IF I COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT MYSELF, IT WOULD BE MY ORGASMS
Not the orgasm itself, but the ease in doing so.
I’ve been a sexual being for a long time, but coming has been tricky for me. Granted, my sex life started when I was thirteen, and I never masterbated. You’d be amazed at the early age some of my girlfriends started making themselves come. I didn’t have orgasms for the first four or five years of my sex history. I’ve written about that part before, but it’s relevant to this modern day piece.
My early days of fornication were deep-seated in attention seeking and the desire to feel wanted. My own sexual needs took a backseat. Perhaps this is what makes me such a good hooker—as well as an annoyed one when my tricks concentrate on my pleasure.
My first orgasms were with a girlfriend (a gay relationship, not one of my pals...although I have slept with almost all of my female friends), and always from getting head. And I couldn’t always reach it. Or if I did, it was sometimes a chore. I’ve talked about this before, so I don’t want to repeat myself, but it took me a long time to trust that a person was down there because they wanted to be. Still to this day, although thankfully much less than back then, I start to panic if it’s been longer than fifteen minutes. My damn brain! Makes me who I am...and also cockblocks the fuck outta me.
I’m an orgasm challenged sex worker. I have them, and I can make myself come in under ten seconds, but with another human being? Oy vey. There are times when it’s like that scene in Annie Hall when Woody is going down on his wife and a fire truck goes by with its siren blaring and forces her off track. Why, oh why couldn’t I be one of those bitches who comes at the drop of a hat? You might think it’s an urban legend, chupacabra shit, but I’ve known a few of these women. I’ve also met ladies who were like me. I’d say most women fall into a middle category. Not a nutcracker (like moi), but not a simple nipple blow either.
With my extended sex history, you’d think I’d have it figured out by now, but my brain is my brain. You’d also think that a strong, sexually enlightened female would be coming like the dickens. Ah, well. Can’t fight city hall. I guess I should be grateful I have them at all. Hell, I’ve come in my sleep before! Which shows you that it’s completely mental. I know myself well, and I’m more mature than years past...but still a freak of nature. Some things can’t be helped. Funny enough, I’m currently sitting at a bar writing in one of the tiny towns I grew up in: the very place where this cerebrum was forged.
Once I’m with a person for a while (in a committed thing), my mind calms down a bit and my orgasms are pretty regular. I wonder if faking it with clients has screwed me up. Actually, scratch that, I know it hasn’t. This issue existed long before all that. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’ve stopped myself from coming with them a time or two. Can’t be good for the body. Not in terms of blue balls, but the denying: bad memory foam to shape.
For most of my career I didn’t like coming with clients because it was too personal, and while that’s still a portion of the pie, now I worry if they feel the real thing, they’ll know when I fake it. Can’t have that. So, basically it’s a cluster fuck.
My client, whom I’ve dubbed The Unicorn, is the only one I’m trying to come with (the first client in my long history to which this was the case), and my brain has gotten in the way a couple times. Which is much more frustrating than faking it. This is probably why women started faking it in the first place.
I didn’t expect to be coming with him. I had what I call a half orgasm (this is when I ride it, but it never climaxes) our first time, and then the second or third time we fucked, he was going down on me and I came super hard. Honestly, I was surprised. His finger was inside me—no way he could mistake it. It set a precedent. Exactly what I try to avoid. We’ve talked about it at length. I’m extremely honest with him. We have an atypical client/hooker relationship. But it doesn’t help with the pressure/brain-fizz factor. Although he’s made it clear that it’s the journey, not the goal. But of course he wants to feel that again. And it’s not like I don’t. I do. I just hate that it’s a thing now. Also, he’s not my dude. We see each other maybe twice a month or less, and I’ve only been seeing him a few months. To some degree, it feels like the first time every time. The space in between sets us to the beginning.
I tried to trick myself the last time we saw each other, my running mantra was, “it doesn’t matter if I come...just enjoy the feeling...it doesn’t matter if I come”. Yeah, sure. It’s like talking to a horse. And then telling said horse not to be a horse.