Confession – It Has Been A Year Since I Have Orgasmed

While other beauty queens dream of world peace and slimmer thighs I dream of orgasms.  Okay, and occasionally slimmer thighs.

Team, it’s been almost a year since I’ve had an orgasm.

I can almost hear the collective gasps now. The murmuring. The thoughts clicking on the conveyor belt of the collective conscious. I know what my friends would say: “But she’s so liberated,”  “But she has the best stories,” “But she gives great advice,” “But surely she has amazing sex.”

I’m not trying to disappoint. And yes, my stories are all true. And it’s not that I’m having bad sex either.  I certainly hope (PRAY!) that the great sex of my life was not wasted on my youth.  I just got lucky. Literally.

Amid all the fumbling and stumbling that usually occurs in the late teens and early twenties I found I had certain, ahem, natural talents and managed to find partners with the same affinity.  That is to say I’m great at the sex part. I fumble and stumble with the ranks of other teenage girls when it comes to the foreplay part. Still.  I’m a good kisser, and a fantastic tease, and great with my hips.  The rest of it is just a foreign language to me.

One recent-ish boyfriend said, “You must be terrible at playing board games.”

What do board games have to do with sex?

“You start at the end and work your way backwards,” he explained.

And he’s not wrong. I’d rather have sex than do just about anything else.  Sure, I like to make out as much as the next girl, but I don’t really want to see Captain Fantastic unless he’s about to slap on a condom and go to town.  All that other stuff is just… so… personal…

And besides: I want orgasms.  I don’t want to waste time on blow jobs and salad tossing until I know that he’s got the goods when it comes to the horizontal mambo.

So I’ve spent the last four years having sex but rarely getting off.

“Surely, you must be doing something wrong,” I’ll bet you’re thinking.  “Don’t you have a toy?”

Gulp. Several.  And I’m not getting off that often that way either.

I have the beautiful LELO Nea: a bean-shaped, hot pink, hand-held little piece of awesome.  The Nea isn’t your Mama’s one-speed lawn mower of a vibrator.  Nea’s gentle, with speeds ranging from barely there to woah nelly.  She’s environmentally conscious and rechargeable.  She’s quiet but determined. She’s a “luxury” toy and feels as good to use as putting on Chanel lipstick does. But still… she only gets me to that place where I want more, more, more.

Before little Nea was getting me almost there I tried the Rock Chick: a purple u-shaped lady who promised to deliver both g-spot and clitoral stimulation.  But all she does is leave me battered and bruised. I fear her funky shape isn’t made for my little hips.  And there have been some big dicks who have used my vagina as a playground, but the Rock Chick makes me want to wear a skirt the next day every time.  I often just pull the bullet out and use that alone.  Le sigh.

I sometimes can’t remember what real honest-to-God orgasms feel like other than I know it’s different that what I get now.

I never had this problem before.

If anything, I came too much (if that’s possible).  I remember times gasping, begging, “Please. Just. One. More,” before allowing my lovers to feel their release.

And now, lovers beg me.  Tiny seeds of doubt beading in the sweat running into their eyes. I don’t fake it. Only idiots fake it.  And I’m just as loud in bed as I am out of it.  I moan. I yelp. I cry out.  I enjoy myself every time.  I feel bad for my neighbors. I hope they’re enjoying the show. I just don’t climax.

But it’s when I’m stunned into silence, eyes rolling into the back of my skull. Toes curling, back arching, mouth open wide but no sound escaping—

That’s what I’m missing out on.

***

This is guest a post by Leah M. Charney. Would you like to see your story grace the pages of Toy With Me? Click here to find out how you can submit your story.

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