you can afford. I'll call mine Rob for the reasons of this column. Rob doesn't sulk when my mind decides to play a show-reel of all my lovers for itself before it decides which one we're going to fantasise about. He doesn't even mind when I respond to texts or google unnecessary facts like this one while he's working hard to make me come. Hell, he even lets me get away with falling asleep while we're at it! No ego to manage, no placatory breakfasts and expensive flowers needed for steady, old Rob. He's perfectly happy with quickies, does not need me to laugh at his unfunny jokes when I really need to get some and is comfortable with the fact that orgasms have an incredibly soporific effect on me. Ergo, no tender utterings and spooning... I'm already asleep.
So here's one final piece of borrowed wisdom before I go and whisper a heart-felt "thank you" to my 3am friend:
“Always buy pornographic books in hardback because they're easier to hold with one hand.” - Robert Clark