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Masturbation Horror Stories for Her

How come your masturbation horror story contest was only open to men? Women
masturbate, and I’m sure we have horror stories! I’m a woman and I masturbate.
Fortunately, I don’t have a horror story to share. I just wanted to bitch.

You’re Extremely Sexist

I never said the masturbation horror story contest was closed to women, YES. Apparently, like a lot of women who “just want to bitch,” you went looking for something to complain about. And when you couldn’t find anything to complain about, you made something up. Do you see where I’m coming from, toots? You imagined this slight. It’s all in your ditzy head. Seriously, YES, are you having your period or something? (There, now I’m being sexist and now you have something real to bitch about. Happy?)

Last week’s column was dedicated to the best MHS I received from boys; this week’s...

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...real to bitch about. Happy?) Last week’s column was dedicated to the best MHS I received from boys; this week’s column is devoted to the best MHS sent in by girls. The boys’ and girls’ MHS have been forwarded to my Grand Council of Masturbation Experts, and two winners (one boy, one girl) will be announced in next week’s column. As with the boys’ MHS, all MHS from girls that sounded like BS were discarded, as were stories that involved parental discovery, simple discomfort, bearable humiliation, and jalapeño peppers. Okay, let’s get to the girls’ MHS… My MHS probably won’t see the light of day because it’s just too weird and disturbing. My kid brother was only around five years old at the time of this incident. I was around seven, which will hopefully spare me any accusations of being a horrible child molester.The incident unfolded as follows: I was lying on the couch with my pants down, rubbing myself with my security blanket. My kid brother walked in the room and didn’t notice anything weird going on. There was a palm frond on the floor (it was shortly after Easter), and it struck me that the frond would feel very nice tickling my anus. So I asked my brother to do it for me, since I couldn’t masturbate and perform palm-frond tickling at the same time. He complied for about three seconds before his freak-out mechanism kicked in. He sprinted upstairs and told my mom what I was doing. She spanked me and took away my security blanket, which I never saw again. In my own defense, I never tried anything sexual with my brother again, and have found him fairly repellent for many years now. And it wasn’t about my brother, anyway. I just needed someone to manipulate the palm frond. Adopted, So It’s Not Incest I was obsessed with Mickey Mouse when I was a child, so my parents would give me Mickey things for my birthday and Christmas. One present happened to be a Mickey Mouse electric toothbrush. It became my new most favorite thing in the world. Well, one day my toothbrush disappeared. I was crushed and utterly confused. My mother blamed one of my “no-good friends.” Anyway, months passed and I slowly got over my loss. One morning I woke up early, and being too young to cook myself breakfast, I went into my mother’s bedroom. She was lying on her side, with her back to me. She was making noises–weird, groany, moany noises. Thinking she was having a bad dream, I ran up to the bed and grabbed her arm and told her to wake up. She screamed. I screamed. Then I saw my Mickey Mouse electric toothbrush in her hand. I grabbed it and ran out of the room, down the hallway, and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I sat on my bed red-faced with anger. Not only had my own mother stolen my most favorite thing in the world, but now it stank. Traumatized At Age Six When: I was 12. Where: Bathroom. What: Stepfather’s electric toothbrush. With the subtle purring of that device, I rubbed it up and down, all around, until I was close, oh so close, to coming. (Didn’t actually achieve the big O until I was 15.) My stepfather comes down the stairs and says, “Who used my toothbrush?” How did he know? Well, it was wet (yes, I washed it), and it was dead. It needed a new charge! I said it wasn’t me, but he looked me deep in the eyes. To this day, I think he knew. Sincerely, Diane If this ain’t friendship, I don’t know what is: One of my friends in ninth grade was obsessed with masturbating. One evening I got a call from her and she was speaking very softly, but rapidly, obviously in tears. She told me that she had shoved a hot dog up her vagina trying to get off and couldn’t get it out. This was the same girl who, not two weeks before, had burned her vagina trying to masturbate with a curling iron which she THOUGHT was only mildly warmed. I wanted to hang up and run away, but she was so upset I went over to try to help her. She answered the door, walking very awkwardly and trying to appear cheerful in front of her mom. In her room, we quickly realized that there was nothing either of us could do. Leaving her sobbing in her room, I went and explained to her mother why her daughter needed to go to the emergency room. That was fun. With the help of a 19-year-old uncle, I bought her a vibrator for her next birthday. Thankful To Have Been A Frigid Teenager I was a 16-year-old girl visiting my very old-school grandparents while on summer break. I had also recently discovered the joys of masturbation. For some reason, I decided to see if I could fit my entire hand into my vagina. Well, I managed to fit it, but I couldn’t get it back out. I had to call my grandmother for help. She couldn’t get it out either. I wound up wrapped in a blanket, sitting in the emergency room. The nice doctor managed to lube me up and stretch me enough to finally get it out. Handy-Work In Canada I was in school and really horny (probably had my mind on some guy). So I got a pass for the bathroom, went into a stall, pulled down my pants, and started fingering myself. Suddenly the stall door opened. I hadn’t carefully locked the door in my rush to fingerfuck myself. But it wasn’t another student at the door–it was my Spanish teacher! Needless to say, I cut my Spanish class that day. My Spanish teacher never called on me or made eye contact with me again. She would, however, glance at my hands and make disgusted faces. Ain’t No Bedtime Story Next Week: The Grand Council of Masturbation Experts selects the winners. letters@savagelove.net Hey musicians: Stop obsessing about getting laid for once and start thinking about forwarding your careers. Check out page 42 for the lowdown on The Stranger’s upcoming musicians’ directory, the easiest way to get your band some press coverage without compromising your valuable sexual morals. Check it out, fill it out, send it in.