Joanne: The Discovery

So, you will see from the previous episode that I can get a bit dark and controlling when talking about men. Better get back to the masturbation.

I had no boyfriends to speak of before the age of sixteen. This is partly because my mother sent me to an all girls’ school, and also I think it was because I was so pretty that none of the boys I knew had the courage to come near me. So, before that time, it was all solo action.

When I hit sixteen, I stopped being a tomboy. The journals I was keeping were longer filled with fantasy islands made for exploration, and drawings of the strange creatures that lived there. Instead, I began to be interested in fashion, and also, in my body, even more than before.

I kept one drawing journal that was about all the clothes that I thought I would design one day. Mostly these were copies of things I had seen in magazines. One, from the year 2000, has lots denim and leather, and the women all have long straight hair, and when I look back, I realise they were all a kind of new age bikie chick, who would probably have to change in order to actually ride a real motorcycle.

Then suddenly, it all changes to vintage dresses. I was sixteen. I was into femininity.

The other kind of ‘diary’ was all online, and in my head, really. I looked on the net, on sexual health sites for teenage girls, I and found a lot of information on what masturbation was about, and how other girls did it, and I checked out what worked and what didn’t. Systematically.

For the record: pillow humping doesn’t work for me. Nor does lying with my pussy under the bath spout. Putting things in my ass doesn’t do anything for me. Rolling my clit hood back and directly touching my clit just makes it feel sore. And, the thing with the hairdryer? What was that about?  Etc. Etc.

In fact, most of the newfangled methods I came across didn’t work out and after twenty minutes of frustration I would end the session as normal, on my back with a home-made dildo inside me and my middle finger on the hood of my clitoris, writhing and straining to come, and thoroughly enjoying it. I thought I was in ecstasy.

Then, around the time I turned sixteen, I came across something else.

I read this post on a website (called The Clit dot com, incidentally), by an older woman, saying that if she just left the tip of her vibrator on her clitoris, and relaxed, she could come over and over again. The first few times, she said she had to push through a little discomfort right after she came, a kind of electric feeling, but after that, she could go straight onto the next one. Once she had gotten used to it, the orgasms just kept coming, like waves. She said she could have as many as forty.

Forty? Christ. I didn’t believe her, of course. Up to that time, I could only have about ten, and that was really unusual. Most of the time I would have two or three, and then my clitoris would get sore. And, I always had to wait a few moments before I could start again. I knew the electric sensation she was talking about, where my clit retracted and just didn’t want to be touched.

But I wanted to check out if what the woman said was possible, so, I got my first vibrator, a thin purple thing, which cost ten dollars, ran on two small cell batteries and had a simple dial to turn it up. (It stopped working after two sessions. I guess the connections must have corroded.)

And that night – in fact it was Tuesday, June the 20th, 2000 – I tried it out, doing just what she said.

And it worked.

It really, really worked.

I can still remember the sense of amazement. It was like waking up. I don’t know how many times I came, because that wasn’t really the point. It was the sense of rolling along effortlessly, from one to the next.

I still sometimes go back to that post and read it, it’s still there. I even sent a reply, years later, thanking her, but she never replied, I guess she had just logged in and posted, and forgotten about it. But it made a huge impact on me. And I wonder how many other girls read it and tried it, and made the discovery.

Older girls at school taught me how to have a few. The older woman online taught me how to have many.

Joanne archive is here

Joanne: Testing

Time to talk about men, again. That’s the pattern of this, by the way. Masturbation, men, and my life as it was last year.

When I go out with a guy, I like to test them out. I partly do it to see if they can defend themselves. But there’s also a few things about sex that I really need to know before I will consider going out with someone.

I went out on a single date with this guy Bill, a barman, earlier on in the year, because he’d asked me out while I was in his pub. We went to another place, a gastro-pub, one of those ones with booths around the edges, and he’d made sure we got one. He was decent looking and confident and quite funny, and I thought I might be interested in him, so I got down to the testing pretty much straight away, as soon as we’d ordered.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’ I asked.


‘Do you find me attractive?’

He laughed. ‘Yep. You could say that.’

