They say it takes 21 days to build a habit - but what about seven to start a revolution?
This week, I embarked on the first seven days of my 30-days of self-pleasure journey in honor of May: Masturbation Month. A whole calendar of unapologetic, intentional, orgasmic wellness. Not for anyone else. Not for a performance. Just for me, and my very deserving body.
There were mornings when I woke up already with buzzing anticipation, and nights when I traded Netflix for nipple play. There were waterproof toys, post-workout baths, and the surprising discovery that my silk slip might be just as soft as my partner's touch.
What I found wasn’t just climax - it was clarity. The kind that comes from soft moans, deep breaths, and remembering that this body, this temple of sensation, is mine to worship. One week in, and I’m not just more relaxed - I’m more me. So here’s to seven days of sweat, steam, and self-love. And darling… I’m just getting started.
They say May is for flowers, but this year, I decided it’s for flourishing. That’s right, I’ve embarked on 30 days of self-pleasure in honor of Masturbation Month - a wellness journey with benefits that aren’t covered by your HSA, but definitely should be.
Let’s set the scene: I live with my partner of 14 years (still hot, still happening!), my platonic best friend, and my furball of seven years also emotionally involved. We all work from home, which means the most private place I have is… the bathroom, with the fan on, and maybe a decoy Spotify playlist running in the background.
Still, Day 1 had to happen. And as I tiptoed around trying to sneak in a sliver of solitude, it hit me: why am I treating my me-time like a shameful secret instead of a sacred ritual? I should need a federal pardon or thunderstorm to muffle my moans. This isn’t a crime -- it’s wellness!
Cue Le Petit Zigu - my compact, travel-friendly, wireless-powered bestie from Tasten Wellness. Perfect for travel and intended for discreet escapades on-the-go (yes, those still happen!). Today it became the vessel of my awakening. Level 2, just a whisper above a polite suggestion, was all I needed. In mere moments, my mind was quieted, my shoulders softened, and I felt something rare: not arousal, not orgasm - though, yes, that too - but sovereignty.
Pleasure without negotiation. Intimacy, without compromise. A reminder that even in a house full of love, no one can give me me quite like me.
I’m 42, emotionally evolved, politically awake - but somehow, I’ve only ever allowed myself this space when my partner is out of town. Why? Guilt? Habit? The ancient echo of teenage shame? I don’t know. But what I do know is this: pleasure is not a luxury, it’s a birthright. And even the most liberated among us sometimes need to take le petit steps towards reclaiming it.
So here’s to May. Here’s to me. And here’s to whatever Level 3 has in store tomorrow. I’m here for it -- with open arms, open legs, and a fully charged Zigu.
They say time is a thief. But lately, I wonder - does it rob us, or do we simply hand it over like it’s a bad first date we’re too polite to leave? As women, we calendar everything - Pilates, deadlines, playdates, partners, pet appointments -- but we forget to schedule time with the most important person: ourselves.
This morning, I had exactly zero windows of solitude. My day was double-booked, my phone was buzzing with notifications, and even my coffee was cold. But as a modern woman on a mission - let’s call it “The Pleasure Project” - I carved out a moment post-sunshine session, after a deliciously bronzing flirtation with the sun. Enter: Le Petite Jardin Zigu. Waterproof, bendy, and whisper-quiet - a girl’s best-kept secret in the shower.
I kept it at Level 1 today. Think of it like a soft jazz intro instead of the full symphony. No race to the finish. Just soft pulses, slow curves, new sensations. No fireworks, but plenty of warmth. And guess what? It was enough. Sometimes, self-pleasure doesn’t have to crescendo - it can just hum.
There was something powerful in not climaxing. Like keeping a secret only I know. A whispered promise to myself: there’s more to come. And while my partner is in on the experiment (and let’s just say, very intrigued), I’m holding him off. Because this is about re-discovering me - without apology, without performance, without guilt.
So here’s what I’m learning on Day 2: you don’t always need a grand finale. Sometimes, it’s the act of choosing yourself that feels the most orgasmic. Because if we can’t make time to touch base with our own bodies… who will?
They say the weekend is for self-care. I say it’s for self pleasure. And somewhere between doing laundry and dodging brunch invites, I’ve managed to carve out a few intimate, electric moments for myself in honor of May - Masturbation Month, if you please.
Three days in, and something curious happened. A dear friend popped by for a spontaneous catch-up and, over a glass of champagne and unsolicited life updates, another friend quipped in: “Daniella is just looking… hot!” I blushed, deflected, and took another sip. But inside, I felt something different - a quiet smirk tugging at my lips.
Because this same friend had seen me just a month prior. And she hadn't mentioned a damn thing about looking hot then.
