a kite who let go of the string
One last thing about letting go: I don’t do it. Especially not with someone new.
Sometimes I can lose myself in a good fuck, sliding inside a girl like there is some sort of salvation inside, if I could just get deep enough, but I don’t allow myself to be entered, not that deeply, not enough to give someone else salvation. Perhaps I’m not built that way. It too often feels like invasion.
So when fingers inside me found a place lodged thickly, took my cervix between swirls of fingerprints … I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.
And she said let go … just let go.
And her voice sent me soaring, like a kite who let go of the string. I discovered what the blue sky felt like on my tail. Wrapped it around me.
Let go … just let go.
And my body bowed, enough to feel pulled tight, bone against muscles against skin. I often use the phrase “to the edge of my body” to describe what my consciousness does when I’m fucking. Like any physical activity – running, yoga – what I mean is that I am no longer balled up in the back of my mind but rather am just as conscious in my little toe as I am in my lips and my chest.
I get so lost in my head sometimes. Reuniting with my body feels heavenly. Holy. And through sex it feels sacred. To quote a favorite poet of mine, “this is the sweet glory reason for a body in the first place.”
It takes a lot of work for me to get off. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when someone goes down on me – in fact that is my favorite way to come. Well. That, and having a blow job. And while fucking a girl with a strap-on, which sometimes, I can actually do, if I get the angle right. But most of the time, I get tired of trying so hard and whomever is between my legs gets tired and I let it go before I actually get off.
When I am patient enough to let it happen, the intensity of orgasm is unparalleled. So unlike anything I can do for myself. Though I – like many of us, I imagine – am fairly skilled at getting myself off quickly, I have yet to master getting myself off thoroughly. Or thickly.
I don’t have the right phrase for it. It’s the difference between a single pulse-and-release of an orgasm and having my spine shudder and tear open, like I can feel every drop of water that made me, every molecule buzzing and humming and spinning around singing, opening …
Okay, without waxing poetic here, I’m not sure how to describe these two orgasms in my body.
One: A single pulse, sometimes lasting for a few seconds. Most often, a contraction and release that happens once, a tightening of my muscles originating in my cunt, a tensing throughout my body. Then it’s over, and my cunt is sensitive, clit so sensitive she doesn’t want to be touched. This is what happens when I lay down, read some erotica, jack off. Or when I don’t get much forplay. Or when I just don’t care.
Two: A slower build. Lots of mini-peaks of pleasure on my way up to The Big One. Like earthquake tremors. And when it finally happens I’m clenching everything: fists teeth thighs, not realizing I’m strangling this lovely person going down on me. Tightening and trying to remember to breathe, for ages, minutes even, my entire body coiled tight and pressing so hard against anything I can find – the headboard wall pillows mattress, pressing my arm over my eyes (I always do this, not sure why, I think it must be an impulse to be blindfolded, block out the light). And there is a plateau here where I could stay for moments, full minutes, as though my body was a string and the tongue on my clit is plucking it softly back and forth, vibrating. And I’m just shimmering.
This is the place I wish I could stay. Sometimes, I can.
My mouth is inevitably open here. Open in an OH, eyes squeezed shut, or not, trying frantically to watch, gain eye contact, see lips tongue electricity sparking from between my legs.
But then it all breaks, and I scream with the intensity, often yelling, crying out, noises bursting from me accidentally. What happens in that moment? I think there’s one more muscular contraction/vibration before the tension breaks and sometimes, there’s such release that I cry.
This is not to say that there aren’t orgasms in between, certainly there are.
This is not what happened on Saturday night, but it could have. I wasn’t really going to allow myself to get taken in that deeply that night. But this was the first time in years – four years, maybe five – that I have felt on the verge of one of those orgasms. Felt the possibility of that orgasm existing in my body again.
(Thank you for that.)
I am still getting used to feeling sexy again. I have always, since before I can remember, been so sexual, so experimental, that to have that absent in my life was like losing my life-force, losing my creative drive, losing my pulse.
Last night I saw a poet who reminded me why I am alive. Why I am here. Why I am interested in voices that bounce off of ceilings, in microphones, in ink scrawled on paper or backs of hands or napkins or any available surface.
Today, I am broken. Hit square in the chest with a rubber mallet, bruised plum-purple and crackling at the edges. Sore in my joints and stomach and neck. As though I ran a marathon yesterday. As though I had marathon sex all night.
But really, my heart is opening. Peeking out into the world again. And I’m so, so sad today, seeping a little, soggy and sore.
Because one of the things I realized at that party, making skin-to-skin connections, is that my life is interesting. I do interesting things with my time. And I really want to share that with someone – with people, with friends.
And that, even moreso perhaps than the number two orgasm, is what has been missing from my life and from this relationship that is still ending every day.