December 6, 2007
It Ain’t Always Easy


Let me tell you how it isn’t always easy for me to come. Let me tell you that I spent much of my early twenties absolutely faking it. Let me tell you that it has taken almost thirty years of having sex with men, with women, with men and women, for me to realize that I can come relatively reliably, if indeed that is something I want to do. Let me tell you that I am no major goddess in the orgasm department, nor am I a minor deity. I am probably pretty much just like you, or if you’re a dude, like your girlfriend or wife, or at least the majority of women that you’ve fucked and who neither never came nor who came like all the time. I am, let’s face it, average.

In the interest of backing up my assertions of total orgasmic mediocrity, I want to give you some facts, some figures and some evidence. My lover and I see each other at the most three times a week and at the least one. I’d say we have sex about 1.5 times per week. Often we are too tired to fuck. We hold hands and watch television or we go out and eat, and by the time we get to thinking about sex, we can’t. We do make time to do it when we can, but we don’t always. I’m not particularly happy with how often we have sex; I’d like to more often, say maybe three or four times a week. I will not ever be the kind of woman who needs to have sex every day, nor for that matter will I ever be the kind of woman who wants to.

Often, because we only have sex 1.5 times per week, my lover and I have really long and baroque sessions of sex. There are lots of toys and sometimes ropes and many positions and rooms and holes and whatnot. Other times, we can be really very efficient. I do offer to give my lover head or a hand job frequently just because I like to do what I can. Plus, it’s fun. But, frankly, if I’m not in the mood, I won’t. I think I’ve turned my lover down about three times in our relationship. It’s rare, but it happens.

My masturbatory habits run a gamut. Some weeks I’ll do it nearly every day. Other weeks will go by and the thought will cross my mind, but then I think about something I’d really rather research, like what Masi Oka said on Conan, and I’ll get diverted. I’d say that on an average, I masturbate 2.6 times a week. I often get bored with it and my toys. All of them. I feel like, what, orgasm? Again? Do I have to? Lately, I’ve taken to keeping my Hitachi magic wand plugged into the socket next to my bed because if I really, really want to come, I can do it relatively quickly, if not particularly pleasurably, with the wand. Recently, however, the wand has lost its magic.

I used to masturbate with all kinds of toys and lavish, long fantasies and lots of attenuated self-loving. I’ve currently put that rococo onanism on a shelf. It just ended up being a lot to wash. And so many batteries to buy. I do admit, however, that I do continue my search for the holy grail of sex toys, something that will keep me interested in self-loving, something that will never lose the luster, something that will be bright and shiny and resplendent forever. I have yet to find it. I’m taking suggestions.

I do tend to have very powerful and long-lasting orgasms. I really enjoy my orgasms. They are definitely a bit of all right. I can’t complain about the quality control of my coming, because whoever it is that is in charge of that department has a five-star crash rating. However good the ‘gasm, I almost always come only once when I have sex. Occasionally, I can sneak in a second orgasm if I come early (which is unusual) and the sex last a while (which is not). Even more uncommon, I have multiple orgasms. They tend to go pop! pop! pop! like the flashbulbs in a 1950’s paparazzo’s camera. To be honest, while I do enjoy the variety, they are less satisfying as a whole. They are akin to having spinach dip for dinner. I like spinach dip. It’s creamy goodness on a cracker. But it’s not a meal. My multiples feel like that.

While it is a rare occurrence, I do squirt. It does feel awfully neat. It doesn’t happen very often and it usually catches me by surprise. I’d say my squirting is more like a meteor shower than a comet’s flight. It happens with some kind of regularity, but not so much that it isn’t a charming surprise when it does.

Squirting is a perfect segue into my own feelings of sexual inadequacy. As I’ve written before, both my mother and my grandmother were members of this streak of the white tiger of human sexuality, the female ejaculator. For a long time, I felt completely dejected that I did not belong. I felt inadequate, especially raised as I was by a mom who flaunted her sexuality and who had loud, screaming orgasms in small houses while I cowered in bed in another room.

I too feel inadequate when I read stories of women who can come easily-indeed, I’ve felt inadequate when I’ve fucked women who come easily. I feel as if my prodigious sexuality shines a cheap sham in the thick creamy beam of these women’s florid sexualities. I feel inadequate when erotica and porn shows women coming more frequently and presumably better than I. I feel inadequate and I feel jealous and I feel angry. Which is really just a pity.

I know that while I have some kind of psychological control over my orgasming-I learned a while ago that if I really, really decided I wanted an orgasm, I would have one-I don’t believe I’m made to be the woman who comes in sheaves of orgasms. I will never be the kind of chick who has, and forgive me for recycling this metaphor, packs of orgasms fat as Godard’s Gauloise. It’s not going to happen. Maybe it won’t happen because I don’t believe it, but maybe it won’t happen because I’m not built that way.

I know too that my sexuality is not limned by how often, or how rarely, I come. Human sexuality is like the Yukon River in April-it’s always changing, and it moves fast. The one sexual thing I can be certain of is that I will change. I don’t know how or when (and I have only the slimmest understanding of why), but I know it will. I know too that I can choose not to feel intimidated by or inadequate to or inferior to or belittled by other women’s sexualities. There are no measuring sticks but the ones I choose to put up against myself. I prefer to measure myself against greater things than orgasms.

I know that regardless of how often I come, or if I come, or when, or where, or how, I’m as sexy as I want to be. When I orgasms, I’m not thinking, Oh, god, oh god, this is greatttt-butitwouldbesomuchbetterifitwerelikehers. I’m hardly thinking at all. I’m just down and gutter-happy, my hips dancing that primal hootchi-kootchie dance, singing praises in ancient tongues and swell-riding that sweet hot crimson wave until it fades into nothing and I along with it.


Comments

One Response to “It Ain’t Always Easy”

  1. amanda on December 7th, 2007 2:02 am

    thank you.

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