Could it be that the only thing different was… well, me? Me and my newfound commitment to a daily dose of personal joy aka a few stolen minutes of intentional, sensual self-pleasure. Was my post-O glow lighting up my cheekbones more than highlighter ever could? Was my confidence suddenly exhaling from somewhere deeper than my lungs?
Science says yes. Orgasms are not only great for the immune system, but they increase circulation, reduce cortisol, and yes - bring on that dewy, flushed, “I just came back from somewhere exciting” radiance. And guess what? I had. Just not in the way she thought.
That night, I nestled under my duvet with Le Petit Jardin Zigu (my handheld lullaby machine), set to a gentle hum at Level 1. No fireworks, no standing ovation. Just a soft, sweet goodnight kiss to myself. A bedtime story written in buzzes and sighs.
What I’m realizing is this: it’s not about how long you do it, how loud it is, or whether it ends up with jazz hands. It’s about showing up for yourself. Every day. In big ways, small ways, even quiet, humming ways.
And people will notice. Whether they think you’ve just gotten laid, fallen in love, or had a facial, let them wonder. Because darling, the glow is real… and it’s coming from within.
I always thought Sundays were for exfoliating sins and deep-conditioning regrets. But on Day 4 of my month-long affair with myself - yes, May is Masturbation Month and I’ve RSVP’d “enthusiastically attending” -- I found myself caught between a clogged drain and a clean scalp.
The house was a mess. The closet was mid-purge. And then, like some divine comedy, the house began to flood. A perfect metaphor, really. Chaos outside, but inside? Serenity - of the sensual kind.
While my conditioner marinated in my waves like a fine merlot, I reached for Le Petit Jardin Zigu Stimulator. It’s discreet, elegant, and currently lives tucked away behind shampoo bottles and societal shame. I had planned a sweet and steady moment - low setting, standing tall - but plans are for people with boring showers.
Instead, I gave in. Level 3. In the tub. Reclined. Letting the hot water rhythmically tap dance on my breasts while my own fingers danced elsewhere. My bronzed legs, blurred and glowing in the curve of the faucet, look like art. Erotic Impressionism, if you will.
It didn’t take long. Lever 3 pulsed like a jazz solo, unexpected and smooth. Three minutes. That’s all it took. Three minutes to let my body sign, my thoughts unclench, and my to-do list dissolve into the steam. And with a deep breath and a leg twitch that would make even Smanatha Jones proud, I arrived. Not just at climax, but at clarity.
Why do we ritualize everything but pleasure? We’ll set aside time to tweeze our brows and get our bikini lines waxed, but masturbation? That’s hush-hush, back-of-the-closet kind-of-stuff. Well, not anymore.
Maybe, just maybe, my Sunday rituals now include a little extra sparkle. And instead of saying “Sorry, I’m washing my hair,” maybe I’ll say, “I’m taking a personal power plunge.” Or perhaps something cheeky, like, “I’m breaking in my Zigu.”
Because self-live isn’t just an act - it’s a lifestyle. And if you ask me, climax and conditioner might just be the start of a new Sunday tradition.
Mondays usually start with a groan, a snoozed alarm, a silent pact to make it through without screaming into a throw pillow. But this morning? I woke up before my alarm, rested, alert, and - dare I say - glowing. Could it be my new nightly routine of self-pleasure? The orgasmic equivalent of a multivitamin? Maybe. Maybe not. But if it was a placebo, I was high on it, and happy to be.
After a grueling yet satisfying Pilates class on the reformer (class 138, thank you very much!) I walked out of the studio like I had a secret. Which I did. Five days into Masturbation Month, and my confidence was both a side effect and a statement. While others tracked macros and meditation minutes, I was clocking in climaxes and measuring inner peace in post-O glow.
But as with most Mondays, the day got away from me - emails multiplied, life happened, and suddenly it was bedtime. And yet, even without a big finale planned, I still honored the ritual.
I slipped into a silk slip - yes, that one, the one that whispers across like thighs like a flirty secret - and lit a few candles, letting their flicker paint warm stories across my bedroom walls. No Zigu vibrator. No climax goals. Just me, the faint scent of lavender in my hair, and the gentle reminder of my dog’s snoring outside the door. I let my body just be - sensual, subtle, quietly electric.
Tonight wasn’t about fireworks. It was about foreplay - the kind that doesn’t demand an ending. I noticed my nipples perked as the cool silk met warm skin, and I didn’t rush the moment. Sometimes, the anticipation is the pleasure. Sometimes, just noticing yourself is the most arousing act of all.
So here’s the trick: pleasure isn’t always about reaching the summit. Sometimes it’s the slow, sensual climb with no need to peak. And if you ask me, that’s just as powerful.
Tomorrow? Maybe I'll go back to Level 3. But tonight, silence was enough. And silence, it turns out, can be just as sexy.