‘Do you want to go to bed with me?’

He laughed again. ‘Wow. You’re pretty direct. Yes, I definitely want to go to bed with you, Joanne.’

‘OK. Do you masturbate? I know that’s direct as well, but I’m just interested.’

‘Um. Yes, I masturbate. Do you normally do this on dates?’

‘Yes, I do. What do you think about when you masturbate?’ I asked.

Now he stopped laughing and lowered his voice. ‘Wow, you really give a guy the third degree, don’t you? Why do you want to know that?’

‘I’m just really curious. You don’t have to answer.’

He puffed out his chest a bit. ‘No. OK, I’ll answer. To be honest I usually think about women, and being in bed with them.’

‘What’s happening in the bed?’

‘This is the most intense first date I have ever had!’ he said. ‘What’s happening in the bed is that, um, the girl I am with is having a really great time. And before you ask, yes, I have thought about giving you a good time.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask that. Do you think about the girl giving you a good time?’

‘Um…no, not as often. Hold on a second. What do you think about? Do you masturbate?’

‘Yes,’ I said, poker faced.  ‘I do it all the time. I did it before you picked me up actually. And I usually think about how good my vagina feels.’

(That last part wasn’t actually true. I think about men all the time. I just don’t think about them giving me a good time.)

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‘Hmmm. That’s hot,’ he said. You’re wild, you know that?’

‘Thanks, I guess. Anyway, do you still want to go to bed with me later?’

‘Definitely,’ he said.

‘I want to give you a blow job,’ I said. His eyed widened for about the fourth time in the conversation.

‘Wow. Great. I’d like to return the favour.’

‘Hmmm. That won’t be necessary. Like I said I already sorted myself out before you came to get me. But thanks.’

His face fell, and I knew I couldn’t be with him. That was confirmed afterwards. I gave him the blow job, and then he started asking me if I wanted to come.

‘No, I already said. Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘You’re sure? You might find that if you tried for a while, you’ll get horny again.’

And there it is. The attempt to take my vagina away from me, and use it to give me “a good time.”

I am definitely not interested in this guy.

‘Probably heard you in Norway…’

Hi, it’s me, Caprice. I wanted to tell you my side of the story. I see my ex-boyfriend John has been on here talking all kinds of shit about me, and how I treated him unfairly and used him for money. Well, some of that’s true but a lot of it is bullshit, and I wanted to say why.

Here’s the thing: I knew John was a cheater. I knew he had cheated on a previous girlfriend, and I knew he always had eyes for other women too. He was the kind of guy who always had eyes for the prettiest girl in the room. A lot of the time, it was me. But if it wasn’t, he’d ignore me like I was a grandmother. He was just like that. So, I didn’t feel bad about cheating on him so much because I knew that he was a cheater at heart, even if he never actually cheated on me.

OK, so I am admitting I cheated on John, but it’s not actually what you might think. Basically, every month or so when I had money, I used to slip away to this place in Soho where they did erotic massage and lesbian escorts and BDSM and all sorts of things, and I would let Jay, the lady who ran the place, do this to me.

Jay was about thirty-five and calm and confident and mature and had amazing arms and hands and a lovely, husky East End accent. I never asked if she was a lesbian but the place catered mostly for women, so I guess she was.

She’d start by totally coating me in oil, and gently working the tension out of all the big muscles, before moving up to my shoulders, and then starting to gently tease my breasts, which makes the nipples puff up.

Then she’d focus on them more intently, and while she was doing that she’d start talking me through some stuff that was almost like hypnosis. She’d tell me to block out thoughts about past, future, or any other people, and just focus on breathing good energy all through my body, which became the centre of the world. After a few minutes of this, I was totally under the spell.

The first time she did this I thought an erotic full body massage would probably not include my pussy, but when I felt her fingers drift down and start brushing my clitoris, I realised that indeed, it really was going to be the full body. I did wonder if this was going to cost more, but it felt so good I didn’t say anything.

‘You are lovely,’ said Jay, calmly playing with my vagina. ‘I’d like to make to come now.’

