“Five orgasms a day,” I said, barely glancing up from my knitting. “Minimum.”
Her eyes grew large. ”How do you manage that?” she asked.
“Two orgasms upon waking, two before sleep, and at least another one sometime during the day. It keeps me happy. I’m in a much better mood when I cum regularly.”
She sounded confused. “But you don’t live with anyone; how do you have sex before and after sleep to get your orgasm quota?”
I looked up, surprised at the question. “The five orgasm minimum is self-generated. When I have time with a lover, often that number goes up. I reach my orgasm quota by myself, no problem.”
In the Bodysex DVD, I describe my self-generated orgasm as my longest companion. It’s been a nearly-daily practice, a physical meditation and release. I can (and do) crow about how much I love solo sex. I can cheerlead and rah rah my way to a Dr.-Jocelyn-Elders-style promotion. And May, as Masturbation Month, feels like a personal monthlong holiday.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a masturbator. I am not sure when I started to creep into being a procrastinator, but certainly by my undergraduate college years I’d embraced procrastination. My living space was remarkably clean during final exams. And long-lost friends often received emails or phone calls in the hours before a paper was due.
Over the last few years, I’ve also emerged as a procrasturbator. It’s become a problem. Not a big problem. Not an insurmountable problem. Maybe only a tiny problem. But yeah, a problem. What was, in the earlier years, a motivator to accomplish goals, has lately become an interference. Or, more accurately, my relationship to it has interfered.
My companion, the self-generated orgasm, remains pristine, a clear vessel, pure pleasure that cascades through my limbs and my core, sensation skipping up and down my spine.
But I must confess that I sully my companion when I use it as a too-often escape from reality, from responsibilities, and yes, from emotional pain. How often have I been late to an appointment because I want to cum “just one more time!” before getting into the shower or heading out the door? Sadly, more often than I would like to admit.
When I was younger, solo sex was the reward. I adored the sensations of self-pleasure, and that’s what I dangled above tasks that needed accomplishing. Finish a work project? Have an orgasm! Read a chapter in an assigned book I’d rather ignore? Have an orgasm! Do my least favorite chores? Sit down at the piano to practice the Clementi piece that was challenging me? Any of the tasks I dreaded – they all deserved an orgasm as a reward.
Which is fine. Great, even. I see no problem with orgasm-as-reward. I’m also familiar with orgasm-as-motivator, when I’ve been glued to my bed with depression, and the flush and rush of cumming shoots enough happy brain chemicals to get me up and into my day.
But I think in recent years I’ve traversed too far into the motivation camp and too far from the reward camp, as now I masturbate before I do the chores or go to a meeting or handle a challenging phone call.
Over the last month, I’ve found myself intensely busy, with barely a moment to myself in the midst of days that begin at 7am and often end after midnight. This has put a serious cramp in my five-a-day orgasm habit. I’ve tried to masturbate at night, only to fall asleep on myself, too tired to fuck.
In the midst of this busy-induced dry spell from my masturbatory companion, I’ve gained new perspective and further appreciation for the wonder and glory that is my solo sexlife. When my busy schedule eases up, and I find myself with more time on my hands (and more time to put my hands down my pants), I am betting that I won’t take my orgasms for granted, or squander them. And hopefully I’ve broken the incessant procrasturbation habit.
Oh, my sweet masturbatory companion, how I have missed you. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon, showering you with rose petals and caresses and tender coos.
(photo courtesty of Mark Gamba)