I discovered orgasms at a very young age. I had no idea what the delicious sensation was, but I knew I liked it. A lot. I eventually experimented, figuring out different ways to evoke the powerful waves of pleasure. Some were creative and the orgasms were exciting. Others were just weird and embarrassing to admit. I was fifteen before I was able to orgasm during sex, though. I realize that’s young, but I’d been sexually active for a year by then. Very active to be honest. But no one before the Bad Boy had the skill required or the time to invest in my orgasms. Okay, let’s be realistic for a minute. ‘Time’ is a luxury most teenage dudes don’t have when they’re inside a vagina. And since we’re being honest, the same goes for some dudes well into their twenties. AMIRIGHT, ladies?
In my twenties, I toyed with most of the men I encountered. I took great pleasure in teasing them to the edge of orgasm until they begged me or fucked me. It was a win/win as far as I was concerned. The control I took from them made me feel powerful. I found it incredibly arousing and their orgasms were confirmation that I had played the game well. That strength was an illusion, though. It wasn’t real. The truth was I was full of invisible cracks. I was still reeling from years of manipulation and unwanted pain at the hands of the Bad Boy. Like a vampire, he fed on the power I gave him over me, eventually draining me dry. He took pleasure in hurting me knowing orgasmic euphoria would make me forget. And it did. Down the road, I found myself searching for that same control induced high, and if an orgasm didn’t happen, I shattered.
I ignored the demons of my past and moved into a marriage that was destined for failure. Like my persona, my orgasms underwent a complete make-over. They were no longer multiple. They were no longer powerful, and they were no longer important to anyone but me. Give and take wasn’t a concept my ex husband understood in life or sex, and it quickly became a chore. The event was nothing more than an obligation to meet. It was boring and it was painfully predictable. I learned to fake my orgasms, poorly I might add. The sooner it was over, though, the sooner I could pull down my t-shirt and straighten my ponytail. I could turn the lights on again, clean up the wet mess between my legs, and resume watching whatever show I’d paused on TV.
My demons eventually reminded me of their existence, and when they did, my marriage collapsed. I grew tired of suppressing them and called them out one by one. I faced them all, taking back the power I’d given them. That renewed strength helped me discover myself and my orgasms again.
I say that I wasn’t looking for Mr. K when he found me, but then again, maybe I was and just didn’t realize it. He stimulated me, he captivated me, and he released a sexual freedom inside that I never knew I was capable of. I confess, though, the first time he pulled me off of him sans orgasm, I freaked out a little as whispers of past insecurities began to materialize. It didn’t matter that we’d fucked for hours and he’d already had two orgasms to my <checks spreadsheet> twenty-one. In my mind, I’d failed to get him off. He did his best to reassure me that nothing was wrong, that he loved making me orgasm and he didn’t always need to. According to him, just being inside me felt fucking amazing.
I still wasn’t buying it.
“It’s not about the destination,” he countered. “It’s about the journey.”
What does that even mean?
It took more than a few swallows to choke down my pride, but when I finally did, I was able to see what he meant by “journey.” For us, the journey is all of it. It’s fucking one minute and making love the next. It’s kissing and talking and laughing. It’s everything that makes the sex we have so fucking fantastic. The amazing orgasms are just a bonus along the way.
I won’t lie and say my demons don’t try to trick me into giving them power from time to time. They totally do. But I’m stronger than they are now and I’ve learned how to manage them, mostly. My life and my orgasms are my own again. They’re no longer used to manipulate me and I no longer use them to gain control. The orgasms I have with Mr. K are unlike any I’ve experienced before. They’re intense, but they’re also honest, if that makes any sense outside of my head. There’s no confusion attached to them and there’s no hiding who I am holding them back. There is complete acceptance, flaws and all. And that’s pretty fucking awesome.
