Finding my clitoris was like finding a pleasure switch. That’s exactly what it is.
In the self-exploration of my newly-developing body when I discovered its actual purpose, I was humbled by the genius of the human form. And spurred on like a compulsive addict. For the kid that I was then, those orgasms being my first ever, were great.
Explosive. Surprising. Unbelievable.
Each one just made me want another.
I didn’t need restraint. It wasn’t like there was a limited stock of orgasms available to each person and I was using all of mine up. Besides, all the reason I need(ed) to do something that felt good, was that it felt good. They made me feel great after; rejuvenated, active, refreshed and satisfied.
This of course, eventually extended itself to my sex life. For a long time, sex without orgasms didn’t count as such. At one point, I referred to it as public service. Why do I need a sexual partner if s/he can’t even accomplish what I can do by myself? If I was making the decision to fuck someone for straight up mutual pleasure, I was entitled to my orgasms.
From that girl, somehow I have morphed into this one. The girl who went 191 days without an orgasm.
“How did this happen?” I asked myself this morning as I woke up still groggy from the great the orgasmic haze of 2015.
All I can tell you; it happened slowly.
It started innocently enough with 10 days in 2009. Back then, even holding out for ten days was tortuous. By the end of it I was counting down seconds until I would be free again. Ten days of mind-numbing arousal that culminated in one of the most intense orgasms I have ever had. It was one of those the world slows down and goes mute orgasms. If this is what restraint is about, I thought, I should look into this.
Fortunately, he had the same idea.
Ten days turned into two weeks.
Then into 20 days.
Then into a month.
At first I resisted vehemently, it was hard to bear. He wasn’t always around to control me, and the temptation to scratch that particular itch was great. I’m quite like Wilde in that regard; I can resist everything except temptation. Sometimes I gave in, and regretted it moments after. I tried to come up with diversionary tactics and even tried to use pain to achieve the same level of relief. None of those things worked, I just had to give into it.
Around that time, I started to notice two things. The intensity of the orgasms was waning, but the intensity of the arousal was starting to take on a life of its own.
During a weekend we spent in the mountains while I was 20-days into my no-orgasm cycle, I finally understood the phrase “ache with arousal”. I was so turned on, I hurt. Everything led me to the edge; his voice, his violent stares, one-word instructions, his gaze on my cunt, a strong gust of wind. I thought I had been uninhibited all my life, if that is the case, then that weekend I was utterly and completely shameless. Furthermore my hormones compelled me to confess my shamelessness repeatedly, and that too put me right at the edge. And the sex, it was a battle between his will and my pleasure centres. If you remove the culmination of your pleasure but retain arousal while being fucked, that is in my book the definition of feeling used. It probably isn’t actually being used.
Ten days later, I had the first truly bad orgasm of my life. For a few minutes it put me in an anhedonic state. The world didn’t go mute; it came crashing down around me. It was unbearable, like the neglect of someone you truly love.
After that we went straight from one month to two. I tried to rush it but I had to wait a few weeks for the shameless arousal to return. This time instead of just taking over my bedroom, it started to take a grip on my life. It started familiarly enough by me asking to rub myself against his feet and knees like a bitch in heat. Yet somehow it added an element of clarity to the sexual lens through which I see the world. Not only did everything in the world begin to turn me on, there was more beauty in it all than there had ever been before.
We began to consistently repeat our two month cycle and add a few days each time. The denial was wonderful, but repeatedly losing my state of sexual clarity was core-shaking. By this point, I had begun to assimilate the arousal into natural state of being. It came out to play like a violent monster inside the bedroom, but outside it, it acted like a magic elixir running through my veins.
I slept better. I worked harder. I exercised more. I experienced deeply. I related better. I focused easier.
And in reference to him, I became a docile, servile angel. I had always enjoy serving him, but the pleasure I derived from that was far from physical. Suddenly, even making him coffee and serving it to him had a delightful angle of physical pleasure.
The worst moment with orgasms came a few months after I moved to his city. By that point my orgasm routine was well set. We were down to about three or four a year. My relationship with arousal had taken on a spiritual path. And I don’t use that word lightly; in fact, I never use that word except in context of arousal. If we could all turn to hipster language and attempt to understand one-another as energies, I am sexual. I am sexual energy.
I distribute and channel my arousal to different facets of my life so I could approach everything with the same motivation as I approach my sexual needs. My job is sexual. Studying is sexual. If I really want to see the sexual in it, blowing my nose can be sexual. Such is the magic of arousal.
Which is why when he cruelly confiscated my arousal that day, my body reacted violently. Giant drums exploded in my head and streams of tears washed down my face. Everything hurt. The pit of my stomach, my clitoris, my fingers, my head. I couldn’t open my eyes and when I did, the world made no sense to me. And so I cried, I have no idea why, but I cried until I fell asleep.
After that orgasms became an instrument of torture. Just another place for him to exercise his sadistic desires. Patient as he is, he happily waited until I was in the state where I wouldn’t give it up for the world and snatched it from me. Each one turned me into a sobbing, emotional mess. Avoidance of orgasms became my religion. I began to guard my arousal as if it were my baby. And he played with it, routinely.
Every night after he was taken care of and we lay in bed to sleep, his fingers would find their way to my cunt and begin to tease endlessly. Hint: when you go a long, long time without orgasms, it is ridiculously easy to graze the edge.
He made me beg for denial. Each time I got close to the edge, I saw his face light up in pleasure as mine exhibited fear. He made me fight him not to make me come. I was truly terrified of these orgasms. They brought emptiness to my heart. Even if for a few minutes, it was a feeling too horrible to bear. And so I fought against it.
Until one day, my apparently disrespectful quest for denial annoyed him. Annoyed him so much that he said, “Fine, you don’t want to come, don’t come for six months.”
I thought he was kidding. Or at the very least, I believed he had announced that out of anger. Debilitating as those orgasms has been, I wasn’t sure even I could take six months of regular sexual activity, teasing and denial without probably accidently succumbing to pleasure. The first month is always the hardest. The temptation is the greatest when it’s still new, when there isn’t much at stake. After that it is like a homecoming.
The shameless arousal returned.
Then the servility.
Then the sexual lens.
Then the clarity.
And then the intense connection with everything in the world.
My baby was back in high-functioning mode.
But after that something new happened. Probably because the memory of my last emotionally-destructive orgasm was so cloudy in my head that my vagina started to remember it fondly. It made me beg for it. For two months, in what I thought would turn out to be an intensified stage of my sage-like arousal induced state; I turned into a desperate horny teenager. This arousal wasn’t shameless, it was shameful. And instead of exploiting it, as he normally would have done, he mocked it. Of course that only made it worse. Took it to the point where his laugh in my ear was all I needed to get there.
When the six months were up, I expected to worry about the orgasm I was to have. Instead I worried I wouldn’t get to have one.
I needn’t have worried though. He only wanted to give me time to beg; to remember I had done this all to myself. And so unable to take it anymore, last night, I begged. I begged and begged and begged. I spread myself before him and begged him to do whatever he wanted to get me there.
So he brought his mouth close to my ear and sniggered. He held me by the hair and laughed until my entire body was ready to explode. So close was I that I came the moment he put his fingers around my clitoris; giving poignant new meaning to the term pleasure switch.
I came, asked permission and fell to the ground all at the same time.
I regretted it instantly and violently cried myself to sleep again, retching at his touch as he held me in his arms.
I woke up with puffy eyes to a world that makes absolutely no sense to me.