I moaned my compliance and she asked me to spread my legs. She began slowly massaging my clitoris and labia. I felt dizzy, completely relaxed, and waves of tingling pleasure began rushing up into all the places where I had had just breathed the good energy.

After a few more minutes her fingers delved deeper into my pussy and began to play around the opening, the first inch. The back of my cunt now glowed with pleasure and yearned to be filled, and sensations like minor orgasms began to sweep through me in time with my breathing.

‘Lift your legs,’ she said, and my body obeyed without knowing too much about it and she held them in place with one strong arm.

For a moment her thumb played teasingly in the opening of my cunt, and I squealed and was about to start begging her to put something inside me when she plunged her middle finger in deep and I wailed.

She didn’t move her finger in and out, but pulled her hand up and down rapidly, so the tip of her finger rubbed into the top wall of my pussy over and over, and I felt an absolutely huge orgasm building inside me, and I began to moan uncontrollably.

Then after a minute of that, she withdrew, but was soon back inside me with two fingers, and this time she went at it hard and fast on the top wall of my pussy and within about fifteen seconds, I had the largest orgasm I had ever had, bigger than I even used to think was possible. (I’ve had plenty bigger, since then. Most of them from Jay, and for a hundred pounds. Total bargain.)

‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘Next time we better gag you, though.’

‘Was I noisy?’ I said, worried.

She laughed. ‘They probably heard you in Norway, love. You’ve got to let go more, that’s my advice.’

I wanted to tell her about John, about boys in general, about how I constantly worry, that I will be rejected, that I will be a loser, that I will have to work at some crappy job the rest of my life. But she was just a masseuse, not a therapist.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Um, that was totally amazing.’

‘Spread the word, girl. Tell your girlfriends I’m the best in London,’ she said.

‘I don’t really have girlfriends,’ I said. ‘I’m not actually a lesbian.’

She laughed again, the self assured tone. ‘Right. But you don’t have to justify yourself to me, darling. Not in here.’

So that’s the story of my first massage, and how I went home feeling amazing, and dimly wondering if I was in fact, a lesbian.

And, that is what I used to think about when I was with John, and when I was masturbating.

Incidentally, he is wrong about all that. I did have orgasms with him, usually because I was thinking about Jay’s fingers. But he was right about me faking the second one in the bath, that time he came in to perv on me.

I am not sure why I did that, really. Just to be mean, I suppose.

Joanne: The Ox and the Fox

At the time of this story, I was working designing graphics and layouts for a large publishing company that specialises in travel and adventure books, and also has an imprint of pseudo-factual kids’ books about Pirates and Zombies and Mummies and so on.

You know when people talk about their career and they say “I know it sounds glamorous, but…”? And then they play it down and tell you about all the bad things about it? You end up thinking, “you actually want us to think it’s glamorous, don’t you,” or, “actually I never thought it sounded glamorous in the first place.”

Well, illustration actually is really glamorous. Even if you didn’t think it was. It is.

To start with, the books we do are pretty cool. The thing I’d been working on that week was a series of maps illustrating Scott’s exploration of the Antarctic, and the main editor Mr Peterson said I could totally go for it with the whales’ tails and other cartouches, which I still love to do. I even did a squid with a beady eye, which made him laugh.

In between working up drafts of those, Mike the Ox would come and show me his layouts for the Werewolf volume we were doing, which had a series of very neat drawings showing exactly how the man’s body got ripped apart by the inevitable full moon transformation. I’d told him they needed to be more colorful and flamboyant and less like something out of an anatomy textbook, and he’d made a rumbling noise, and wandered off back into the fields to eat grass, um, back to his desk to keep working.

I made a mental note to replay the little rumbling noise a few times in my head, when I got home.

I kinda like Mike in that way, you see. I haven’t slept with him. But I do like him.

After that encounter with the Ox, I went into see my boss, Mr. Peterson, the old Fox.

morenas_011 - Copy (3)Mr. Peterson is about fifty five, but very well preserved and quite attractive. He is a talented artist too, but he barely gets to do much of it. He’s too busy looking after the business. I admire that, and I’m grateful. I’m not sure that I’d want to be in his position, though.

