How (& Why) I Weened Myself Off Of My Vibrator

vibrator

i am so in love with you // jolie ruin

I got my first vibrator when I was 20—a pink, small, plastic thing with four tiny silver nubs at the end of it which gave the sensation of coolness and vibration when pressed against my skin. It only had two vibration levels—low and high—but its mighty buzzing sent me on quite the excursion of sexual bliss that I had never known existed. I believe I named her, my vibrator, Betty.

Before this, I had always thought that vibrators were completely off limits to me, that they were reserved only for the serious-of-serious sex practitioners, a mode of living that I felt could never be claimed as my own, for I had seen myself for so long as frigid, girlish, and amateur to sex.

But then I received Betty as a gift from my partner—a not-so-subtle kind of nudge in the direction of my erotic curiosities—and I became quickly entranced by its capabilities. How quickly I could access my buried sexuality and elusive orgasm with just the turn of a dial! I thought it would only be a matter of time before I became that which I had secretly yearned for: a bonafide sex goddess, one that could have multiple orgasms and sexy adventures, all by way of that pink plastic symbol of sexuality.

I really thought that. I really thought that by regular and frequent use of my vibrator, I would help train my body to have regular and more frequent orgasms—and not just via the vibrator, but by penetrative sex and maybe even the occasional jostle of the car. A fool-proof plan, one that I put all my hopes into.

But of course that didn’t happen.

Instead, I became quite dependent on Betty for orgasms; I couldn’t have one (or two) without her. When I was having sex with my partner, Betty came too, relentlessly buzzing as he entered me, trying to bring me to climax. And when I tried to pleasure myself the “old-fashioned” way and my orgasm was no where to be found, I would whip out Betty in frustration and she would conjure it out with her pulsing language in a matter of minutes.

Ours became a dysfunctional relationship, one that I loved because of the bliss it gave me, and one that I hated because of the emptiness I often felt afterward.

One afternoon, I was taking a walk with my good friend who began lamenting about the sex toy industry.

“Vibrators are just another form of male-driven sexuality being thrusted onto women,” she explained hotly. “The drilling, the vibrating—it’s teaching women to access their sexualities in the same disconnected ways men do; very wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. It gets us off too quickly.”

She took a sip of her coffee, our steps syncing with each other’s. And I noticed that as she continued on, speaking even more passionately, her steps became quicker, her strides longer. I tried my best to keep up.

“Women need to learn about how their pleasure works,” she explained. “They need to learn how to get themselves off without a toy. Only accessing your orgasms with a piece of vibrating plastic doesn’t allow you to feel the incredible depth of your arousal.”

I listened intently, not really understanding all that she was saying, but recognizing the areas where her words made my ears perk up. Specifically, the part about getting off too quickly. That was a big part of my experience with Betty.

When using her, my arousal was almost always centrally- and remotely-located: right on my clit. Never expansive, rarely gradual; only quick, jolted moments of zero to aroused, no steady, succulent climb. And then, from there, full speed ahead straight to orgasm. Most of the time, I would come in less than three minutes using my vibrator, making my arousal hurried and my climax short-lived.

While the “sex” between us was good, I often felt that the sensations of pleasure didn’t last long enough, leaving me to feel a tinge of dissatisfaction at the rushedness. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t like that, I didn’t want that. (And apparently I wasn’t the only one.)

I wanted more control of my arousal and more of a connection to my orgasm. I wanted slow sex. I wanted lasting juiciness. I wanted to continue to explore my sexuality without needing to be tethered to a battery-operated device. I especially wanted to experience the organic accumulation of sexual energy by playing with different sensations all over my body, not just on my clit.

I didn’t think any of this—conscious, full-bodied, expansive arousal and pleasure—could be had without the aid of a sex toy or a magical warming lubricant. But the very impassioned conversation I had with my friend tipped me over the edge of possibility. I wanted to try to find and experience this side of the erotic again.

So I began to experiment.

