He Mocked Me for Masturbating After He Already Came

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In the wake of my experience with Ben, I changed my attitude toward dating. I was adamant about putting my orgasm front and center. I did this as quitting dating was not an option. I was enjoying it too much.

Yes, even after encountering a selfish lover like Ben, still wanted to continue to get out there and meet men. I liked dating. I enjoyed all the casual sex. I simply refused to be used again.

That was how Ben made me feel: used.

I know I wrote earlier that I no longer cared if a man wanted a relationship with me or thought I was "easy" if I went to bed with him "too soon." I fully embraced my identity as a slut. Seriously—if that was what men needed to call me, then so be it.

But I balked at letting a guy "get his," leaving me with a "blue vulva." Yup, you heard that right. Men get blue balls. Women get a blue vulva.

It "hurt" to get all wound up and then left high and dry—so I made a decision to rectify this issue. If I was getting down with a guy and he was going to come, I would come, too.

And if he couldn't make it happen, then I would make it happen for myself. I would masturbate during or after sex with a man if I needed to.

This was my attitude when I met Doug.

Doug was a freelance art director. He was cute and creative and I thought we'd have fun in bed. That's why I met him—for sex.

When we were out on our first date and he asked what I did in my free time, I said: "This."

"This?" he asked, perplexed.

"Dating," I clarified. But "this" was actually double-speak for having casual sex.

We went back to his place after we had dinner together. He did give me more oral sex than Ben had. But once he was inside of me, he gave a few quick thrusts, then crumpled on top of me.

He'd climaxed.

The hell if I was going to suffer through another "blue vulva" episode as I had with Ben. I didn't even ask Doug to get me off. I reached between my legs and fondled myself. The very least I expected was for Dave to remain at my side while I masturbated.

I wanted him to kiss me, stroke my nipples—to help me make myself orgasm while I played with my clit. I wanted him to be unselfish — but that didn't happen. To my utter dismay, when I started masturbating, he got up and left the room.

"Where are you going?" I said.

"We already had sex. I don't understand why you're diddling yourself."

Yes, we'd had sex—but I wasn't done yet. So there I was, left to masturbate to climax alone. I finished myself off with my hand  and then went to find Doug. He was seated in the kitchen.

"Why did you leave when I started masturbating?" I asked.

"I didn't want to be there with you while you..." He put his hand between his legs and pretended to stroke a clitoris, his forefinger circling a spot on his crotch.

I felt mortified. He was making fun of me! But what did he expect me to do? If he couldn't make me come, I had to do it myself. But because he'd mocked me, I felt embarrassed.

I tried to think if I offended Doug in some way. Maybe he felt like less of a man because he couldn't make me orgasm during sex. He thought it reflected badly on him, so he pushed it back on me as "my problem." But it wasn't my problem.

At least it wasn't just my problem. We were having sex together. I simply wanted to climax, too—just as he had. I hadn't even asked him to trouble himself to get me off. All he had to do was stay there with me while I did it for myself.

And well, not shame me for taking care of my own needs.

Having sex is something partners should do together. We should care about our partner's needs, not just use their body. Yes, even if they're virtual strangers. Sex is still an act of sharing and giving.

Doug clearly didn't see sex that way. He definitely didn't view my orgasm as his issue.

It suddenly struck me that maybe doing "this" as a pastime wasn't such a great idea, after all.

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