Me and My Clit – Part One

Note: This post was inspired by Girly Juice’s kickass post about her diva clit, which made me reflect on my own clit quirks.   I highly recommend that you check it out

As a sex blogger and toy reviewer, I’ve developed a very clear understanding of what my clit wants.  Vibration should be rumbly, not buzzy.  Power should be medium strength, neither too high nor too low.  Most days, I prefer focused but not pin-point stimulation…though there are days when I want to shake my entire pelvic region with broad stimulation like the Magic Wand.  I need motion and pressure, just holding a vibrator stationary against my clit isn’t enough.  Subtle, soft texture can feel good.  And I generally don’t like having the exposed head of my clit touched directly.  I much prefer touch through the hood or labia, or off to the side, or a little bit above.  The sensation of direct touch is usually so overwhelming that it borders on pain.

The external clitoris contains about 8,000 nerve endings, so the fact that it’s sensitive shouldn’t be a surprise.  By comparison, there are about 4,000 nerve endings in the entire penis.  That’s twice the nerve endings in a much smaller area.  For some people, direct contact is great and desirable and makes choirs of angels sing.  I’m not one of them.

There are circumstances when direct touch is acceptable.  When I’m thoroughly aroused, light touch can feel wonderful…but not for too long.  When I’m getting oral, I will beg and plead for soft tongue flutters on my exposed clit, or even gentle sucking.  But if someone approaches too quickly, or lingers too long, I’ll ask them to back off or move on.  Too much direct stimulation can be uncomfortable or even hurt.  Metaphorically speaking, my clit is a cat’s belly: Just because it’s exposed doesn’t mean it’s OK to touch.  Go slowly, check in frequently and listen to the answer.  I don’t have cat claws, but I have involuntarily slapped or kicked partners who failed to heed verbal redirection.


Approach with caution and respect

Early Exploration

I was not always this aware of my clit’s needs.  I came of age in the dark days before home internet access was common.  I’d learned of my clit’s existence via a furtive inspection of my parents’ copy of The Joy of Sex.  My school’s sex ed program and my mother’s chat about the birds and the bees had somehow omitted this crucial detail of my anatomy.  The forbidden book also introduced me to the concept of orgasms, another word conspicuously absent from my education.  I didn’t entirely understand what an orgasm was, but I was certain I wanted to try it.

Sadly, my early attempts were lackluster at best, mostly because of my approach.  One does not learn to orgasm with the kind of detached, repetitive technique that is used to extract extra lives from a video game.  There is no up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-orgasm.  I was trying to get things going physically with my mind in science mode, and it failed miserably.  I rubbed, poked and prodded with great enthusiasm, but very little enjoyment.  I would get tantalizing hints of pleasure, but all too quickly they would fade or turn to discomfort.   I wondered if I was broken, or not old enough, or if these magical sounding orgasms really existed at all.1

Some time later, as my parents watched the news, I overheard a segment about a Judy Blume book that was being banned in some areas for references to masturbation.   I listened attentively while feigning concentration on my math homework.  On my next trip to the public library, the title in question happened to find its way into my bag.  I tore through Deenie at a fevered pace, searching eagerly for the ban-inducing references.  I expected details that could be used as an instruction manual of sorts, but all I found were a few completely unhelpful lines about touching or rubbing a “special place”.

“IT’S CALLED A CLITORIS!!!” I mentally screamed at Deenie, slamming the book down in annoyance.

Deenie cover - clit post

Not an instruction manual…

The only new possibility that Deenie offered was the idea of using a washcloth to rub my own “special place” in the shower.   Attempts to replicate her success left me with nothing but chafing, frustration and a lecture from my mother about using too much hot water.

Solo Success

The next time I found myself free of parental supervision for a few hours, I resumed my research.  I planned to take another look at The Joy of Sex to see if I could uncover any further clitoral clues, but it had disappeared from the shelf.  In hindsight, I suspect my ninja skills were less than impressive and my earlier foray had been detected.

Undeterred, I trekked to the basement closet where I’d found my Christmas presents the previous year.  The lower shelves held yawn-inducing books, an assortment of old board games, rarely used kitchen gadgets and craft supplies.  The top shelves, on the other hand, were full of mysterious boxes I’d been told not to touch.  If the book was still in the house, that was the most likely spot.

I began methodically with the highest shelf, and in short order discovered a large cache of Playboy magazines.  They were all at least a decade old, but were in near mint condition.  They had been stored neatly, carefully and allegedly out of reach of children…clearly not taking into account the power of curiosity, or my recent and rapid increase in height.  I began flipping through them, careful to keep the issues in order.  The nude photos were intriguing, but also comical thanks to the dated hairstyles and outfits.  I was starting to lose interest, about to get back to my search for the lost tome of sexual knowledge, when something caught my eye.

Clit Post Story

Yes, I own a copy to commemorate this milestone in my life.

In an issue nearly as old as I was, there was an article titled “Me and the Other Girls”, recounting the author’s experiences with threesomes.  I was amazed and fascinated by the idea that sex could involve more than two people. 2  This was new information, and I wanted to take it all in.  I carefully smuggled the magazine up to my room, where I could sit comfortably and read.

Well, I started out sitting anyway.  As I followed the author’s adventures, I decided I’d be much more comfortable lying down.  While my eyes stayed riveted to the page, my hand made its way between my legs.  I didn’t think about what I was doing this time, pure instinct took over.  Instead of launching a carefully calculated assault on my clitoris, I rubbed all over my vulva.  At first it was through my jeans, then slipping my hand inside as the need to touch myself got stronger.  Still, I wasn’t making any conscious effort to focus on my clit, just massaging the area around it as I read.  Suddenly I felt something building, my heart pounding.  I dropped the magazine, closed my eyes and let myself get lost in the moment.  I had finally found what I was looking for, and realized I’d been looking a little too hard.

To be continued in the next chapter, wherein I revel in my newfound understanding and  face the challenge of teaching partners to play nice with my clit…



  1. Yes, I was really this clueless.  No one would EVER have believed that girl would grow up to be a sex blogger.
  2.   I re-iterate here that I was hopelessly naïve in my youth.  Time, experience and the internet have thoroughly remedied that.

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