I can’t come.
That’s not completely accurate. I can’t let go enough to come. I can’t let the sensations overtake me. It’s more that I won’t come. I have control issues.
How does a woman with two children not learn until the age of 32 that she can’t come? Clearly I’ve had
mediocre sex. I don’t have an answer. In the past several months, I finally found the man who could keep me satisfied. He said the worst words ever to me one day.
“You can’t let go of your control. It’s a turn off when you pull away,” he said a few days after our last night together.
Mortified, crushed, sad – those emotions hit me like a truck. I love him with my whole heart. Sex with him is a life-changing experience – every time. I could not continue to allow any part of who I am be a turn off to him.
Two days after his revelation, I made up my mind. I would make myself come. For the first time in more than 12 years, I would masturbate.
The last time (all those years ago) that I tried to masturbate, I felt nothing…nothing. Lack of experience with my own body and discomfort with my own natural juices and musky scent contributed to it.
In a few short months, he helped me remember that I am a sexual woman with cravings and needs. I just needed to get in touch with her.
To say I was nervous was an understatement.
That night, I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.
“You can do this, you know,” I thought to myself. “Just remember, you never want to turn him off again.”
My hand tentatively reached down to touch my panty-clad pussy. I felt damp heat emanating from my core. I stroked myself, hesitantly. My panties rubbed against my clit, and my back arched.
“Yes!” I hissed.
I pushed my panties to the side to expose my pussy. I was wet. The moisture excited me. I lifted my hips and pulled down my wet panties. I threw the panties to the floor and the covers to the side.
My hand found my wet pussy and began exploring. Fingers stroked lips. I reveled in my own softness – silky, smooth, slick. One finger cautiously sank deeper. My hips writhed, legs twisted. I melted into my hand.
I pulled my finger out and searched for my clit. My own fluids made the hood slick and decadently soft. My hips began rocking rhythmically against my middle finger, gliding back and forth. As the heat began to build, my hips moved faster and faster, creating more and more friction. My inner thighs ached and trembled. My free hand clenched the sheets and mattress. My hips and fingers worked faster and faster. A sheen of sweat covered my body. My legs opened wider exposing my clit more easily to my curious hand. The overwhelming sensations climbed to an unbearable level – previously my stopping point.
“Keep going, don’t stop,” I whispered through gritted teeth, as need and desire washed over me.
My clit was on fire. When I thought I couldn’t take anymore, my hips bucked and convulsed. I shook uncontrollably. I felt my hot core open and flower. My fingers were soaked. Several moments passed before the shaking and bucking stopped.
A quiet calm washed over me. My scent filled the room. I smiled as I rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.