If a man’s tongue could vibrate, women would talk less.
I have to admit, my fiancé gets a little bored when I talk. I catch his little mouth yawning, a mouth which is so sensual and luscious, and so small compared to the size of his head, as I relay the day’s thoughts as women do. Why do women do that? Why do we vent to men and expect an answer? Some say it’s because that’s how we are different from men. I’m thinking it’s a way to fill the space between orgasms.
I am wired like many women in that it takes a huge amount of physical effort and skanky domination thoughts to get my orgasm to come out of its…hole. I have had approximately 100 orgasms over a three-day period (I kid you not) because of my discovery of the vibrator. The starvation diet of disorgasmization that I went through before that was like bringing me to a buffet of cheese and chocolate and prime rib after eating MRE’s for twenty years. I’m surprised I was able to stop long enough to not dehydrate myself into mummification.
I must say, I’m terribly jealous of those mythically orgasmic creatures, those fluid women, who can orgasm “from the middle” like eating a pack of M & M’s. Purely by accident or luck, I have had exactly two of those charming beasts, those hefty, earth-shaking gushes of God, grace my pleasure centers in my lifetime and I ruminate over the mental residue like I’m remembering lines to a Shakespeare play. I want to get it just right and be able to recite the feeling in my mind on my death bed.
How do they do it? I would say, hey, I can orgasm 100 times in three days and that makes us even, but I’m not competitive like that anymore. I just want to know your secret. Really. Hand over the goods, girls. Orgasm-ing “from the front” (man-in-the-boat style) is great, but it’s like constantly eating hors d’oeuvres. Yeah, they taste great and come artfully wrapped in a tight little package, but sometimes you want to snarf a big chunk of Porterhouse and feel it graze your heart as it passes through you, robbing your brain so harshly and completely of its blood supply that you would swear that your brain was going to cave in and come out your nose looking like a dried mushroom.
Are we, the unwittingly electronically addicted, born this way? Can we practice becoming more orgasmic? My fiancé is doing his job right, by the way, in case you were thinking that was the problem. If I blamed him for that, I might as well blame him for global warming. But I might as well blame MYSELF for that. I talk and talk and talk, expelling tanker trucks of CO2 into the atmosphere, chattering as fast as I can, trying to vibrate my whole body in a feeble attempt to extricate one of those core-gasms from my hoarding, penny-pinching subconscious. It’s not a victimless crime, this attention-deficit blood supply I have. Get a map, you errant hemoglobin! Find my naughty parts and stay there! Wrench me from my four-cylinder cynicism and rocket my reality into warp drive, if only so that I don’t continue to chew the ears off the man I love.