As I sit in the soft, humid warmth of my sauna, I am reminded of the stories we tell about our bodies. For so long, the word masturbation has carried the weight of shame, derived from roots that evoke images of defilement. Yet, here in this sacred space, the narrative shifts. This is not about shame. This is about reclamation.
With a jar of coconut oil resting beside me, I dip my fingers into its silky smoothness, warming it further between my palms. Slowly, I glide my hands over my body, starting at my shoulders and working my way down, honoring every curve, every fold, every inch. The act is deliberate, tender. My skin welcomes the touch, becoming more alive with each stroke.
My fingers linger on the parts of me I often avoid in the mirror. The soft swell of my belly, which rounds slightly over the waistband of my favorite jeans, now feels luxurious beneath my touch. As I squeeze and knead the flesh, I marvel at its softness, its resilience. There is no judgment here, only a gentle reverence.
The heat of the sauna deepens the experience, melting the coconut oil into my skin, making my hands glide effortlessly. My touch travels to my thighs, caressing the inner and outer edges, teasing without urgency. I trace the contours of my body, exploring with curiosity. My hands become painters, brushes moving in long, slow strokes, mapping pleasure across a canvas of flesh.
When I reach the delicate folds of my vulva, I pause, savoring the anticipation. There is no rush. I let my fingers graze the outer labia, reveling in the contrast between smooth skin and the texture of pubic hair. I feel the rise of my clitoral glans, a landscape of sensation and life, peaking out to say hello. Hello, I say, but just a quick hello. Today is not about climax but about connection, about tuning into the nuances of my body’s responses.
Squeezing the outer and inner labia together to activate the clitoral shaft sends vibration throughout the rest of my body. I pause. Feeling the sweet lingering of the “non-touch” touch.
After I ride that wave, I move upward again.
Cupping the fullness of my breasts, tracing patterns along the edges, and lightly squeezing, feeling their weight and warmth. My nipples stiffen under my touch, and I let the sensation ripple through me, deepening my breath. With every stroke, I discover new sensations, areas that call for more attention, others that simply enjoy the lightest whisper of contact.
This is not about reaching a destination. It is about the journey of presence and care. My breath moves deeply in my chest, expanding my awareness and releasing the stories of inadequacy I’ve carried. With every caress, I rewrite those stories. My body is not an object to be judged; it is a living, breathing work of art to be adored.
The heat wraps around me like an embrace, amplifying the sensations, while the silver sauna tent that encases me becomes a cocoon. I imagine a future where I have the two-person cedar sauna I dream of, where my husband might sit beside me, witnessing this sacred act of self-love. There is power in his gaze, not as a spectator, but as a partner in the celebration of my body, my aliveness.
For now, I am alone, and that is enough. My touch remains gentle and exploratory, awakening oxytocin, the hormone of connection and love, within me. I listen to my body, honoring its desires without forcing them. Today, I am not craving climax; I am craving full body orgasmicity, touch and intimacy with myself.
Hugging my Vulva and letting my middle finger rest on the pubic symphysis starts to warm up my vaginal canal in a way the infrared was unable to do on its own.
In this moment, I am whole.
My imperfectly perfect body, with its folds, textures, and curves, is a temple of sensation and vitality. As I close my eyes, I let my hands rest on my heart and my breath slows. Gratitude washes over me—for this body, for this practice, for the ability to create a new story.
This is embodied self-pleasure: a reclamation, a love letter, a reminder that my body is my own, a source of endless wonder and joy.
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