One afternoon, after he’d fallen into a deep post-sex slumber, I serviced myself with my second, third, and fourth orgasm beside him.
That was the first time I’d experienced such a level of both secrecy and shame.
There’s something so sad and humiliating in imagining a person locked away in a dark room, hot laptop balanced on chest, turning the volume down low, scrolling, scrolling, choosing, watching, escaping, coming. But my proclivity for solo pleasure has strong, stubborn roots.
I lost my virginity to a water faucet when I was twelve years old. Drew to thank for this life-shaking experience; it was their late-night radio show “Loveline” on L.
I’m careful to keep my breath from becoming a pant, even as my pulse quickens, but this takes much concentration. I have masturbated in this way next to the sleeping bodies of all my serious, committed partners who came before my husband.
This orgasm is a controlled, measured, calculated experience.
The past couple of months has allowed us to cover most of the basics — what ended each of our most recent relationships, what our parents are like, what we hope to do with our lives in the next few years — but there’s still a longing for something deeper, and I can’t think of anything deeper than knowing a person’s favorite porn scene. For one scene to stand out amongst the rest, when so many others are available, there has to be something below the surface. What keeps a person returning in the deep, dark recesses of a lonely night?