‘I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut hosing orgasm.’
– Chuck Palahniuk, Choke
‘Does coming feel different when I’m inside you? Different from when I go down on you?’
I am sitting astride him when he asks, trying to bring the scattered pieces of my mind back together so that I can form a coherent thought but he keeps twitching his thick, beautiful cock inside me and it sends shivers through my gut and they distract me. I haven’t come down yet; I am still basking on this blissful plateau where the slightest touch is magnified and pleasures I haven’t earned cascade all over me. I tilt my hips, exaggerating his angle inside me and feel that heat building again as we start to move together. I am like a river at flood; the banks may burst over and over again but the water level is so high that even the smallest inlets can break them, and this river never seems to run dry.
He repeats his question, teasing me as he feels me come apart again around him. Stammering, I stumble through similes and metaphors, completely unable to describe the indescribable.
Of course it feels different, I answer eventually. Coming when he’s inside me feels deeper, richer; it feels like melted chocolate is being poured into me until I am completely filled with it. It’s a pleasure that is molten, thick and curling like lava around my bones, whereas his tongue creates lightning! His mouth on me is almost like popping candy; crackling and sparking and sending bright sheets of electricity under my skin. It feels hot and sharp and so good that I almost can’t bear it. Every way I come is different, I shrug. It’s different every time.
But it wasn’t always like this…
I don’t remember when I started masturbating or when I had my first orgasm, but I do know that I was pretty young when I discovered that certain thoughts could be associated with particularly pleasurable sensations. I didn’t know what they meant – I had no concept of sex or desire or arousal – but I knew that simple, innocent circumstances could be reimagined in a way that started a pulse in my groin. Mischievous circumstances that prompted wilful disobedience could be carefully constructed in the depths of my imagination to elicit this irresistible feeling. It seems that even as a child my mind was stronger than my body, always exploring what made my stomach jump and my skin tingle.
Eventually, I wanted more than these little pleasurable buzzing sensations. The simple notion of being naughty may have been enough for the child but as a teenager, I needed a stronger kick. I had to touch the origin of the flutter between my legs, using gentle grazes of fingertips to locate the sensitive spots and make them grow. Light touches, insistent pressure, frantic rubbing; all chasing that glorious explosion from my clit that arched my back and stiffened my limbs, leaving me dazed and breathless.
And I got really good at making myself come. I practiced a lot! I used to race myself to climax – can I come in five minutes, in two minutes, before my alarm? (Yes, yes, yes!) Can I come without using my hands, just pulling up my knickers so the fabric rubbed against me? (Yes!) Can I…?
I was so good that it was quite a shock to discover that I didn’t come when someone else touched me in the same way. Learning my first boyfriend’s body was thrilling and exciting, but learning how mine worked with him was harder and much more frustrating. How could I find masturbating so easy and yet his touches did nothing for me? How could I want him so much when I’m alone but never overcome my nerves when we’re together?
I began to wonder if I was ‘using up’ my orgasms by wanking too much so decided to valiantly deny myself for a while, but it didn’t help and only made me more frustrated! I began to wonder if all of my clitoral-focussed masturbating was changing my body so that I couldn’t come any other way. I began to wonder if I was broken…
And this broken feeling became a self-fulfilling prophecy. After my fumbling teenage first love came other fumbling conquests, but they were too few and too far between. One night stands, often alcohol fuelled, did nothing to reassure me that I could come any other way but by my own hand. Oh, I learned to love the stretching sensation of being fucked but it was never enough. I knew I wouldn’t come. Wouldn’t…couldn’t…it became difficult to tell.
My inability to orgasm began to symbolise all of my sexual doubts. This was why the boys I fucked never came back for more. This was why I couldn’t find a boyfriend. This was why I was alone. And I drowned beneath the smothering weight of this fear.
How could I be desirable when I couldn’t demonstrate my desire? How could I be sexy and relaxed and confident when all I could think about was that I still hadn’t come? I was embarrassed by my body and its stage-fright, I was angry at myself for letting my frustration exacerbate the mental block; I would often fake it, exaggerating my pleasure to foolishly try and prove that I wasn’t broken.
Until one day I just stopped caring. I finally gave up criticising myself for something that literally no one else had yet commented on. My solo orgasms were just as satisfying, just as spinetinglingly delicious as ever so I clearly could come. So I don’t come from penetration, big deal. So oral sex doesn’t quite do it for me, who cares. So I may never know what squirting or multiple orgasms feel like – I’m sure I won’t be the only one.
This change of attitude came about in the few months before I started writing this blog – it was part of my plan to ‘fix’ what I could fix about myself; to change the mindsets that I knew were damaging, to stop fucking caring so much about what other people thought of me and instead focus on what I thought of me. I consciously decided to stop thinking of myself as broken – I was just unpracticed and that was easily rectified.
And this is when I start to feel a bit stupid about how overwhelmed and overwrought I was before, because I was wrong. So, so wrong. I’m not broken, I haven’t wasted my orgasms wanking at every free moment, and I can be sexy and confident and everything I was terrified that I wasn’t.
Rather than being broken, I had instead turned my orgasm into the summit of an enormous mountain and I was quailing at the heights. I was so concerned with the distance to the peak and how far I was from that elusive climax that I missed all the fun of the climb! I didn’t look around and see how fucking fantastic the view could be or just enjoy myself as I was too busy fretting about my imagined deficiencies. And when I stopped fretting, when I changed my expectations, when I took a deep breath and just felt what my body was feeling and allowed the waves of tension and pleasure to build in a way that was very different from when I masturbated, I melted into them, giving in and never looking back. Because it turns out that I can come through penetration, oral sex really, really does do it for me, and I am definitely, definitely not broken!
I think I was just expecting every orgasm to be like when I masturbated. I thought there was only one way! I was waiting for that pull into my core, as if there were thick cords in the centre of my limbs that were drawn tight and then plucked like a double bass, which I now know is just how I come when I’m fingered; it’s not everything, it’s not even close. I hadn’t expected there to be any difference with other types of stimulation and so could only focus on what was missing. I wasn’t ready for the variety – the rich chocolate, lava, or electricity; gushing, almost painful releases; breathless, blinding peaks that build and recede and overlap.
And the best part of this discovery is that my sexual confidence now is another self-fulfilling prophecy – as soon I discovered I could come, it was easier to come again, and again, and again! Each orgasm is better than the last, my body catching me off-guard with powerful sensations that it really can’t contain. And I’m still learning, I’m still discovering, and it’s fucking wonderful!
So much has changed that when we talk about what an issue this was before and how difficult I used to find it to come, he’s amazed and affectionately jokes about the obvious incompetence of my previous lovers as he renders me twitching and helpless with barely a touch. But he didn’t know me before and he couldn’t know how different I am now. He couldn’t possibly know how surprised I was by that first orgasm in that first fuck, how it may have changed everything; he couldn’t know how he has literally opened the floodgates…