Whether through fate, practice, misfortune, or just random circumstance, I tend to take a long time to orgasm - even when I'm very horny. This doesn't exactly relate to my physical stamina; I'm not exactly a paragon of peak health - but it does affect my sex life. Specifically, when I'm having sex on my own, the time it takes tends to demand that I have a fair chunk of my day available, especially as I have recently developed the ADD-like tendency to flick at random through audiovisual stimuli without settling.
Unsurprisingly, if I masturbate lying on my back on my bed, it takes me less time. Not much less, but still... less.
With such a big build-up - not to mention the time it takes to make sure there's a tissue nearby, ascertain that I'm alone, and get the swooping, giddy feeling in my stomach that immediately tend to precede a heady session - the climaxes (such as they are) tend to be somewhere between explosive and volcanic, ranging from the simple juddering, jerking ejaculation to a full-on, bone-shattering moment of glory. Occasional moments aside, I like to make sure that my orgasms - at least - are enjoyable. I don't enjoy much else.
Something I've since stopped enjoying, however, is the few minutes immediately following orgasm. I used to like this.
When having sex with someone else, it's quite nice. You have the opportunity to come down together and you can cuddle for a while (or, if it's bedtime, you can fall asleep...). There may be a certain amount of clean-up required, but it's not so clinical as it tends to be after masturbation, nor does it follow the buzzy white noise, light-headed transcendence, or slightly spacey derealisation that masturbation affords (well, it might, but those tend to happen more to me when I'm on my own than when I'm concentrating on somebody else).
In fact, it's probably because it follows these sensations that I'm finding I'm enjoying myself less.
Don't get me wrong - I love the post-orgasmic glow. Whether it's quiet or not, the deluge of calm that follows orgasm works on a number of glorious levels, catering for every sense and more. I love lying on my bed, riding the crest of the orgasm and feeling my cum warm across my belly (and, occasionally, chest) - and I used to do so in my computer chair (when I had a better chair, anyway - this one's broken). I love feeling the cares of the world disappear. It's an unbelievably reassuring thing.
What I'm becoming more aware of - and what I'm attempting to write about - is what immediately follows. I clean myself up (as best I can), put whatever clothes I'm not wearing back on (sometimes it's just trousers, sometimes a top, sometimes the whole caboodle), and thus get a rather immediate throwback to reality, accompanied by an odd feeling somewhere between guilt, resignation and melancholy. It's an anticlimax... following the climax.
Is that it? I found myself thinking the other day. I had an orgasm and I cleaned up and... that's it? Finished now? Do I just... go back to my life now? I continued, wandering pointlessly around my room.
I don't like it. I'm greedy; I want more of those sensations. I want more of that time, more of that high. Heck, I want more orgasms. Or at least time to fully enjoy the comedown, savour every moment and then follow up with toast and hot chocolate and a book before drifting off to sleep, fulfilled and satiated. I don't get that. I get the busy atmosphere of today's world - the terrifying political climate, the non-stop rumble of London in the distance and the constant, looming pressures of my increasingly fraught job - back all at once. It's too much.
I masturbate to feel good; I masturbate to relieve tension; I masturbate to express myself sexually; I masturbate to alleviate boredom; I masturbate because I'm horny.
But I also masturbate to escape. Sometimes it's difficult to return at all. And that's the feeling I don't like.