‘Ah, Joanna’, he always says, in an avuncular tone. ‘What’s happening?’

I walk into his office and instead of sitting opposite him, I sit down sideways to him with my legs crossed, and drink a glass of water.

His gaze is not drawn to my thighs.

‘Mr Peterson, this isn’t about my work. It’s about Mike’s,’ I said, shuffling forward on the chair a little further. My work attire is pretty respectable up top, but down below, the skirt is short indeed . How is he not looking at me?

‘Ah, indeed. Tell me?’ He sounds intrigued.

I lean forward. ‘Well, John, I just wanted to say that his work has really been great lately. He’s reliable and he’s creative and he’s hardworking. Best on my team, for sure. So…’

‘Yes?’  Mr. Peterson raises his eyebrows and seems almost amused. I have managed to take him by surprise, at least. It’s just not with my legs.

‘So, I’d like to support his application for a promotion to senior illustrator. I know he’s been working on one.  And we used to have two here. We get on very well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem if we are both on the same level.’

‘I agree, that is a good idea,’ said my boss. ‘But, I’m afraid that Michael has not made any such application to me. If he does, it will be favorably received. But it may be the case that whatever he has been working on, it isn’t that. Now, is that all?’

I left his office.

Is that all?

No one ever says that to me!

Mr. Peterson and I have been playing this game ever since I started working here a few years ago.  I’m pretty sure he wants me. And sooner or later, he’s going to slip up. An invitation to work on something with him, alone. A gaping stare at my chest. A moment of hesitation as I raise my arms before I get something from a shelf.

And then I will know.

(Joanne archive is here)

Wish she hadn’t been so sexy

This is my ex-girlfriend Caprice, settling in for a bath. Last time, I told you about how she basically got me to invite her to move in, by letting me take candid pictures of her on a train. I hope that gave you some idea of what she was like.

After she moved in, the games continued. She kept working as a temp and made a little money, although she spent most of it on herself. She hated her job, and moaned about it constantly. She said her main passion was to be a masseuse and she was going to train to be one, some day. But I had a few massages from her and they were ordinary. She just pinched my shoulder muscles for a while, to no real purpose. It seemed to me that she had no passion for it at all. She always seemed to like getting them, though. Went to some place in the city once a month or so.

In fact I don’t think Caprice ever really had much passion for most things – especially me. No matter what I did, I never really got very far with her. She liked being able to say she was going out with a successful sound engineer, and she loved my apartment, but I never made her smile (on purpose), and in bed, I doubt that gave her a single real orgasm in the whole two years I was with her. She was so good at faking things, it was impossible to tell.

On this particular occasion I came in when she was having a bath – her second of the day, in fact – and I found her masturbating. She quickly covered herself, as though her pussy was something I wasn’t supposed to see, even though we’d had sex the night before.

‘What do want?’ she asked.

‘I just wanted to see what you were doing,’ I replied.

‘You saw what I was doing. Happy?’

‘Caprice…maybe I could stay. Maybe I could just watch, to see what you do.’

I said this because I wanted to see what she was like, masturbating. Maybe if I watched her give herself an orgasm, I would know what it looked like. That’s how desperate I was.

‘So you’re just going to stand there?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Go for it. Just pretend I’m not here.’

‘Okay,’ she said. (I realised later that that this was what she did most of the time, anyway.)

So she ignored me and got down to it. She pulled out a glass dildo that I did not know that she owned, and moved it in and out of herself, very slowly, with her eyes closed. I was surprised by how gentle the motions were. She hardly seemed to be moving at all, but her body started to stiffen and sway in time with some rhythm she was keeping in her head.

After about five minutes of this she lifted a leg and came in from a slightly different angle, and she started making a soft, sighing noise that I had never heard before. Her eyes were still closed, and I suspected she was fantasizing about something, probably not me.

I had no erection as I watched this. In fact I was dismayed by how little it looked like what we did together, and how little I seemed to know about my girlfriend.

After a few minutes with her leg up, she went quiet and held her breath, and I think that was when she actually came, her face calm with concentration.

