This poem was inspired by Harmony Eichsteadt’s poem “Things I Have Masturbated To” from the Bedpost Confessions Postcast 9, as well as Harper Elliot, a sex writer who wrote a similar poem. Here is my version.
Things I Masturbate To
Of course there’s the obvious.
My boyfriend’s long curly hair tickling
my thighs as his mouth worships my every
fold, and his thick fingers pulling me to life
from inside out, and then his hard, tall
cock filling me up until I’m overflowing,
until I’m empty of all the come
and sweat and breath I possess.
And there are others, those who don’t
realize they exist naked in my head, like
the girl at the dentist’s who cleaned my teeth,
her thick lips hovering above mine like a spaceship,
ready to suck me up, or my friend’s shy roommate,
an old co-worker, a vanilla girlfriend, my Spanish professor,
and the guy who works at 7-Eleven.
Often, it’s more abstract, a group of people
whose faces I can’t see, a thousand hands on
my every exposed inch, a crowd cheering,
another couple watching, or even just a hot
mouth stuck on me, requiring only
my come to survive.
Sometimes it’s light hearted, wandering
fingers while the TV laughs with me, or my
cat eyeing me curiously on the couch, as I pant
and heave and moan my way
across the finish line.
Fiction occasionally joins me as well,
my favorite characters coming to life, dicks
and limbs rising like the dead from my
twisted head, sometimes cold fingers
and fangs or a vicious killer at my neck, my current
favorites are Tate and Dexter, even better
fucking me together.
And then there are the stranger ones, alien
tentacles probing and sucking, beastly
creatures with multiple members, headless
figures, and cold lifeless bodies, the burning
grip of the devil incarnate, and ghosts or
demons, but usually not zombies.
The hardest to admit, are the ones who could care
less about my consent, dark shadowy figures that
push me down and tie me up. They strike
me and shame me, but I always enjoy it.
These have been with me as long as I can remember,
even as a young girl, pretending to be kidnapped, arms
pulled back at mattress edges, eyes wide and lips
pressed, warmth growing between my little
legs as I am alone with the part of me
that always hides.
And sometimes, as someone who reviews
sex toys, it’s just something on my To-do list.
I’m a pioneer for research, thinking rather
un-sexy, almost clinical things like,
how sticky is this lube, and what is that light taste,
citrus? Or I really wish this had a longer
handle, or a wider girth or more texture, or
ow! oh god this thing is murdering my clit,
or I’m fucking glad this toy is waterproof
because I’m about to squirt
all over it.
Other times, it’s not really sexual at all, I’m
a blank sheet of paper, my mind
folds into itself, there are no thoughts and no
fantasies, no expectations or how do I look in this position,
or requirements or to-do lists or cleaning
the kitty litter or work or stress, only
the steady whiz of my Hitachi, or the quiet
circling of my fingers, only my breath whispering
to itself, my lips and clit blossoming, and the
quickening pace of my blood is enough,
the soft, warm, blanketing feeling,
the simple comfort of balance and equilibrium,
and remembering that my body is not a
separate entity, of holding on and then
of learning to let go again.