It all began with one sexy text message. I received it while I was serving at a crappy corporate restaurant in the middle of a shift. It was from my boyfriend at the time and it was about how he missed me and desperately wanted to smooch my everything. I responded with equally tantalizing words and he responded to my tantalizing words with even more tantalizing words. This back and forth continued for approximately an hour until my hormones were like, “Okay. This is NSFW. WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO US? SERIOUSLY? CALM THE F DOWN!”

Yup, I was in the sudden mood for love (and when I say love, I mean someone’s face in my crotch). I was physically and emotionally transfixed on the sensual act of being orgasmed and orgasming another and I didn’t know what to do about it. “I mean, how does one typically get rid of public horniness?” I pondered. “Hmm. Think. Think. Humping. No! THINK NOT ABOUT HUMPING,” I demanded. “I simply must ignore the tingles. That is the solution.” Unfortunately, that tactic failed rather quickly. I could not deny the urges of my super soaker underpants, flushed cheeks, and dirty, dirty cranium.

But I was also lacking a quick fix to this major dilemma! Until… I was taking a long pee on the private toilet at my work… and I looked down at my visible… parts… and I was like… well… hmm… this is… interesting. Yes, I paused in my thought as many times as there are ellipses in that sentence. I wiped and proceeded to stare at my downstairs area for a solid two minutes asking myself, “Are you really going to do this? It’s kinda… well… awesome… but also… kinda… well… A LOT… you know?” I had a solo conversation for a while until I finally went for it. I closed my eyes, thought of my then boyfriend’s adorable smile/hairy chest/excellent penis and pleasured my bodice until it beautifully climaxed like it had never climaxed before.

I then returned to selling wings to dudes who called me honey and who had no idea that I had a sexual revolution only moments before taking their 2lb honey garlic orders. A few weeks later, I did it again and I surprised myself by how casually I went about it. There wasn’t even a sexy text this time; just an arousing memory, which randomly popped into my vagina while I was in the washroom. Before I knew it, I was jilling off all the time. It was as ritual as emptying my bladder. I don’t think I was addicted to the activity per se, but it did present a great deal of benefits that I rapidly became accustomed to.

For example, I truly, madly, deeply despised my serving gig and massaging my clit brought me muchos happiness. I was genuinely in a better mood after each delicious session and my managers took notice. I remember one of them saying to me, “Jess, there has been an improvement in your attitude. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up!” I took his advice to heart and I did keep it up. It being my vag and up being wet. I would justify it with statements like, “I’m doing this for the TEAM. I can’t let the TEAM down. There is no non-masturbation in TEAM.” My attitude wasn’t the only thing to improve. My tips increased. I got excellent customer reviews. I even got a promotion. (I give full credit to my satisfied buffed muff for my many serving successes.)

Another benefit was that it allowed me to take a break, and if you’ve ever served you know that those are rare, precious jewels. I would always resent the smokers for being able to take five every hour in order to inhale their socially accepted nicotine. “Why couldn’t I do the same?!” I cried. So, in protest, I invented my own type of break. A more relaxing, invigorating, bliss-inducing type of break. A break that typically also lasted five minutes. A break that was way more effective at boosting moral. A break that gave me hope for the future. And if a guilty thought entered into my brain as I was doing it, all it took was me remembering those smug cigarette lovers to get my mind back in the touchy touchy feely game.

There was also the scintillating idea that I was doing something which was maybe, possibly BAD. Like, BAD TO THE LADY BONE. I felt wild! Dangerous! Out of control! I was a rebel WITH a cause and that cause was routinely getting moi off. Occasionally I would imagine someone walking in on me as I was doing the deed and them screaming in fright and shock and intrigue and then I would share my wisdom about work masturbation with them and we would join forces and start a secret diddling club and exchange knowing glances as we handed people their plates of nachos and it would all be so EROTIC. We would also maybe have sex in the bathroom if they were into it. (Side note: In my fantasy they were DEFINITELY into it.)

The only downside came when I began needing MORE time to achieve the lovely female ejaculation. I don’t know if it was because I was doing it so regularly or because my dislike of my job returned with a fiery vengeance and it became trickier to find the spot within, but I was requiring ten minutes or more to get her done. That’s when my managers began to take notice in a different way. Their comments switched from, “Your attitude has improved!” to “Where the hell were you? Table 32 needs refills STAT.” It became stressful when my boss started demanding explanations for my disappearances. I would tell him I had my period or diarrhea or my period again. My bi-weekly menstruation was suspicious to say the least.

Eventually, I was demoted. I was no longer asked to close the restaurant. I was the first cut. I got the worst sections. My wing sales sunk to the bottom. Everything was falling apart. I was in a slump and I didn’t know how to crawl my way out of it. Masturbation was the solution before but now it was the problem. Oh, how the literal tables had turned. So, I quit. I said, “Fuck it. If I can’t pleasure myself here, it’s not worth my time! I should have the right to rub my junk whenever I damn well please! FREEDOM! VIVA LA CLITORIS! NEVER SURRENDER!” (Also, that place sucked and I had wanted to leave for years. This just gave me a solid reason to.)

I moved onto greener pastures. I got a cushy receptionist position where all I had to do was answer phones, send out FedEx packages, and toss the vulva salad. Okay, tossing the vulva salad was not in my job description but when your work is that easy you can take breaks whenever you choose, thus vulva salad tossing becomes a heck of a lot less stressful. Now, I’m a freelancer, which means I work directly from my washroom and the only phone I have to answer is my vibrator and the wings I’m serving these days are my inner and outer labia lips. And I can honestly say, my attitude has never been better.