Self-squirting

I grabbed some popcorn and watched a video, tried for myself and made a horrendous mess — I wasn’t expecting quick success but within a minute I had ejaculated with my own two fingers. In the next ten minutes I racked up another four squirts before I saw the moat of wetness I’d surrounded myself in and thought I should give it a rest for a while.

I was having only weak orgasms each time I ejaculated; I’m not sure if this is because my technique needs perfecting or my fingers aren’t long and I could only catch the edge of my g-spot. Not to worry, now that I’ve done it I’m somewhat underwhelmed and am ready to move on to the next big thing. Just need to work out what it is. But in relation to the video, working the fingers in the up and down movement to get the thwuck thwuck thwuck sound is the key — I recognised the sound immediately from the presumably-gone Country Hottie’s initiations and knew I’d hit the right button, so to speak.


On hormones

A while ago a woman I used to work with was undergoing tests prior to a course of IVF treatment. I took barely a clinical level of interest apart from my concern for her wellbeing because I’ve always known that I have never wanted children, but the first piece of paperwork with her hormone levels captured my attention instantly.

Mapped out on the papers were the natural swings in reproduction-related hormones like jagged and deadly mountain ranges. I had to bite my tongue to stop from saying, “Holy fuck, it’s amazing more women aren’t out killing people with these fluctuations to deal with every week of the year.” I’ve known from early sex education about follicle stimulating hormones and ovulation (and at a guess I have about 80 more cycles before menopause, so I’m trying to make the most of those times I have left) but the body’s multiple shifts in natural chemicals both frightened me and highlighted why I’m attracted to someone one day but not the next, want to fuck anyone or many anyones for about 12 hours in the day before my period, forget the urges ever occurred as they slip away as quietly as they arrived, and crave clitoral attention some days but nothing except being stuffed full with cock will suffice on others.

Fulfilling sex to the point of hormonal overload turns me into a softer, pliable version of the ecstasy-fuelled young things at dance parties. After the second fisting episode with Jekyll in the relaxing confines of a hotel room and I had almost levitated from the bed with pleasure, I almost shouted that I loved him. Thankfully self protection kicked in before opening my mouth and I saved myself an explanation, but I think Jekyll would have coped with the declaration in its context because he enjoyed pushing my limits and seeing the unpredictable results. After the role play with Country Hottie, I was so whacked with feel-goods that the words almost escaped from my mouth again, and not in a sexual oh-my-god-I-love-you-keep-doing-that kind of way, but with fully-felt conviction. He wouldn’t have given allowances for being lust-fucked and would have run out the door without pants and driven far, far away.

This morning I masturbated and was in tears as I came. The stream flowed quickly down both cheeks and pooled in my ears until I wiped my face in confusion. My mental state at the moment is passable and probably only a small contributor, but I think there’s a couple of days after my period and before the fuck-me-nows of ovulation kick in when the hormone milkshake gets stirred wildly with a simple orgasm.

The promise of sexual release will inspire many men to behave oddly but I become the strangest of creatures afterwards.

De-what?

I broke yet another buzzing appliance (or it wasn’t strong enough to break me) so off I went again to the emporium of smut.

My mood wasn’t appropriate for attempting a choice among the hundreds of garish get-off machines and I chose the oldest and presumably hardest-living sales assistant for help.

“Hi. I hate shopping so let me speak bluntly. I want something for external use that buzzes like a food processor and grinds like a de Walt hammer drill. I’ve been on anti-depressants and don’t need anything fancy but do need a lot of it.”

She flashed a knowing smile and led the way to a stand of pastel-coloured rods and selected a pink tool that resembled a small flashlight. She inserted batteries into the unit and its second control panel and flicked some switches. Holy batshit, with the boost of the additional power unit turned up, the metal bumps on the end of the rod nearly pushed a hole through the palm of my hand. I was pleased.

She said they’re popular among women who have developed cast-iron clits from delayed orgasms. I understood why and suddenly I wanted to be the hell out of the shop to attend to some live testing.

Before I was allowed to run off with my purchase, she asked if had been working on desensitising myself.

“Have I what?” [long pause while I wondered what the fuck she was talking about]

“Um, nooooooooo [insert guilty smile and sheepish look]. I just keep buying more powerful vibes because I don’t want to lose the monster orgasms I have now. Anyway, how many men with quick or delayed orgasms bother with desensitising if they are still getting off big time?”

She replied, “Good point. Love your work.”


Why most lube isn’t red

I gave myself an early mark from work the other day and sauntered home half an hour before my usual departure time. The Drummer’s car was in the driveway and the front door was unlocked; he usually greets me at the car if he’s home and I idly wondered where he was.

Of course, he was where one would expect a man at home by himself when his partner isn’t due home for the foreseeable future: on the floor lying against the lounge suite with pants by his side, cock in his hand and a vibrator in his anus, wanking in synch with some porn starlet on the computer taking a gigantic phallus up her bottom.

In fantasyland, I’m sure a woman entering the front door after a long day, shoulders bearing the weight of the world and hands gripping the evening’s dinner, would drop everything and dive to her man’s cock, wanting nothing more than contributing to his pleasure. Nope. I looked, looked again to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, said hi and went about unpacking the groceries. Perishables need to be refrigerated as soon as possible after purchase.

He was still going when I returned to the lounge room and asked me to rub his balls. Okay, I’m not completely heartless, even when I’m several steps behind someone else’s state of arousal.

I almost screamed for an ambulance when I reached down and saw the smeared and bloody mess around his balls and anus. I was sure he was haemorrhaging but was too full of distracting feel-good sensations to notice that he appeared to be bleeding to death.

He didn’t share my state of panic.

“It’s just that cherry-flavoured lube you don’t use, darling.”

Oh, I remember that stuff. Vile shit. Tastes like cherry-flavoured bronchitis medicine mixed with battery acid.

Carry on.

The big, mysterious O

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.