How Lube Helped Me Unlock A New Level Of Sexual Pleasure

By Hilary Shepherd

I recently located my clitoris, which, at 33 years old, sounds way overdue. Alone, inspired by a conversation I had with a sex therapist, and apparently horny on a Saturday night, I decided to forgo my rotating collection of vibrating sex toys, which I’d always enjoyed while watching porn and wearing underwear (a “fabric barrier” has always felt less imposing to me) in favor of a foreign combination: my fingers and a bottle of lube.

Within minutes, I was able to go deeper into my body in a way I hadn’t before. I relished in the unfamiliar sensations and possibilities for pleasure hidden in various corners and crevices I’d long overlooked but was now able to easily explore, thanks to the lube’s super smooth texture. (For reference, I used SKYN‘s new Naturally Endless lube, a water-based formula with a host of naturally derived ingredients that also happens to be non-sticky and long-lasting.) As I closed my eyes, I was also surprised by how easily I was able to relax and focus on exploring myself even without the chorus of moans blaring from some X-rated website. I thought of all the vulva diagrams I’d seen in gynecologists’ offices and used them as a guide to locate key areas I knew were hotbeds of pleasure. After repeatedly making a “come hither” motion at the top, where I knew my clitoris lived, the sensation rapidly built up into several intense, full-body waves of euphoria. To be clear, I have experienced an orgasm before, but not like this. I did it again and again and again, delighting in the newfound sensation.

The way I found my clit — pearl-like and erect, nestled amid a fleshy hood, and seemingly designed to provide toe-curling spasms — reminds me of my equally clumsy journey with tampons. Desperate to follow my friends at school who had all ditched pads, I used to spend hours locked in my bathroom attempting to successfully insert a tampon. With one leg on the toilet, I’d study the step-by-step guide that came in the box, quietly suppressing a very real fear of the string disappearing into the ether, or worse, potentially dying from the “tampon disease.” I was unsure where exactly and how far up the applicator was supposed to go, but reaching for  a handheld mirror for assistance was out of the question. I grew up pretty religious (I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 21 and also experienced some trauma) and was taught that the vagina was an integral, yet ugly and confusing part of your body — something to largely ignore.

And so, for a couple of years, I simply went about life wearing tampons incorrectly — I was never able to insert them fully, so the bottom half would stick out. I chalked it up to having an “abnormal” vagina; I was different from my tampon-wearing friends, who’d swim and do cartwheels and jump on trampolines with the same carefree, “I-don’t-even-feel-it!” attitude I’d see in tampon commercials on TV.

This was an unfortunate, embarrassing, and painful fate I’d come to accept — until one day, it just clicked. All I had to do was take a moment to breathe, relax, and unclench my pelvic muscles. It was an exercise in patience, in pausing, in connecting with my body in a positive and intimate way. And it’s a lesson that would serve me well again, nearly two decades later.

I had never really masturbated with my fingers. In college, finally free and independent for the first time, I became curious about masturbating. A scene in a film I’d watched elicited an arousing sensation in me, and when the faucet method (IYKYK) didn’t do the trick, I tried the base of my electric toothbrush, blown away by the incredible sensation it provided after merely moving it around in that area atop my silk pajama pants. It was time, I realized, to get a proper vibrator.

Periwinkle, skinny, and decidedly non-threatening, my first toy was a dildo that symbolized sexual freedom. I had planned to experiment with it over the long holiday break that semester, but when my mom was driving me home from the airport, it switched on in my suitcase. The loud and incessant buzzing was impossible to ignore. “What is that?” my mom asked. I knew I could easily blame it on a rogue toothbrush, but…I told her the truth. “Ugh, Hilary,” she said, as if the word “PERVERT” had suddenly appeared across my forehead in big, black letters. “That’s disgusting.”

Though this experience didn’t stop me from using toys (my mother did not, thankfully, force me to toss my dildo), I felt ashamed for years, associating sexual pleasure with perversion, just as I did in my youth, and viewing masturbation as some filthy, primal deed done in secrecy. Sex throughout my 20s, then, was often alcohol-fueled, one-sided, and devoid of any real meaning; it was an intimate act that didn’t quite feel intimate, but more like something to dissociate from and simply endure. (Forget about an orgasm.)

These days, sex doesn’t feel so icky. My partner, who I’ve been with for more than five years, makes me feel secure and loved. It’s the first serious relationship I’ve ever been in, and while I’m still not able to orgasm during sex (I’m in therapy currently to work on some of those anxiety-ridden mental blocks, residual archaic beliefs from my childhood, and past trauma), it’s nevertheless an enjoyable and loving and important act. But I know there’s a lot more pleasure to be had.

Like many couples in long-term, monogamous relationships, our sex life has ebbed and flowed, decreasing during periods of extreme stress or confinement and increasing on, say, vacations or after spending time apart. One thing that’s remained the same, though, has been my inability to be an active participant in our sex life — meaning, instead of treating sex with the same curiosity and openness I feel when I masturbate, I’ve mostly allowed him to take the lead, cycling dutifully through positions and often beginning to feel truly aroused by the time he finishes. Lube, which we’ve never put that much thought into, has been something to hurriedly dig for in a bedside drawer half-way through sex when the friction becomes too much or he’s in the mood for a “super slippery sensation.” (Alternatively, it’s also reserved for hand jobs.) I never complain or provide input or direction, but how am I supposed to ever feel truly satisfied if I don’t speak up? Or rather, how can I speak up when I don’t even know my own body?

The logical, rational side of my brain knows that vaginal wetness fluctuates based on one’s menstrual cycle and a “zillion other factors,” according to London-based sex therapist and SKYN Sex Expert Gigi Engle, but sometimes it’s hard not to think that the problem is me — by using lube, it suggests I’m dried up, shriveled, and “not good enough” naturally. As it turns out, I’m not alone in harboring some of these false and self-sabotaging beliefs.

“One of the biggest and most pervasive myths I hear about lube is that you only need it if you can’t get ‘wet enough,’ meaning that something must be wrong with you,” says Engle, who wants to make it clear that lube is not just for preventing pain from friction. “Actually, lube is an amazing sex enhancer. It can increase your arousal and the stimulation you receive from toys, fingers, penises, whatever. It makes everything more comfortable. And honestly, everyone should be using it — solo or with others.”

Emboldened and inspired by the level of pleasure I unlocked using SKYN’s Naturally Endless lube during my recent solo session, I decided to be the one to incorporate it into the bedroom with my partner. I noticed that taking initiative this way provided me with a new sense of control, and my sexual autonomy was a welcome addition for us both. While I wasn’t able to reach orgasm (not yet, at least), I was able to feel him, literally and figuratively, on a much deeper and way more intimate level than ever before. What’s more, I also felt empowered enough to bring one of my favorite toys into the mix — another suggestion from Engle — which worked great (as a bonus, SKYN’s water-based lube is totally compatible with silicone devices).