I Spent 2 Weeks Masturbating Without Porn and Unleashed a New Kind of Orgasm

Those of you who listen to Work Wives or have read pretty much anything I’ve written for Glamour know me as the Liberace of masturbation. When it comes to self-love, my guiding principle is that more is more. On a regular night I’ll work my way through two or three vibrators. I have also been known to rock out with multiple screens to ensure I don’t go a second without visual stimulation. Hey, Liberace liked to pile on the gold; I like to pile on the pleasure.

But here’s where it’s left me: terrified that I can’t go back to simpler times, back when all I needed to do was close my eyes and think of Dylan McKay working on his bike under the hot L.A. sun (paired with about nine seconds of clitoral stimulation).

I recently aired this concern to my bestie, and she had an excellent point to make: “You’ll be screwed in the zombie apocalypse if you don’t sort that shit out.”

So began my quest to go cold turkey—no porn, no sex toys, no masturbatory assistance whatsoever—until I could reach climax using only what my mama gave me. For posterity I decided to document how it went.

I Cheated Straight Out of the Gate

Here’s a very important tip for those of you considering a return to manual masturbation sans porn: Don’t. Just don’t do it. But if you must, wean yourself off slowly. What I should have done, instead of cut my supply entirely, was begin this journey without vibrators, but with porn. Then after a few days, I should have cut back the visual stimulation to help kick-start that lazy-ass imagination of mine (which seems to be just fine at waking me up at 3:00 A.M. to tell me there is probably someone hiding behind my shower curtain but has trouble getting into gear when I need it most).

Going cold turkey meant that, after 10 minutes of misery, I grew so frustrated that I had no choice but to return to the guaranteed pleasure of my vibrators.

My Clit and I Had a Serious Falling-out

After a few days of cheating on the project, I doubled down on my resolve. That meant long, dry, and tiring sessions of rubbing my clitoris while she paid absolutely no attention to me. Have you ever rung someone’s doorbell when you knew they were home, but they didn’t answer? It was kind of like that. But instead of stopping after three attempts, I just kept going.

Let me tell you this: If it doesn’t happen in under 20 minutes, leave your clitoris alone. If you climax more easily from penetration, you may have a few more minutes before your bits shut down the moisture and retract all nerve endings. In the end, if she’s not interested in what you’ve got to offer, she’s not coming to the door.

An Act of Desperation

A few days ago I googled, “how likely is a zombie apocalypse”. After that, when I had almost hit masturbatory rock bottom, I did something truly desperate: I googled “Dylan McKay sexiest scenes.”

While it did lead me to several scenes in which a determined Brenda attempts to resist the siren call of a mostly topless, slightly bandaged Dylan, and one kinda hot, though brief, make-out (thanks for nothing, Mr. Walsh), it wasn’t enough to get my clitoris interested. Clearly she’s not the nostalgic type.

I Drunk-Sexed Myself and Uncovered a New Orgasm

Like most sex ruts, this one ended with a little help from everyone’s fickle friend, alcohol—and a few hours of light flirting with a handsome waiter (kind sir, you’ll never know what good you’ve truly done).

The result was an epic orgasm. It wasn’t more “intense” per se, but it did have a more sustained climax than my assisted orgasms (that is, it didn’t peak as high, but it lasted longer). I won’t lie, I did stop at about the 13-minute mark for some lubrication (which seemed to up the sensitivity—bonus!), and yes, it took me longer than it would have with equipment, but I got there. And when I was done, I felt more spent than usual; ordinarily I would have waited a few minutes before starting up again, but this time I didn’t need (or want) to. Maybe it was the physical workout, maybe it was the brainpower, or maybe it was both.

Here’s what I learned about zombie apocalypse masturbation: You are your own worst enemy. The moment I stopped thinking that my clit was staring up at me through my fingers with a disappointed look on her face, it all came together. My imagination had more than enough material to keep me occupied. While I did appreciate uncovering a brand-new type of orgasm, I can’t say that manual masturbation (without porn) will become a regular part of my repertoire. I think I’ll treat it more like CPR—an important life skill that’s worth an annual refresher in case of an emergency.

Consider me prepared for the end of days.