by Cher Ladd-Vuolo
(5/23/01)

"So basically", the nurse said, a little too cheerfully for my liking, "no bathing, no douching, and, of course, no sexual intercourse for three weeks."

It hit me like a punch to the gut. Three weeks?

My boyfriend and I looked at each other incredulously. No sex for three weeks. It was like telling us to stop breathing and eating for twenty-one days. It was simply appalling.

"That was three weeks then?" I asked again, in the desperate hope that I had heard her wrong.

"Yep," she replied with a perky chirp, adding to my already growing disdain for the wench in white. "Any questions?" The nurse continued to look at us with what I could only deem a feigned empathy. I was positive I saw her smirk.

Any questions? Yeah! I have questions! Like, just how are we supposed to get through the next three weeks without intercourse? I mean, can it be done? Has it been done?

Oh, just shoot me. Shoot me now and end my miserable existence.

We drove home in silence. In the midst of my partial hysterectomy, we were too busy to think of the aftermath that would lie in its wake. I needed to have this surgery. It was medically necessary, and so it was done. I spent some time in the hospital, a week, to be precise. I wasn't thinking about sex with my boyfriend at that time. I was too busy enjoying my haze of painkiller-induced hallucinations. Now that I was discharged, along with this obnoxious pink instruction sheet outlining the ruination of my sex life for the next three weeks, I found myself wishing I had selected an alternative to surgery.

"Three weeks," I whispered aloud in the car, shaking my head.

"It's not so bad," he said. "We'll improvise."

Improvise, my ass! Who was he kidding? This was a guy's dream come true. He knew that a virtual cavalcade of oral sex now awaited him, due to my newly imposed vaginal restriction. But what was to become of me? Where would I turn for orgasmic pleasure and fortitude in this time of need? Due to an increased risk of post-surgical infection, cunnilingus was not an option for me. I pondered, I fretted, and, finally, I turned on the computer and researched.

I figured we were relegated to things such as oral sex for him (he's thrilled), anal sex (ouch), and, of course, our own separate masturbation sessions. Type any of these into a search engine and you are deluged with nothing but porn sites and sleazy pics galore. However, one caption caught my eye, like a beacon in the darkness, a light that showed salvation:

"The Secrets of Self-Pleasuring: Mutual Masturbation"

Intrigued, I found myself clicking the link. It ultimately led to a site promising that, by purchasing their videos, I would "learn how intimate caresses and whispered secrets can strengthen the bonds of closeness as you transport each other to ecstasy." I would get to "watch as couples demonstrate the sensual power of a skilled touch, and the mutual thrills of using a well-selected vibrator." It assured me that I would "discover the role of a rich fantasy life."

All this and more! Much more...for only $49.95.

The price was not as bothersome as was the delivery time of 4-6 weeks. By then, I would hope to be happily fucking my brains out again.

I returned to my selected search engine, hoping to find more on this topic. I knew my boyfriend masturbated. He knew that I did as well. I had watched him do it, as a primer, before we had intercourse. He had seen me do it, momentarily as well, as a sexual hors d'oeuvre before the meal. We had discussed it. We had been aware of one another doing the deed during phone sex. But watching each other as we cross the finish line together? Never.

Still, I was curious to know what other couples did in times of desperation such as this. I stumbled, most accidentally, on a personal Web site where a woman touted the wonders of mutual masturbation, and then proceeded to include an excerpt from The New Good Vibrations Guide to Sex, by Cathy Winks & Anne Semans, which stated:

"Mutual masturbation can take any form you'd like. You can masturbate yourselves at the same time while watching each other. You can each masturbate with your eyes closed and try to come when the other is ready. You can masturbate yourself while your lover attends to other parts of your body. You can masturbate yourself while lying in your lover's arms. You can masturbate yourself with one hand and jerk your partner off with your other hand. Are you getting the picture?"

Hell yeah, I was getting the picture! I didn't need it spelled out for me.

Then again, maybe I did.

The article continued to talk about mutual masturbation as "an incredibly intimate experience -- it really requires you to let your guard down if it's to be highly pleasurable...demanding openness, trust and caring."

Okay, we had all that openness and trust stuff. Now, the kicker: How to introduce this into a relationship that, up until then, survived solely on mass quantities of excellent quality intercourse? After several nights of fulfilling every possible oral sex fantasy he could possibly have (i.e.: oral sex standing up, oral sex sitting down, oral sex in the shower, oral sex on the balcony and lastly, oral sex while dressed in my white nursing uniform playing "naughty nurse".), I decided to broach the subject with my intended, before lockjaw set in.

I gave a laundry list full of the benefits of this practice, such as: we would learn how to better stimulate one another and how voyeuristic/exhibitionistic it was. I appealed to the caretaker in him by telling him how safe it would be for me, during this time of vaginal vulnerability. I catered to the romantic in him by explaining how it is something we could do together, to increase our bond of love and trust. Lastly, I literally hit below the belt, enticing the male libido:

"And, it would make me want to lick every sexy inch of you when we were finished," I purred in his ear.

That did it.

For three weeks, we tried mutual masturbation in all its various wicked shapes and naughty forms. I watched him stroke himself while he watched me do myself. We did the deed face to face, staring into one another's eyes, as we fingered and fondled each other. He placed his penis directly over my clit while we tended to our own orgasms. The one we found that we enjoyed most was when he was masturbating over my breasts, allowing me the close-up visual of his orgasm, while I was meeting my own needs with my fingertips at the other end. It also enabled me to lean forward and give him, as promised, a loving lick now and then.

The three weeks have long gone by, but our fondness for this new mode of play has not. We have made it part of our foreplay, enjoying the heightened experience of really taking the time to explore and know each other's bodies. We have bonded in a way that many lovers do not take the time to do. During my vaginal void recovery time, we were forced to express desires to one another that probably would not have been discussed. By taking our sex life in hand (pardon the pathetic pun), we have opened the door to a whole new level of intimacy and understanding.

Miguel de Cervantes said, in Don Quixote, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." He obviously had a clue; or maybe he too once had a partner who'd had surgery.