This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain on Fantasy.

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The good thing about masturbation is that you don't have to get dressed up for it. ~Truman Capote

The gossip around the water cooler has it that, contrary to popular consensus, intercourse is not the cardinal sex act of human beings.

The Chatty Cathy gleefully imparting this particular tidbit went on to say that the ultimate sexual act is masturbation, because, after all, it is a "one hand operation," and we don’t need anybody around to "pull it off."

“You know what they say,” Scuttlebutt Sam snickered in agreement, “Ninety-nine percent of us masturbate and the other one percent is lying about it.”

“Yeah,” Flibbertigibbet Frannie chimed in, “You know what Woody Allen said, ‘It’s having sex with someone you love.’”

You have to admit that — jabber jaws that they are — Cathy and her buddies do have a point. Let’s just hope they don't point it at us! Of course, being a Phone Sex Operator gives me a kind of a “fly on the genitalia” perspective on this sort of thing. (The beat goes on, if you know what I mean.) But I’m not about to share it with these gossipmongers. While they flap their jaws and chortle and titter, let’s you and me sneak off to the coffee shop around the corner for a Frappuccino, and I’ll give you—but only you—the real scoop.

Make sure to bring your wallet, darling, because you’re buying, of course. You know, I always did like you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There we go. Comfy? Good. No, don’t sit too close; scoot over just a tad.

Yes, that’s much better. Now where were we? Oh yes, masturbation.

Let’s face it, mi amigo; you’d have to be dumber than ditchwater not to figure out that self-gratification is the favorite sexual activity of Homo sapiens. What the water cooler gang failed to mention when they were busy wagging their frivolous, pink tongues is the brain-work that goes into a feisty little round of masturbation. Don’t look so surprised. Surely, you knew this?

In comparison, fucking is the easy stuff of sex—at least it is once you get past the butterflies, general ambiguity, and extra five pounds you’ve recently acquired. Ok, I’ll admit that there is a bit of a “catch 69” with the hanky-panky of conjugation; but once the little peccadilloes have been dealt with it’s pretty much easy sailing!

After all, everyone needs and desires a measure of tummy-tickling now and then. We hunger for the intimacy of flesh on flesh. Not to mention, the kissing part is pretty nice. All we need is two bodies, a fair-to-middling amount of willingness, and a mutual attraction to get things started. Sometimes, we are so eager for a bit of the bouncy-bouncy, we even (shame on us!) forgo the mutual attraction part.

But singular sex is an “intercourse” of a different color. The glib patter and off-handed remarks of our water cooler pals just doesn’t do it justice. When it comes to masturbating, we are much more than naked apes. We are fully-realized human beings using every God-given brain cell, because that is, after all, what will get us from here to there. And we frantically want to get to there.

And just what are those busy little brain cells up to, pray tell? Well, they're up to the beeswax of fantasy, of course! They know what we want, know what we need, and are hell-bent on getting the job done. And getting us done! This is us-focused and us-blameless unconditional love. Why not wallow in it once in a while? And we better appreciate it, because—in lieu of a hot-to-trot lover beside us, atop us, behind us—these little eggheads are all we’ve got. They’ve got us by the balls and the tits, and we’re loving every minute of it.

These little cerebral prodigies know us better than we know ourselves, and certainly know more about us than a hot-to-trot lover ever could. Tenacious and constant, they feed on our deviant fetishes and profane desires (Talk about brain food!), and then serve them back to us, delicious and dirty with a cherry on top. (Yum! Yum! Dessert always was my favorite part of the meal!)

What I’m trying to say, as I finish off this Frappuccino, is that we all need the magic, the thrill, the escapism of fantasy. It starts with Mother Goose and never goes away. We look for it in the books we read, the movies we see, even the dreams we dream. What's wrong with looking for it in a steamy round of solo sex from time to time?

So, when it comes to sex, why not let our brains do the work once in a while….while our fingers do the walking?

Go ahead and rack your medulla oblongata! It's begging for it!

Now, we need to get back to the water cooler.

Oh...and don't forget to leave a tip.

 

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Angela's Room

Angela St. Lawrence is the PhoneSex Operator of choice for the thinking man. While she's been called many things by her clients ("The way she riffs on matters sexual and otherwise, she is my white Billie Holiday" & "A 21st century Anais Nin with just a touch of Machiavelli."), mostly she just likes to be called Angela. Make sure you visit her award winning website -- and her blog, Zen Fetish.


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