Confession: I used to hate lube. Not all the time, I could see it had its merits. When you’re bumming, for instance, there is no natural lubricant up your arse, so a fuckload of the sticky stuff is as essential as a safety rope if you’re climbing a mountain.
For hand jobs, I could get on board with lube as a means of making the whole thing more special – just the right kind of tingling lube at the perfect moment, or a good dollop to enable better use of a masturbation sheath. Fine.
But for sex? I wasn’t sure. I feel like a total nob for admitting this but lube used to seem like a sign of personal failure.
I haven’t talked about this much before, and to wrench a nugget of total honesty out of my cringing heart, I hadn’t really discussed it with my partners either. Occasionally, if I was horny but a bit too drunk to slick my knickers, I’d pop to the bathroom on the way to the bedroom. Pull down my pants, spit on my hand, and rub it in the right places: fake what I couldn’t make.
Sometimes, after this cheat, a guy would tell me I was ‘so wet’, and grin that wolfish, horny grin that I loved so much, and in that moment the juice would start to flow. Other times it wouldn’t, and I’d sigh with relief that I’d thought to do the spit thing beforehand. Avoiding an awkward conversation in which I had to tell him I wasn’t wet, or get involved in some fumbling foreplay that I’d have preferred to skip in favour of the train-in-tunnel stuff. And of course the problem with foreplay is that if I know it’s happening just to get me wet, then my brain won’t shut up about this fact. We’re wriggling and frotting together, feeling my body start to get into it, when my tedious mind pipes up with:
“Is it working? Is it working? Is it working?” Like a crappy backseat driver asking when we’ll reach our destination, thus ruining the fun of the road trip.
So yeah. Lube.
You’d think I’d have embraced it. You’d think I’d have said ‘oh hey, you know what has literally been invented for these very moments?’ before pulling a bottle out of my bedside drawer, like a sexual conjuror, magically making everything sexy again.
But I didn’t.
And it’s hard to explain why I didn’t. Part of it was presumably a misplaced sense of shame and failure – that if my body doesn’t do this one thing as easily as it always did when I was fifteen, then my body is broken and wrong. Or probably closer to the truth: that if I can’t get wet like I did yesterday, whichever guy I’m with will worry that he’s not as hot as he was yesterday. That some of his magic has rubbed off and we’ll never get that feeling back again.
Obviously that’s crap. It’s as crap as believing that because I never got a hangover after a vodka-binge during college, I’d be hangover-free for the rest of my life. As ridiculous as the notion that things will always be the same.
So this blog’s an ode to lube, and a celebration of it. A massive and relieved sigh of pleasure as the first cold drops touch my cunt. To the joy of watching a guy slick up his hand and rub it slowly and determinedly over his entire erection, until the whole thing is glistening and ready to fuck me.
It’s my admission that, frequently, I am spectacularly wrong.
I love lube. I’m sorry I ever doubted it.
Want to buy some lube? My sponsors never ask me to write about anything in particular, but I figured a post like this is as good an excuse as any to get you to buy stuff from them, so here are a couple of links in case you want to buy some: