Captain’s log. Day 2. This sucks.
I have got to start talking about something else. Anything really.
I am sick of my own broken record shit.
On the list are
- my anorexia and
- my vagina.
I have a magic vagina. I do. Does tricks, makes me and my lovers happy. I have been known to ejaculate rivers. She and I have a fairly loving, long-term relationship.
I spent my late teens having sex without orgasm. Still felt good, don’t get me wrong, but I knew something was missing. Spent my 20’s figuring out how to gently nudge my lovers in the right direction using what I had learned about my body. Spent my 30’s undersexed and pretty miserable. My 40’s have become next level amazing. I have learned the joys of empath sex, found wonderment here.
I mentioned in Tantric Tantrums there was a girl at work who proclaimed “Here comes Billie to talk about her vagina again.” Billie is my work name, and she is rather catty, just rude really. Little did she know before she uttered that little dig, me and my Sunshine had walked away from a table full of free drinks and $100 each because the men sitting there had said something nasty about her.
Earlier in the evening she had run off at the mouth about girls talking behind each other’s backs.
Next time she is on her own, aaaaaaaaaand in the words of Louis CK, she can suck a bag of dicks.
I don’t actually have a bag of dicks, I have a toy box.
I came off a rather shitty shark week, full of the sads.
Wasn’t feeling sexy, sexual, just kinda numb.
Messaging with the one I call Home. He is worried about me. Fuck I was worried about me.
He asked if I had eaten, I knew what he meant.
I replied that I hadn’t even had a snack, he knew what I meant.
He told me to play with myself to see if it would make me feel better.
NINE, in one day.
I went off like a rocket after having 9 days off. And these ones were different…way more intense.
I DID feel better.
I seem to have found my happy place.
Or rediscovered it and a whole other side of the rainbow, now in Technicolor.
This whole thing started off innocently enough. Bought a new toy a while back. I would stop writing 20 minutes early, jump in the shower to get ready for work and use my extra little window to play with myself, have a nice little orgasm, glow for a minute or 5, call a cab and go to work smiling.
Then these ones came, pun intended. This is no ‘nice little orgasm’. This is full body waves and undulations, opening my crown chakra and getting kissed on the forehead by god. This is radiating electrical impulses of amazing. This is forgetting everything, even my own name for a minute that goes on forever. This is bliss and joy and magic.
I have an addictive personality. I know I do. I find something or someone I like and I am all in.
This is why I never shot heroin. I knew at age 24, staring at the off-white powder in the packet my girlfriend was holding, that I was looking at my own death.
I have had opiates before and I loved them. The thrumming under my skin, the lightest touches feeling like warm embraces, the tumbling gently down the rabbithole thoughts all in slow motion, everything slowing down. Feeling like being submerged in warm water, weightless like a womb state.
Orgasm brings me there.
And lately my bedroom has become my own private opium den.
Stealing small chunks of time, being late for things, because I am chasing the dragon and finding him.
After the 9 times day, the next day was 4 or 5, I think I had to work and I was actually irritated that I had to be there. The body glow I feel for an hour or so after was waning and my patience with it.
Did I mention the after effects were lasting for an hour or more? Just thinking about it and writing this I can get myself back to that last ebbing state of full-body hum.
The day after was 3 or 4 again. The next another 3 for sure, maybe more.
By the end of the week I was decidedly sore.
The reason I was talking about my vagina at work is
a) because I fucking can
b) the Monday night DJ hugged me and bumped my poor darling clit with his thigh. I had to hang on to him to keep my knees from buckling. It was a good hurt, but we were both kinda thrown off. Had a good chuckle over it.
Day 7 or 8, 3 times under my belt. Home alone so I was going for a 4th and I couldn’t get there. Vagina finally said ‘nope’.
I messaged my girl in a mild/severe panic saying I was afraid I’d broken myself.
She said “No baby. Just give it a few days.” She is a nurse, and I trust her judgement implicitly.
A few days felt like forever. And what if I couldn’t get back there?
We are in this time bending vortex portal thing between eclipses and the ‘when’ is lost. I think I will come out the other side and it will be 4 years from before. So a day feels like forever. I got through it. Barely. My girl magically messaged and forced me out of the house, I thanked her for it. I have my own cheering squad. Next day is when I started writing this…
Captain’s Log, day two. Equally as rough, if not worse than the first. I am addicted to my own dopamine, endorphins and serotonin. I have to find other things to be happy about.
Day 3, went for bunch with my girls. The longest brunch ever. We ended up waiting out the kitchen shut down and having second breakfast and Elevenses.
We sequestered ourselves in the mezzanine (smart move) and there was much talk about vaginas, orgasms, boys and men over mimosas and benny. This is why these women are my people. Nothing is taboo and no one is judged. We all listen and work through each other’s shit with love and grace. There was pompom waving and a rousing chorus of ‘you can get through this’.
Of course I came home and heard my vibrator calling my name from its wooden prison.
Third run into outer space… over the moon that I wasn’t broken and said a thank you prayer to the Universe.
Now, if you will excuse me…