1. By doing it more frequently.

2. By doing it in a variety of different situations. This creates the sexual versatility that is so important to your progress.

Below are fifteen different ways of masturbating that you can practise. These fifteen methods are divided into four lessons.

Lesson 1: Masturbation in private

Lesson 2: Masturbation in semi-public

Lesson 3: Masturbation in public

Lesson 4: Improving your timing

Masturbating, I never tried it before. Nobody Western would believe that I never try to masturbate as a twenty-four-year-old woman. Or maybe I did but I didn’t know what I was doing. Sex in my understanding means something to do with a man, but not to do with myself. Having sex with oneself is like talking to oneself: bit mad. When I saw that Soho peepshop, I never thought to do with me. I also believed no love then no sex. Sex is an expression of love. But somehow this idea is changing. Now I feel tortured by the desire inside my body, and I feel strongly how much this desire wanting to be fulfilled.

“You should learn to play with your own clitoris.” Once you told me this on the bed. We were naked, and we had just made love.

Your hand touched my body. “If you want to have an orgasm, you should touch yourself here.”

I remember this conversation. But I never did it with myself, because I was always with you. Why do I have to?

On the roof of Residencia Mina, through the trees, the sun penetrates my skin. The leaves rustle in the mild wind. I start to touch myself.

The juice flows from my cave, and my fingers touch my hidden lips. Up and down. A great urge coming over me like a high tide flooding my body. The only thing I can see is the blue sky. The deep blue, like a boundless sea. The dry leaves under my skin are wet from my desire.

My body starts to shake. My breath gets difficult. My cave wants to devour something. I want to shout. It is almost painful, I feel like crying.

And I scream.

On my own. With myself. I did it. It is like dream.

For the first time in my entire life, I came by myself.

I can be on my own. I can. I can rely on myself, without depending on a man.

Faro is the capital of the Algarve region and the southernmost town in Portugal; tourism now dominates the economy.

faro

The train from Faro to Lisbon will depart at 1:30 in the afternoon. It’s twelve o’clock now. I learned Faro is a resort town. From the dictionary the resort place must be a very nice place, but in reality it is the opposite. Faro is very concrete. Almost ugly. What should I do in little resort to kill one and half an hour?

I walk around the train station with my rocksack on my back. The sea is just by the train station. But this sea smells bad. Between the sea and the inner land is an industry space, no beach. The rocks nearby the shore are dirty, polluted. It smells pee or something unpleasant. But some seagulls still convolute there. I feel sorry for those seagulls. I walk back to the street nearby the train station. People sitting outside of cafés looks at me. I can feel their curiosity to me. I bet there is few Chinese people come to this town. What is like looking this Chinese girl through their eyes? Without a companion with her, lost herself in the street, doesn’t know what to do about her life…Or maybe they just think of Chinese food when they see me.

12:30, still have one hour left to go to Lisbon. I sit outside of a café, having a small cup of bitter espresso. How many cups of espresso the Portuguese have in one day? What is like if one’s body full of caffeine and sugar and nicotine and Coca Cola? Will it bring too much passion? Will the life be more energetic?

The espresso cup is dried up. I start to read Lonely Planet on Lisbon with my small Concise dictionary. The man in the nearby table is drinking the second cup of espresso. I am aware his watching on me. He is lighting a cigarettes now. He looks at the street, and then the blue sky, and me again. Now he stands and comes to me, and he sits on the chair very near to me.

He says: “Can you understand it?”

“Understand what?”

I close my guide book and look at him. He seems a very physical person, maybe he does low jobs. But he can speak good English. He is short, dark, energetic, solid strong body, broad chest, impressive face, intensive brown eyes.

“Understand the language. Because you are checking the dictionary all the time.”

Inside of his mouth, something strange. Some teeth missing there.

“Well, you know, I am a foreigner.” I am a little embarrassed.

“Don’t read the book. Look at the view. You should see it, not read the guide book.” He surveys my books. There is Fernando Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet lies on top.

“OK,” I say. He is definitely from local. I wonder if he reads Fernando Pessoa. He looks like a person doesn’t read any book at all.

“How many days you are going to stay in Faro?” he asks.

“Not anymore. I just came here for taking train to Lisbon, in one hour.”

By hearing this, he has no comments. There are no needs to develop more connection from his side, I guess.

“Do you know where is the old town of Faro? Do you think I can have time to walk there in one hour and come back?” I ask.

“Not very far. If you want I can take you to there.”

“Don’t you have anything to do?”

“Not today. Come with me.” He stands up and goes to pay the bill. I stand up as well, put my books in my bag.

As I follow him, I look his back. A very physical manly back. A little short. A very earthy person. I wonder if he works in a local restaurant, or works on a wine factory, or maybe he is a sailor, a carpenter, a trolley driver…

The old town of Faro is nothing very special, except for the old slipperly cobblestone ground. I like these cobblestones, they were being grind so smooth by thousands of millions people’s foot through centuries. They got stories in them. Then we walk into an old square. This man wants to show me the church. But the old church is closed today, so does the museum. Do people not working here in the afternoon time? Only a small souvenir shop opened, selling some postcards about Faro in the nineteenth century. The middle-day sunlight is strong. We want buy ice cokes from that souvenir shop. He only pays his coke, I notice. Of course, it is fair for him.

We drink ice coke, wander on the empty cobblestone square.

“I’ll take you to the seaside, then you can go back to the train station.” He walks beside me.

“I already went there. It is not very beautiful.” I want to be honest.

“No, believe me. I’ll take you to a nice place.”

“OK.”

He takes my heavy rocksack, and puts it on his back.

We walk along the seashore beside the railway. A marsh is just in front of us. It is muddy, and dirty. The marsh reflects the high noon’s sunlight. It looks bizarre and dangerous. There is something very strange between him and me. He is almost too kind, too random, without any goal in his daily life. At the same time he is also very sexual. I don’t know where this sexual feeling exactly from, maybe from his very physical looking. Or maybe this sexual feeling from myself, from my aloneness. My body is waiting for something, and something has to come out under the intensive sun.

He takes my hand, and I don’t refuse at all. I don’t know why. He holds my hand into his hand so tight that in one minute our palms are sweaty. I could feel there is something strong inside of his body. But I am not sure if I enjoy this intimacy. I am a bit confused. We walk side by side like two longterm friends. I know I don’t love him at all, and maybe I even don’t like him, but somehow I desire him. It is strange.

Maybe the more people live close to the south, the more they are talkative. They have to take out the extra energy inside of their bodies from the sun. Now he is doing a monologue: