I think I must have spent most of my life edging. Or dead from the waist down.
Given my twitter presence and this blog with its explicitly sexual content and pictures it may surprise you to know that being orgasmic is something that has eluded me for most of my life.
As I drove home from work today, up the shady wooded hill roads and past the cows grazing on golden green grass at the roadside I was remembering, well half remembering, what it was like not to have had an orgasm in my life. It’s a conscious thought because that period extended from my childhood until my late twenties after the breakdown of my first marriage which was orgasmless but did produce two children.
I can remember one moment in my teens of waking up with a hot water bottle between my legs, desperately rubbing against it in what my suddenly wide awake and critical mind called ‘an animal manner’ (what a prig that mind is). I awoke in time to foil the orgasm that was building so beautifully in my pubis which left me empty but what I thought of as ‘fizzing’. That state of knowing there was a something to be had, a somewhere to be got to but not having a clue where that might be or how to get there.
I never ever touched my clit that I can remember, not in my youth, not in my marriage, not post childbirth, not with a husband, not even by accident such was my aversion to that concept. And it was an aversion born of ignorance, as I had no sense that masturbation was something girls or women did. It wasn’t part of any sex I had experienced although I knew I enjoyed being touched by men. But rubbing me seemed to be much less interesting to them than me rubbing them and I knew they wanted that. I had oral sex once in the fifteen years I was with my husband. It was on a sofa in a borrowed house in Abcoude in Holland where we found a copy of the Joy of Sex and, sufficiently emboldened by the water between us and our friends and families, engaged in an embarrassed silent acting out of the illustrations we saw there. It wasn’t a success and we neither spoke of it nor repeated it again.
The most intimate I would be with myself was to hold my mound in a rounded cupped hand. Somehow that felt comfortingly safe rather than explicit and I could not only contemplate it in my mind I could actually get my hand to do it too.
I do remember being thrilled by the sensation of pulling a heavy and loaded tampon out of myself at the same time as emptying my bladder which I had deliberately allowed to fill to bursting point. The corresponding waves of relief would draw an ‘Oh’ from me and I would sigh as my head leant gently on the toilet wall or door of whatever pub I was in at the time for a few brief moments before once again feeling that I had done something inexplicably rude. Actually even the writing of it seems inexplicably rude but hey, we’re all friends here aren’t we? As always home was not a place where this experimentation could take place. It could only happen when I was out.
I enjoyed being fingered by boys in parks and cars during my teens. I liked the sensations it provoked, but also the sense of power I felt as they reacted to the fact that I would let them do it. Still no orgasms but that fizzing sensation which sometimes would get to the point of being uncomfortable and a little frightening. Something was waiting. I had no idea what but it was waiting all the same.
My first orgasm was a gift from a university professor at Lancaster University when I was 27 and newly single again. I had gone to visit him and in-spite of the fact that my presence seemed a bit of an imposition on him at times we did. of course, have sex. Ian was the first man who ever went down on me with intent and skill and I was not able to dodge the orgasm that had been building all my life this time. I have never had one like it since either although all orgasms are lovely of course. But this one shook me from my cunt to my toes and went straight to my head and everywhere in between. I sang as I came, the song drawn from me as my ‘Oh’ descended a scale with trills and arpeggios in between until it was in my boots as I groaned in ecstacy.
Having now discovered orgasms I was unwilling to let them go but I still couldn’t bring myself to touch myself with my fingers and so I masturbated with the shower head training the hot water on my clit and occasionally brushing my dangling nipples with my free hand. These orgasms were hard won and required me to spend up to twenty minutes in the bathroom kneeling in the bath, ignoring the shouts and pleas of my daughters outside the door and focussing, really focussing on the sensations and thoughts that those sensations spread through my head and body until I could myself give up to it for a precious couple of seconds and shudder as it traveled through me. I continued to do this after I met my second husband who was an oral sex enthusiast, actually preferring it to fucking a lot of the time, but stopped when my son kicked against the rhythmic contractions of my womb around him as I sighed in the bath. I thought it might be upsetting him. Even so for the first time I had a sexual relationship in which my orgasms were possible providing I could get to the place where I wanted them.
This I suppose is the point. I could orgasm but I still at times felt a sense of dread about its looming presence, the desire to orgasm was so tinged with fear of letting go that I as far as I was aware I didn’t need to orgasm. I had spent most of my life thus far without it nudging at me. My sexuality and relationship to my own body was so bound up with seeking male approval and that emotional need was much more important than anything my body might be saying to me. The pregnancy that ensued from my new relationship and the demands of that and my three small children plus the university degree I embarked on at that point meant that cuming was not at the centre of my world. I returned to what I knew best, mothering and being a good wife. Pleasure was not part of that.
Now I see that it had occupied that place for so little time because of how uncomfortable I was with the idea of pleasure being an active and necessary part of a life well lived or even part of a life I wanted. Self pleasuring seemed dangerous, tainted and foreign. I did not recognise it or its relationship to me.
To be continued ….