But then she opened her eyes just for a moment and looked at me, and then I saw her give a faint smile as she looked away. She still had the dildo inside her, and she moved it in and out a few times, and made a sound, a little gasp, exactly the noise that she makes when she comes with me.

I’m pretty sure it was fake.

Who fakes an orgasm while masturbating? Especially if they have just had one? I can never be sure that this is what Caprice actually did that day, but my instinct is pretty strong. It just fits with everything else about her.

Afterwards I asked her what she had been fantasizing about.

‘Nothing,’ she said. I knew she was lying.

I wish she hadn’t been so sexy, honestly. I wish that cold, manipulative people were all ugly, and warm-hearted generous girls were gorgeous. Then, I’d never have gone out with her. And I’d never gotten into that total mess when her sister Tiffany came to stay.

Joanne Goes Out on Friday Night (part 1)

So, my story of masturbation has been going on for a long time, really. Men come into the story a bit later, but there’s been plenty of them, too. But things have come to a head lately and I want to tell you about it. Let’s start one Friday night, late last year, in 2012.

It was an important time for me. I was waiting for a call to see if I got a design fellowship offer in the United States, and it hadn’t come in yet. So I went out to make my mind off things. I did not get to the bar until just after ten, and when I got in my work crew were already well into it. Some of the men would already be starting to calculate how many more drinks they could squeeze in before the bell was rung at eleven.  Some sounded like they had been there since just after five.

bday03I wasn’t in a very good mood when i arrived but I cheered pretty quickly when James, one of the more sober contestants, came over to say hello

I like James. He’s an accounts manger, not an artist, but he is polite and well mannered, and makes decent conversation, and when he’s cocky he usually gets it right. I know he likes to look at my armpits and his eyes went immediately toward them, but he found them covered, and he settled for a good look at my breasts. Then he was back in the room.

‘Um, hi, Joanne. You’re here pretty late. Do you want a drink?’

‘Thanks. VAT.’

He smiled and disappeared into the throng at the bar. That was when Mike from my office came up.

I like Mike too. He’s an artist like me, at a junior level, and technically I’m his boss. I like him because he works hard and never lets me down, and then when he goes out, he always gets very drunk and doesn’t say anything. He just stands there grinning like a big drunk Ox.

While I waited on my drink I poked him gently in the stomach and offered him some chocolate.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You OK?’

I could smell the beer and the cologne and the day’s sweat on him, and I didn’t mind it at all, because that is exactly what I would expect my big drunk work Ox to smell like.

‘Yep, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Good night?’

‘Oh, the usual.’ He grinned again and sort of faded into the background when James came back.

The VAT was not a double and James did not say “get that into you” when he handed it to me. More points for James. His eyes were quickly back on my chest again.

‘Looking for someone?’ I said.

‘You’re going to do a lot of exercise or you’ll get back problems,’ he replied with a cheeky smile.

‘I should,’ I admitted. ‘But I still feel fine so there’s not much incentive.’

He laughed, and nodded. Still more kudos for James. I thought about asking him to go dancing with me, when everyone else had gone home.

But then, Gareth came over.

Fucking Gareth.

Gareth is my ex-boyfriend and I do not like that fact.

Actually, I dislike it so much that I wish there was such a thing as an ex-ex boyfriend because then he could be in that category; formerly my ex-boyfriend, but now no longer, because of time travel.

That’s right. Gareth is not my ex-boyfriend. I never started sleeping with Gareth. I was never taken in by his charm, and do not have the misfortune of knowing how charmless he is when he is alone with a woman. I have never been on the receiving end of one of his eleven minute power fucks. I do not have that fading memory of the seven rushed, panicky orgasms he gave me. I did not have to go to the bathroom afterwards and hastily finish the job while I pretended to pee. And, I did not have to put up with him questioning me afterwards, about whether I was satisfied.

All thanks to the wonders of time travel.

I do not like Gareth, obviously.

Actually, I don’t really like many of my ex-boyfriends. And I don’t really ‘date’ men any more.  I just pick them up sometimes.