loosing that self-loving feeling

I haven’t had an orgasm in about three weeks. I’ve kind of lost count exactly how long it has been. I know that the last time I did, I was having sex with Donny, because I know I haven’t masturbated, though I don’t know exactly how long ago it was that Donny and I fucked. I was sick and he was busy and then he was sick and I was busy, and while we’ve gone to the theatre and dinner a couple of times, we haven’t gotten it together to get it on and copulate.

It’s a pity because I don’t much enjoy the solipsistic orgasms of late.

I’ve sort of lost the self-loving feeling, and I suppose that admission is a bit hypocritical given my post last week when I groused about the paucity of onanarratives here on teh Internets. If I’m not willing to be part of the solution, I really can’t complain about the problem. (And for what it’s worth, I recalled a masturbation post I had neglected to link while walking my dog today. Perhaps I’m repressing my self-pressing.)

Part of it may be that I’ve no new toys. I like new toys, even when I don’t much like them. The newness gives me something to think about; whether it’s ways to make friends with the toy or whether it’s finding out how I can count the ways I like the toy, I find that the new fresh fresh newness often gives me a lot to work with mentally and physically.

But I haven’t gone out an purchased anything new recently.

Part of it may be that the two old reliable toys I enjoy using on myself—a top-of-the-line multi-function rabbit and a rather low-end but cosseted in latex bullet vibe—have recently died and I haven’t yet summoned the energy necessary to replace them. It’s not that I’m still immersed in any Kübler-Ross grieving stage for the toys. I’m long done with bargaining, or anger, or depression and have accepted their demise. It’s more that I find myself stultified in a slacker sex-toy ennui. Sure, I could replace them, but why?

Mostly, though, when I sit down and really think about it, I realize that I’ve lost that self-loving feeling because I have been, of late, just flat-out crazy-ass busy. I have, any moment of any day, at least three things I really rather should be doing and about four other things I really rather ought to be doing, and then a few things I’d prefer to be doing to those things I should or ought to do, and then there’s always my bathroom to clean.

Last year, or the year before last really, I had nothing but time. I had yet to dedicate myself to anything, really, except the dedicating of myself to figuring out what I wanted to dedicate myself to. I had long, lavish, luxurious, self-indulgent sessions of some fine-ass wankery. I would clean any number of toys and line them up like a little martial front of marital aids. I would spend sweet long minutes deciding which butt toy I would boil, let cool to the proper temperature and slide up my ass.

I surfed the web or thumbed through my books for the proper porn, the right erotica, for the moment du jour. I treated my daily masturbation sessions with the meticulous, punctilious care of a gourmand assembling a meal. If I could have, I would have had flights of wine for each toy, but that fancy was too dear for my bank account, as it still is.

It’s a lovely idea, though, and an apt analogy for the sumptuous care I put into my onanism.

After, when I was done and damp and still slightly dewy-slick, I would call Donny at work. I masturbated, I would tell him my voice pleasure-furry. I had three orgasms, I would say. And then I would launch into a narrative of the variation, the intensity, the relative orgasmic values and the corresponding flutter-fluctuation of my pussy for each said orgasm. I would call and tell it to him, tell it all, in the neat objective white lab-coated detail of a scientist, because I had not much else to tell him.

My life was pretty much my orgasms.

Now, though, it all seems like a lavender-distant if hallucinatorily sweet memory. I can reach out my hand and almost touch the languorous self-loving feeling, but it eludes my grasp, what with the clamoring dissertation, the  noisy memoir bits I must write should I ever publish a book, the grumblings of the various other writing/editing/quotidian chores that are part and parcel of my slow slide out of adultolescence.

In the midst of all of this flux, this change, this shift of priorities and perspectives, my self-love has been lost. Or perhaps, more accurately, it has morphed. No longer the in the ephemeral pleasured guise of masturbation, it’s growing substantial. Tangible. Real and lasting, with every new page I write.

Comments

[Jonathan]

How does one write a comment for a post such as this? Maybe observing that "everything changes"? or perhaps that "things do change back too"...

[S.P.]

Christ on a stick, you even make a post about NOT masturbating erotic as hell... So fine, so fine, so fine...

"...repressing my self-pressing..." I lvoe it...

[mikeC]

For all the world sounds like you have the sex, but crave the tangible the more you get of it .... whereas for the rest of us mere mortals, it's the other way around.

...then again i can only speak for myself.

[Astrochicken]

I agree with S.P.

Although, if you cannot self-love you can always self-lust. I bet a new clothes or some all-around general pampering would ignite that spark of desire. I'm new here, but I bet a new pair of tall leather boots would do the trick. Perhaps the smell alone would...

[Anne Elizabeth]

Chelsea,
only you could describe losing that loving 'masturbating' feeling with such soul !!!

Priorities change and shift... You'll be back on a rampage when the hormones present themselves with insistence and the extra time appears...

Have a good weekend -- and how is the dissertation coming along ?

Sincerely,
Anne Elizabeth

[Steve]

I realized the other day that I had just had the first 48-hour span without an erection (that I was awake for) since I was maybe 11. That includes the year spent struggling through my own dissertation, although my daily quotient of stiffies definitely declined during that hellish period. It might be that I'm getting friggen old, but more likely it's that I've been working on a tight deadline for work crap. I think you are right on, CG. It's all about how much other stuff there is to which your mind can turn at any particualr point in time. When there's not much else there, it's "well, let's see what my penis is up to."

[Kyle]

"loosing that self-loving feeling" - freudian or ironic ? perhaps the desire to set it loose...

[chelsea girl]

Kyle,

Neither Freudian--in that I intended the word to be "loosing," nor ironic--in that I completely sincerely mean, as you suggest impartailly, to set loose my self-loving feeling.

Thanks for noticing, though.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl

[n]

(You've got an extra O in your title. Just saying. Don't approve this comment, would just waste screen space)

[n]

(oops, you already explained. My bad. Ignore me)