Speaking of my orgasm, mine has changed over the years like a sexual chameleon experimenting with its colours by walking across a field of rainbows. Sometimes I wonder what makes me get off, let alone the confused but determined partner at the other end of my body trying to find the secrets of making my cunt explode.
In the fog of ageing memories, I can recall being able to come doing nothing more than crossing my legs and leaning into the seam of a pair of jeans. Some pleasant thoughts later, a gentle, awakening tingle would sunburst through my groin that no one would notice as long as I paid heed to my facial expressions.
Then anti-depressants came along a few years ago and changed everything – for better and for worse, as most changes bring.
Medication 1 made me marginally more stable but the price was a libido akin to a neutered housecat. I can’t recall how my orgasm was affected because I didn’t devote a lot of time towards breaking through my apathy. A higher dose did nothing more for mental stability but turned my vagina into a dusty museum with a ‘this exhibit closed’ sign tacked to the front door.
Medication 2 provided the edge to help me consider suicide for the first and second times, woke me most nights with cold and clammy night sweats and killed the ability to orgasm after returning my desire to have them again, if only to try to induce sleep. Lying awake at 2am with a brain that won’t switch off its catastrophising thoughts — and knowing a sleep-assisting orgasm is 40 minutes away with even the most powerful of vibrators — is among the nastiest of ways to spend the unconscious hours.
Medication 3 created a pleasant doppelgänger of insulation: I looked like me, I did the things I usually did, but I was dreamier, hazier, detached from life. Not happy, not sad, not laughing, not angry, not much, really. I needed the break from normal life though and had only one descent into the furious darkness where I became scared for myself. The upside was that I got my masturbation to orgasm time down to 30 minutes – oh, the joyous text message to Jekyll when I cracked the half-hour barrier! And there was associated desire showing its head amongst the fuzzy greyness of my being!
After the medicated holiday from myself, I needed to be me again, and have been for some months now. My desire levels seem healthy enough (she says with the image of a 69 with rimming on her mind) but my newer – and seemingly permanent – orgasms are a challenging learning curve to manage with myself and with partners. Getting myself off with fingers alone can bring pins and needles and cramps to my fiddling fingers because the build-up time is still long (unless I’ve had earlier mental or physical stimulation and am long-aroused before I masturbate). My clit and its surrounding beds of nerve cells seem to have densensitised after repeated abuses, and vibrators have been a godsend (and part of the cause, really) to find and exploit my pleasure spots to reach orgasm. The upside is that my orgasm is deeper, more body-shuddering and the prize awarded at the end of a long slog is fucking awesome in its stress-depleting qualities. I feel good, purely and emptily good.
I sometimes have to bring out the, “It’s me, it’s not you” talk if I know I’m not going to come with a partner. I need to be quiet, relaxed and allowed to sink into my surroundings, while the sex I enjoy most isn’t quiet, isn’t relaxed and I do absolutely no sinking into anything except someone’s warm flesh with hungry ferocity. My great-memory sex isn’t the same as my get-off sex and, while no partner has said anything, I know one or two have been perplexed when I moan and groan and wriggle and then get up and rescue their overworked tongues. They can help me all they like (and I really, really like), but ultimately I’m responsible for my bodily pleasures and knowing what makes my body zing – no one can be expected to know if I’m still finding my way around in this new world order of pleasure.
I don’t know why I wrote all this; perhaps it’ll help me demystify my body to the next person in my life, or I’m home alone and just thinking about doing myself.