Pro tip: If your OkCupid username is “fun_not_long,” my brain goes to the filthiest and most unflattering place possible for you.
Yeah, yeah, “size doesn’t matter” — tell that to the guy I dated who was SO secure in that notion that he brought a compensatory Magic Wand* to our FIRST (and only) sexual encounter.
Digression 1: I was not at all displeased with the Magic Wand — it’s named that for a reason. If I didn’t already own two pricey sex toys that get the job done just fine, with a portion of my forthcoming (heh) tax refund earmarked for a third because it looks SUPER fun, I’d be all over (heh) the Magic Wand.
Digression 2: Now my brain is wandering to memories of that Magic Wand experience (my first), during which I learned about orgasm denial, and why it’s a thing. A thing that man was impressively skilled at doing to me. A thing I wish he hadn’t just decided to DO to me without warning the first time we slept together, because I was ready to murder him, but a thing that worked out incredibly well for me in the end. I have no idea how he could tell when I was JUST about to, or if it was just a lucky guess, but damn. Dude was like the Orgasm Whisperer.
Digression 3: This is not a good train of thought at work. Though my mental image of said train barreling full-speed through a tiny, tense tunnel is a hilarious metaphor.
*I linked to the Walmart site only because I am infinitely amused you can buy it there.
I’m reading this book, and while discussing the early history of depression and diagnosis, the author writes:
“Rufus found melancholy patients also suffered buildup of unreleased sexual fluids, whose putrefaction infected the brain… Galen shared Rufus’ belief in disastrous consequences of deficient sexual release. He treated one of his female patients, whose brain, he believed, was troubled by the noxious fumes of her rotting unreleased sexual fluids, ‘with a manual stimulation of the vagina and of the clitoris and the patient took great pleasure from this, much liquid came out, and she was cured.’”
So there you go — I’m not depressed, I just really need to be fingered by my therapist.
I may be having non-therapist sex fairly soon (fingers crossed, legs not so much). So here’s hoping that release will be its own form of mood stabilizer.
Between hormones and holiday stress, I just ended up Ugly Crying over something incredibly stupid, and now my brain is convinced I am unlovable and will die alone. So that’s always fun. I think these particular feelings will need to be handled via pizza.
I almost never cry, so storing it all up for the twice-yearly Ugly Cry is sort of like when I finally get laid — I never realize how long it’s been since I’ve done it, so I just explode from the catharsis of it all. It generally works out much better during sex, but the result is the same: I end up collapsed in an exhausted, lifeless heap. And I feel a lot better. And I demand snacks.
I’ve often equated my need for sex to the unclogging of a drain. If it’s been too long, I get a backup of sexual tension, and I need a man to relieve that tension by penetrating it repeatedly with a force I don’t possess. And then the entire system operates more smoothly.
I thought it was kind of a gross metaphor, but damned if Liquid Plumr hasn’t read my mind.