There are mornings when you wake up with dread, tangled in the sheets and to-do lists. And then there are mornings like today - when you wake up before your alarm, eyelids fluttering open not from anxiety, but from anticipation. And no, it wasn’t because I had an 11am marketing call or an iced chai latte waiting for me in the fridge. It was because I knew, just knew, that today would start on the orgasmic side of the bed.
My partner, dressed and out the door for the gym, kissed me goodbye while I lay still tucked in, pretending to still be lazily asleep. But the second the car pulled out of the driveway and I heard the silence of a solo home settle in, I sprang into solo-action mode. I had my own workout to attend.
I seeked out Le Petit Jardin Zigu. My palm-sized power player, my silent morning ritual, my vibrating VIP. I tiptoed back to bed with it in hand, fluffing the duvet around me like a cocoon of decadence. The sunlight streamed through the blinds just so, dancing through the dust like glitter caught in a sunbeam. It was, in every way, my personal golden hour.
I started slow - Level 1. A little warm-up. A tease. But like any good story, things escalated quickly. Level 4 came calling, and I answered. As my body curled and unfurled, I exhaled with the kind of relief only a good orgasm can offer: full-body, full heart, full mind release. For a few seconds, it was like the universe paused just to let me feel.
Then I lay there. Still. Soft. Wrapped in the afterglow and a goose-down duvet. Reflective. Feminine. Powerful.
And I thought about the past six days. Was it in my head? Or was something truly shifting?
Well, science would say no - it’s not just in my head. Female orgasms release oxytocin (hello, mood boost), lower cortisol (bye, stress), improve circulation, support better sleep and immune system, and even - get this - promote healthier skin without the Sephora receipt.
So yes, I came. But I also healed. I wasn’t just feeling good. I was functioning better. Like I had cracked the code to waking up not with dread, but with desire. What a concept: putting yourself first, before the inbox, before the caffeine, before the chaos. Just you, your body, your breath, and your Zigu.
So here’s my morning gospel: If something has to come first today, let it be you. And if you’re going to wake up anyway, why not rise for something worth waiting for? Because sometimes, the best way to seize the day is to seize yourself first.
This morning, I did something radical. I woke up before my alarm.
I dressed, kissed my partner goodbye - double checked he was headed to the office - and smiled with the delicious knowledge that I’d be coming home not just to an empty house, but to the rarest of luxurious: uninterrupted me time.
Pilates was everything. My hips open, my core engaged, my breath aligned with movement. I left class with that flushed, glowy energy that can only come from 60 minutes of mind-body synchronization and a playlist that hits just right. And while others headed to their overpriced lattes, I went straight home - to my own kind of morning brew.
Le Petit Jardin Zigu waited patiently. I skipped my chai, shed my leggings, and skipped into the steam of the shower like I was entering a sanctuary. Sunlight streamed through the window, warming the titles and my skin. I decided I wasn’t done stretching - but in fact, I was ready to melt.
So I did the unthinkable for a weekday morning: I closed the drain and turned on the tub faucet. The water rose slowly as I eased down, bare legs slipping under the surface, the soft flint of steam dancing across my thighs. My co-star in this act of sensual solitude? Obviously, the waterproof Le Petit Jardin of course. Small enough to tuck in a drawer but powerful enough to curl my toes, its soft silicone head and bendable neck were made for mornings like this.
I stared at Level 2 - why rush foreplay when you’ve just found the stillness? But soon enough, I let Level 4 take over. And with the warmth of Pilates still humming through my body, every pulse felt more pronounced. My abs twitched. My legs softened. My breath deepened. And then - release.
Not just orgasm, but a letting go.
And in that moment, I remember something: the post orgasmic glow isn’t just about climax. It’s neurochemical self-care. Dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin - all the feel-good squad shows up. Your stress hormone cortisol? Takes a hike. Research shows orgasms reduce anxiety, improve sleep, ease menstrual cramps, and increase body confidence. Oh - and let’s not forget the pelvic floor workout, which is way more fun than holding a 30-second plank.
But it makes sense, doesn’t it? After Pilates, I’m physically aligned. After orgasm, I’m emotionally aligned. Pairing them? That’s a morning routine Gwyneth Paltrow would kill for.
So, as I lay there post-orgasm, soaking in the tub and my own little revolution, I thought: maybe self-care doesn’t always look like matcha or meditation. Sometimes, it looks like putting yourself first - stretch, sweat, soak, stroke - and letting your body do what it was built to do: feel.
And just like that, I’ve found my favorite kind of full-body workout.
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Turns out, when you prioritize your own pleasures, the world starts to feel like foreplay. And suddenly, it’s not just about the finishing - it’s about feeling everything along the way. So as I close the velvet curtain on Week One, I’m not winding down - I’m winding in. Tiger, deeper, and closer to myself.
