Knocked Up and Whacking Off

By Jenny Mollen

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<p>When the biggest miracle of your life is Internet porn. </p>


FOR WOMEN, masturbation can start as early as three years old or as late as never. I don’t think I understood how to do it correctly until I was in my early 20s. Instead, rubbing up and down on people and then freaking out and taking the morning-after pill was sort of my standard practice. Then one day, during sex with a guy who later wrote me a breakup note in his own blood, I climaxed for the first time. I was on top and I might have smothered his head with a pillow to stop him from telling me he was in pain and that his dick was going to break off, but at last it worked. I finally knew what everyone was talking about when they’d say, “If you aren’t sure you’ve had an orgasm, you definitely haven’t.”

Shortly after this encounter, I tried to stimulate myself on my own. And not unlike building your first piece of shitty furniture from IKEA, it took two hours longer than it should have. The end result, however, was better than a plate of Swedish meatballs. I’d finally cracked the code to my own libido and there was no turning back.  

For the first few months, I tried to give myself an orgasm a day. Ten years later, I was lucky if I was giving myself one a month. Even with diligent practice, reaching a climax never got easier. I put too much thought into the whole process. Like with sex, I couldn’t just relax and turn my brain off. I needed to construct crazy scenarios in my mind, I needed to detach emotionally from my real self and I needed to make sure my dogs weren’t judging me. 

Then I got pregnant.

This is the part where I’m supposed to yammer on about the miracle of life and how having another being growing inside you is the most incredible thing a woman can ever hope to experience. 

Wrong. 

The greatest thing about being pregnant is the orgasms. 

Somewhere around my second trimester, right around the time I stopped vomiting and just after I stopped telling my therapist that I feared my husband might not make a good parent because he farts in public, I realized that I could orgasm if I even thought about sex. My husband benefited greatly from this revelation, but quite frankly, there was only so much he could give. I was insatiable. An average day would start with me begging him to fuck me in the morning, followed by me counting the seconds until he left the house so I could start fucking myself. I was in the middle of finishing my book, so instead of coffee breaks I took porn breaks. 

I’d watched my fair share of Internet porn in the past, but I wasn’t well versed in the omnifarious diversity of options available mere inches from my fingertips. I did my due diligence and learned buzzwords like “creampie,” “DP” and “gonzo.”  What I liked would change and evolve from week to week, so I found myself alternating between different sites based on my mood. 

A typical day would look like this: I’d work on my book, type a few pages about how my parents loved themselves more than me. Then I’d take off my pants and run around the room looking for my stretch mark prevention oil. Then I’d put a T-shirt over my laptop camera because I’ve head rumors of people getting their photos snapped while ejaculating. Then I’d lather myself with Mother’s Special Blend (available at Whole Foods). 

Most of the time I’d start out on YouPorn.com and typically watch either a threesome or some kind of rough double-penetration scene to get me warmed up. I always like to start with a video where so much is going on that I don’t have time to get distracted by the weird Tasmanian Devil tattoo on an actress’ ass or wonder why a guy goes into porn if he has a penis skinnier than a Playtex slender tampon.  Without fail, I’d come in less than 90 seconds. Then I’d take a quick breather, wash my hands and buy a candle or some sort of baby outfit on Gilt.com and then start the process all over again. Once I was situated comfortably back in front of my laptop and out of sight of my judgmental poodles, I’d travel over to PornHub.com and hunt for the best lesbian scene I could find. The second orgasm always took a minute or two longer, so I had more time to relax and savor the build.

With time, I shared my new hobby with my husband, and he welcomed the idea of incorporating porn into our commonplace married-people sex. We compared our favorite sites and rated each video after usage. Sometimes, I’d find myself silently judging the videos he picked as being boring and low-rent. The audio drove him crazy, whereas I needed the volume all the way up to drown out the voices in my head screaming, “Why is nobody stimulating her clitoris?” As a woman, I didn’t give a shit about a come shot or any scene where a chick was giving a blowjob unless another orifice on her body was being penetrated. I didn’t want my porn to simulate my real life; I wanted it to help me escape my real life.

On several sites I noticed an option for female-friendly porn. This option was clearly created by a man, because what men fail to realize is that women aren’t looking for a fairy tale. They too want to feel provoked, dirty and slightly offended. When I’m masturbating, I’m busy conjuring up the most explicit things I can think of. I’m free of worrying about making a real connection with a human being or trying to intuit somebody else’s innermost desires. Watching porn with your partner, especially someone you’ve been fucking for over half a decade, takes the pressure off trying to be everything to that one person. Instead, let them fill in the blanks, create whatever narrative works on that specific day and worry about your own goddamn orgasm. 

It’s hard to say whether it’s all the porn or just the fact that there is a tiny fetal penis inside me 24/7, but I’ve never been so in touch with my sexuality. I’m finally one of those girls who can just enjoy the process of finding my orgasm without the stress of worrying about whether I’m going to eat carbs for dinner or whether my poodles are secretly my prudish grandparents reincarnated. Masturbating all day, with the added bonus of being able to pretend you didn’t masturbate all day because you still have the energy for a few more orgasms, is the real miracle of life.  

If you are pregnant or are currently living with someone you believe is pregnant, please take advantage of what I believe is one of the most incredible things any of us can ever hope to experience. 

Happy whacking!


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