When you hate your body and you masturbate, you’re basically making love to your enemy. It’s pure masochism. And you don’t even need all those whips and chains to cause pain. You have your own self to do that for you.
At first, you feel a little shy. You’re not comfortable with your body – not really. You never undress in front of the mirror (god, imagine the horror); things that are out of sight can’t be much prettier than what’s in sight, right? Every inch of your skin mirrors the daily curses you give yourself and the jabs that people have ‘casually’ thrown at you.
You have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy with your vagina. You take good care of her, keep her clean and wipe the blood that she weeps every month. When she needs some pleasure, you make sure she gets it from others.
But when there’s nobody around, she needs it from you.
So you give it to her. You ensure the room’s all dark and lit up only with Hozier’s dreamy voice (hey, we all have our preferences). And then you drag your hand down your body, over the red and white stretch marks, the forest of hair that won’t stop growing, the curves of fat that sit unannounced between your breasts and hips. And you reach your vagina. She is soft, a bit wet, and aching for some love.
Some self-love, to be precise. You’re weak, so you try your best to show it to her. It could only take a few minutes, right? And then you’ll feel great, right?
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But self-love is confusing for you, so you try and emulate his touch, the way his fingers would softly tease and caress and tickle, as though he were toying with a delicate bird. And it feels good. It feels pretty damn good. The lighting (or lack of) is right, Hozier is taking you to another world, and your fingers are recreating a love that you thought only he could give you.
You have given that love to yourself.
Until it’s time to orgasm. Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed; how could you make yourself feel this good? How dare you? You find it impossible to forgive your body for constantly breaking and injuring itself. You are angry at your body for growing bumps and zits and hair rebelliously, whenever it feels like, while you’re guzzling down vegetable juice and running everyday. You constantly chastise your body and scorn at its audacity to be the way it is, and not even try to fit in. You just ate an entire chocolate today, breaking your week-long diet. Yet, here you are, making yourself feel good. And the damn tears won’t stop flowing.
This freaks you out. It’s also not the first time it’s happened. Of course the next step is to Google (in incognito mode) “why do I cry when I masturbate”.
The results: utter horror. You scroll through a thread of seriously worrying theories: you’ve been sexually assaulted, had an unconventional childhood, you’re sexually repressed, religion has made you this way, you’re victim to how women were made to feel shameful and guilty… back in the 19th century.
You’re not feminist enough, not free enough, not sexually aware enough; you’re not enough. Not even for yourself.
You toss your phone away, but you can’t stop crying. You think about him, how he’d make you feel after, how he’d hold you in his arms. So, you hold yourself. You curl up and rock yourself, and apologise for being unable to give yourself the love you need. The love you deserve.
Slowly, exhaustion takes over. Your tears settle into a cooling aura of self-loathe that simmers back into your body.
You get a good night’s sleep.
Saranya Subramanian is a 22-year-old literature aficionado based in Bombay. She spends her time singing to herself and watching Madhubala videos (sigh). And she writes because, well, it’s all that she can really do.
Featured image credit: Reuters/Tobias Schwarz