The last time I had an orgasm was yesterday afternoon. Lying on the bed in the spare room with my jeans and knickers round my ankles, rubbing one out to the sounds in my head – of leather smacking on skin, and grunting, and dirty words.
The time before that was the same: spare bed, knickers/ankles, sounds of leather and grunting and dirty words.
And the time before that, too.
And the time before that.
At least I’m consistent.
What I’m not, right now, is sexy. Or varied. Or creative. Or interesting. The closest I come to variety is switching between my Doxy and my Zumio. The Ambit dildo is a constant, but sometimes instead of lubing it up with spit I’ll use CBD lube, if I decide that this time I want to try and feel something.
But most of the time I wank like I eat: functionally.
Orgasms aren’t about sex. At least, not right now. Perhaps one day in the future they’ll be sexy again: moans and twitches and grunts that make me feel good about my body, my self, my fantasies, my life.
Right now I’m just grateful that they make me feel at all.
The last time I had an orgasm, it was about giving myself something to do to break up the day. Procrasturbation – when my brain won’t let me write, because my heart is hurting, an orgasm can be dishonestly logged as ‘research’.
Like biscuits, orgasms accompany a coffee break. Unlike biscuits, they don’t leave crumbs in the bed.
The last time I had an orgasm, I did not feel good about it. But I didn’t feel bad about it either. I felt a brief, hard kick of pleasure – just enough to take the edge off the rest of the day.
Orgasms are something I do because I do not know what else to do. I have them three or four times a day.
Perhaps I have them to keep me from going mad. Or perhaps I just have them because I worry that if I don’t, I’ll forget the knack of it forever.
The last orgasm I had accompanied a coffee break, yesterday afternoon. Lying on the bed in the spare room with my jeans and knickers round my ankles, the last wank I had was a means to procrastinate from the work I cannot do, the ideas that will not come. Rubbing one out to the sounds in my head – of leather smacking on skin, and grunting, and dirty words.
It was a memo scribbled on a post-it note: don’t forget this. You like this. Remember?
Some of the links on this page go to my sponsor companies. They didn’t pay for this post though because honestly, who’d pay for a weird one like this? I’m just writing this for full disclosure, because I don’t want you to think I’m being a sneaky fuck.
If you were hoping for something sexier on National Orgasm Day, here are a few orgasms you might prefer to read about:
Forced orgasm (me forcing a guy)
Ruined orgasm (a woman having her orgasm ruined)
Fake orgasms (faking orgasms for sexy purposes)