My first orgasm story begins long before that awakening climax. The first time I had any inkling of what sex entailed was at the tender age of six years old. 

My mother used to keep all her old party clothes from the ’70s and ’80s in drawers under her bed, I imagine in the hope that one day gold, glittery, batwing jumpers would make a big comeback in the fashion world. One day, I was rummaging under the bed, trying to locate something suitable for dressing up as a princess, when I stumbled across a selection of well-thumbed magazines.

Being a naturally curious child, I pulled them out and started looking at these mysterious mags. 

They were, of course, pornographic magazines – a fine selection of mulleted and permed men and women, thrusting, licking, blowing, and fucking against the backdrop of some fine examples of 1970s interior design. I didn’t know quite what to make of it, but having been given a birds and the bees speech a few months earlier, it all started to make sense as I continued to browse the slightly gummy pages.

After that curiosity-piquing day, I became a regular visitor to the drawer under the bed, completely fascinated by these perma-tanned bodies that seemed to derive such pleasure from doing such utterly peculiar things to each other. 

I was a little too young to be aroused by the images in front of me, but I felt something – a curiosity and a sort of desire to do these things one day. I thought to myself, “This is what I must do when I get a boyfriend.” 


Woman's hand fingering a cantaloupe.


My Sexual Awakening via MTV

Time passed, and I got bored of the magazines. 

My attention switched to music videos, late-night television, and B-movies with ample opportunity to check out a bit of nipple action. 

As I reached twelve years old, the scenes I watched, the things I experienced, and the memories I had of the pornography I had consumed at such an early age began to have a strange effect on me. I began to feel a peculiar feeling in my stomach when I saw or thought of certain things, and as I approached thirteen, this feeling migrated to between my thighs.

Then one night, as I lay in bed unable to sleep – my head a swarm of hormones, feelings, crushes on dodgy-looking guys at school, and general pre-teen angst – I found my hand begin to stray southwards. I had seen men put their hands between women’s legs in the magazines, and I had seen the female porn stars do the same – but why? 

Well – I was curiously about to find out.


A woman's hand reflected in a mirror sitting a naked woman's lap.


My first Orgasm – so that is what all of the fuss is about

I had no clue what I was doing, where I should be going, or what I was supposed to be feeling, but after much fumbling and a bit of discomfort, I managed to find the ever-elusive sensitive “spot”. 

About half an hour later, I began to feel this warm sensation emanating from my abdomen, my cheeks became flushed, my heart rate increased, and a couple of beads of sweat formed on my brow. Although the thought crossed my mind, I was pretty sure I wasn’t dying, as there was no way that death could feel this good, so I just knuckled down and kept on strummin’. 

Suddenly and without warning, everything went black, my mind stopped working, and a release like nothing I had ever felt before washed over my whole body. My toes tingled, my back arched, and my insides felt like warm, gooey treacle. 

Then, as quickly as it had come (excuse the pun), it went.

I lay there feeling rather confused, a little embarrassed, and very, very sleepy. The last thought I had before I drifted off into a satisfied slumber was “so THAT is what all the fuss is about.”


A woman's hands fingering a peach.


From Girl to Woman with Just One Orgasm

The next morning was the first day of the rest of my existence. 

I looked in the mirror and saw some sort of wanton sex goddess staring back at me. I got dressed – no longer a girl, now a woman – and I skipped downstairs with a new lease on life and a spring in my step. 

Whether or not my mother noticed a change in me, I will never know, but I certainly felt like it was obvious I had undergone some kind of life-changing epiphany. 

In my piano lesson, I sat there trying to concentrate on Rachmaninov, but all I could think of was the warm and sticky sensation that had blown my mind just a few hours before. Could my teacher tell? Did I have “serial masturbator” etched on my forehead? But most importantly, when could I make my excuses and lock myself in my room for round two?

What followed this experience was years of feverish fingering, feelings of guilt and shame, the discovery that I could squirt, and a range of close calls with my mother nearly stumbling upon my stolen moments of self-love. 

One thing that I soon realized is that what I was doing was apparently shameful and frowned upon in our culture, despite how (and perhaps because of) wonderful it was.

At school, the lanky, spotty heartthrobs in my class often talked of wanking, jerking, and cumming – but what I rushed home to do every night was never mentioned between my friends. 

Even as I got older, masturbation was something that women simply did not do, or at least, talk about. The word orgasm was met with a look of embarrassment or shame, and there was no conceivable way that a woman would ever, ever, EVER admit to indulging in a little menage a moi on a lonely winter’s night.


Woman holding up two different vibrators.


Why don’t we talk about female masturbation?

Thankfully, this is now changing. Society is beginning to realize that we like a good old rummage around as much as the guys do, and the stigma and shame that is associated with it is diminishing. 

I enjoy procuring a range of sex toys to aid me in my quest for the best solo-orgasm possible. I talk openly with my partner about my daily masturbation session, and I have no qualms about making myself cum in front of him, when the situation arises.

Being open about our desires and sexual appetites is a big part of feminism and gender equality; it is also an important step towards demolishing the stigma and shame that is forced upon our femininity and as a result, our sexuality.

So, if you are one of the 8% of women who claim not to masturbate, then I implore you, without further ado – take the day off work, go home, get naked, and quite literally scream from the rooftops that making ourselves cum is one of the most fun things we can do with our hands.