I had already tried to masturbate myself without the use of Betty, trying to quit cold turkey, but that ended with me crying myself to sleep at how not-aroused I was, even after 30 minutes of stroking on a well-lubed finger, feeling broken and incredibly dejected. Instead, I wanted to try something easier, both on my mind and my body.

I wanted to try to ween myself from my vibrator with the help of my vibrator, alternating between battery-operated pleasure and good ol’ fashioned finger-stroking.

The goal being to slowly ween myself off of Betty, eventually getting to the point where I could, from start to finish, pleasure myself to back-arching orgasm without the use of her at all.

Because more than anything, I wanted the ability to choose—to have an self-appointed orgasm via vibrator or my fingers if I wanted to. And my—dare I say this?—addiction to vibration-induced climaxed was not allowing me that freedom.

There was a time where I had that freedom, where I could get off with mere dirty thoughts. And before I started the experiment, I reminded myself of those times.

By holding memories in my mind of when there was no dependency on a buzzing device, I was reminded that this was about simply reclaiming something I had lost, not fixing something that was broken.

And so I began.

And the practice looked like this:

1. Beginning by taking in deep breaths, getting in my body.
2. Rubbing my body sensually in all the right places, waking up my body.
3. Turn on vibrator, pleasure for 15 seconds. Stop.
4. Lube finger, pleasure for 15 seconds. Stop. 
5. Switch back over to vibrator, this time for 30 seconds. Stop.
6. Back to fingers, also for 30 seconds. Stop.
7. Continue at these intervals until on the verge of climax. Stop.
8. Then. . . pleasure myself to orgasm with fingers only.
9. Orgasm, allowing myself to really feel the sensations in my body.
10. Ending with a few deep, conscious breaths, bathing in the afterglow.

I did this whenever I wanted to masturbate, and even when I was having sex (penetrative, mutual masturbation, etc.) with my partner. The beauty of this practice, aside from having some really awesome orgasms, is that it helped to renew my faith in my ability to get myself off sans vibration. I wasn’t broken, my technique wasn’t off. I just needed to go back to my roots.

After several months of consistent weening, I completely ditched my vibrator. No longer was I a slave to Betty’s pulsating lullaby. I could play with my sexual energy and bring myself to climax without her help. Yes.

At this point, I would like to say explicitly:

There is absolutely nothing inherently wrong with or bad about vibrators (or any sex toys for that matter).

Sex toys (like porn) can be glorious tools to enhance and uncover our erotic selves; they can help to prompt and further our sexual sovereignty and liberation. It’s only when these tools leave us feeling as though we don’t have a choice to explore other sexual expressions that it becomes a problem.

Simply put: Vibrators shouldn’t be a “should” in sexual expression. They shouldn’t be imposed on our sexuality to heed to a particular one-size-fits-all model to access our pleasure and orgasm. The only “should” that exists in sexuality is our right to choose the ways in which we explore and express our erotic energies.

And I, personally, wanted the freedom to choose.

Naturally, it takes me a bit longer to get there (“there” being climax) but I thoroughly enjoy the slow and steady build up to climax, the lovely little dance that I do with my erotic energy, one that rises and falls, one that fills me up slowly with ripe, juicy arousal.

As for Betty, her small but mighty motor had long-since died, but I held onto her as long as I could for sentimental reasons. She was my induction into adult sexuality, my orgasmic savior, after all. But when I began to grow tired of her lifeless shell taking up space in my bedside table drawer, I cleaned her up and gave her a proper, environmentally-friendly burial.

And I never looked back.

***

Last year, I discovered the most amazing, feminine, super magical sex toy. It’s been giving me delicious orgasms and leaving my body feeling such bliss every time I use it—and it’s battery-free! I’ve been telling all my girlfriends about and I’ll be telling you all about it next week—with a chance for you to get your own.

I’ll give you some hints: It’s made from 100% natural materials, has the ability to heal your body, would look great on your altar, AND is likely something Aphrodite would use to pleasure herself.

Go to the next post to learn what it is >>

© 2017 SLL / Fueled by orgasm and fierce self-care