How Horse Riding Taught Me Masturbation

It was just a regular afternoon ride with this bay gelding named Ranger. Nothing special about the day. Warm, dusty, the usual trail through the oaks behind the barn. My instructor had already sent me off for a cool-down alone. So it was just me and him, walking then trotting then settling into this easy canter.

I’d been riding since I was twelve. I knew all the stuff you’re supposed to know — heels down, soft hands, sit deep, follow the movement. I was good at the technical part. What I never really paid attention to was what that movement was actually doing to me.

That day the canter was just… right. Steady, long-strided, the kind that kind of sinks into you if you stop bracing against it. I was sitting deep like I’d been taught, hips following, and somewhere in the middle of it this pressure started building. Not dramatic or anything. Just this slow, warm, insistent feeling from the way his back was rolling under the saddle and how every stride pressed up through me. I remember thinking, half panicked, oh god is this actually happening right now?

I didn’t finish on the horse. That would’ve been too weird and also probably dangerous. It just got stronger and stronger until I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. My face was on fire. My legs felt shaky in a way that had nothing to do with being tired. I brought him down to a walk and just sat there for a second, kind of stunned. When I got off I stood with my forehead against his neck for longer than usual, smelling that dusty horse smell and trying to get my head straight.

I didn’t tell a single person. What the hell would I even say?

That night in my tiny apartment I lay there and… tried to recreate it with my hand. I closed my eyes and thought about the exact rhythm of his canter, the way it lifted and dropped. It worked. Faster than I expected. Afterward I just stared at the ceiling feeling this mix of “holy shit” and something that was almost like relief. Like my body had been trying to tell me something for a long time and I’d finally listened.

Looking back, the signs were already there. Those long posting trots where I’d get this random warm feeling and just clamp down and focus harder on my position. Nobody in the barn ever talked about that part of riding. You’re supposed to be disciplined and quiet and in control. You’re not supposed to notice that the thing you love is also lighting up parts of you that you’re not supposed to think about while you’re trying to keep your heels down.

What the horse actually taught me, though, was how to pay attention. Riding already makes you listen — to the ears, the breathing, the little shifts that mean something’s about to change. Turning that same kind of listening inward was huge. I learned that if I gripped too hard everything shut down, same as with a horse. If I softened and followed, things opened up. Pleasure started feeling less like this secret dirty thing and more like just… another way my body talked.

There was still a stretch of time where I felt kind of ridiculous about it. Like I’d somehow ruined the pure part of riding. Sometimes mid-ride I’d catch myself and freeze up, scared the feeling would come back at a bad moment. But the more I kept riding, the more the two things kind of blended. The same things that make a good ride — breathing, staying present, trusting the movement — turned out to be the same things that made being alone with myself feel better too.

I still ride now. Ranger’s been gone a long time, but every once in a while on a quiet canter something familiar flickers through me. I don’t chase it. I don’t fight it either. I just notice it the same way I notice the wind or the sound of the hooves, and keep going.

Horse riding didn’t just show me how to touch myself.
It showed me that my body already knew the rhythm.
I just had to stop fighting it and actually listen.