You knock on my door, and I’m nervous for more than one reason. The first reason, of course, is that you’ve traveled six thousands miles to visit me from a foreign country after a one-week vacation romance, and I have no way of knowing if it will be worth the trip. The second, I’ve never told you, because it’s a secret: I’ve never had an orgasm with a partner.
Sure, I’ve had plenty of orgasms on my own, but nobody else has really made the effort to get me there. I usually feel too embarrassed and guilty to bring it up, so I just enjoy the journey and forget about the destination. I still enjoy sex, but I do wonder… well, I don’t want to get my hopes up.
You enter my apartment with a predictably awkward hug, pausing to text your mom that you got here safe. Then, we go walking. “Thanks, what a great host you are,” you tell me as I buy you an iced coffee. As we stroll through Times Square, pausing to eat cheesecake in a little plaza off the street, I keep wondering if I can kiss you. Finally, at the Central Park boathouse, you make that decision for me. My breath catches as your hand runs up and down my leg. “I can’t stop kissing you,” you laugh. I’m not nervous anymore.
We get lost in the park, wandering through the trees in the dark, then talk about our biggest dreams on the way home. When we arrive, you lay face-down on the carpet, gazing up at me admiringly with your big brown puppy dog eyes. I kneel down to kiss you, and a wide grin fills your face, as if you’re the lucky one. “I’m going to take a shower,” you say.
“Can I join you?”
“If you want.”
As if you could get any more attractive, the water makes you look like you belong on the cover of a romance novel. It drips from your pitch black hair down your perfectly tanned arms and the peach fuzz on your muscular chest. The stubble over your mouth and on your chin looks even manlier when it’s wet. My eyes quickly dart down to see the wand dangling between your legs — it’s as sizeable as I’d expect, given your height. I can’t believe someone like you is in my shower. I briefly consider taking a photo, but refrain for the sake of social decency. Instead, I fill my hands with shampoo and lather up your soft hair, then take some soap and glide my hands all over the smooth skin on your body.
Afterward, in keeping with the romance novel look, you pick me up in your strong arms and carry me to the bed, where you plant gentle kisses on my mouth and then reach downward with your hands. I lie on my stomach to give you my favorite angle, and you slowly, deeply penetrate me with your fingers. You reach up high, fucking me so hard I can’t help but shout into my pillow. This isn’t how I cum, but we’ll have a whole week to figure that out. For now, I’m loving every second of this. I can feel your warm wet fingers caressing places nobody has ever reached. When I’m completely spent, I tell you when I’ve had enough, and we go to sleep.
The next morning, we work across from each other in a cafe. You get up to order me a second iced coffee, putting in two brown sugars like you saw me do with my first. Once we’re done, we eagerly go back to bed. You cup my head in your hands like I’m a precious jewel as we kiss, and your hands wander down again, lingering on my clit this time. This is how I cum. And you’ve been so sweet. I can’t help but get my hopes up this time.
Your finger is pressing down and lifting and pressing down and lifting. It’s not exactly how I’d do it, but I’m too shy to speak up. I still barely know you! But it’s OK. I can work with this. “Mm,” I say to encourage you. My face contorts in deep concentration. I’m afraid that it looks strange. Yet just as I begin to worry about how I look, you say, “You look so hot.” I love to know I’m beautiful to you.
The pleasure radiates out from my clit throughout my body. It builds, then falls, then builds, then falls. I wonder if I should just give up and fake it like I have in the past. I’m afraid of giving you carpal tunnel. I feel self-conscious taking up so much of your time. I don’t want to be too demanding. But the look in your eyes tells me you love this. You want it to keep going. So I let it.
My mind begins to wander, to fantasize. I can’t help it. It’s a habit. I enter bizarre fantasies that pop up when I’m alone, settling on one where I’m on a spiritual retreat, masturbating with a group of nude women on a mountaintop. One of them starts moaning, then the other joins in, all harmonizing in their expressions of pleasure. I can feel their ecstasy; it connects me to my own. My voice joins the harmony. “Mmm, mm!” I say louder as I grab your arm.
I’m getting really close now, but I’m afraid it will fake me out. And it does. I fall back down just as I start to reach the edge. But you don’t seem to notice. You just keep tapping your finger, a look of wander in your eyes. You don’t care where this ends; you’re loving every moment. I’ve lost all my inhibitions now. My hand squeezes your arm harder and harder each time I get close. I yell louder, leaning up into your hand. I find myself back on that mountain top, the other women cheering me on, knowing I can do this. I can do this. I squeeze harder. I can tell you’re as determined as I am. If I cut off your circulation, I think you’ll understand.
The pressure builds up in my clit again, rising and falling and rising and falling. I’m starting to feel embarrassed about getting my hopes up. But then, it rises again — and it doesn’t fall this time. Now I know it will stay. And it does. I squeeze harder and yell louder as orgasmic waves undulate through me, laughing with bliss and relief, then I squeeze my legs together so you’ll let go. I tilt my head up and smile and kiss you. You don’t know how much this means to me.
In fact, for you, it’s not enough. You keep going, two fingers inside this time, your palm pressing against my clit. It’s not going to work this time, I think; I’m not multi-orgasmic. But anything seems possible now. I give it a chance. Sooner than I expect, I arrive back at that edge, squeezing your arm again as I ride the roller coaster of pleasure. And then another one hits. My hips repeatedly thrust upward, rising up to greet your hand, that powerful hand, before relaxing back down. Once I catch my breath, we kiss some more, and I fall into a blissful sleep in your arms.
When I wake up, we start to kiss some more, and then you ask, “Can I play with your pussy again?” How can I refuse? You alternate between rubbing the outside and putting two fingers in, and I love it. I’m not thinking anymore about whether I’ll cum; it’s doubtful given that I just did twice. I’m just loving the feeling of your fingers inside me, your palm against my clit, your other hand stroking my breasts. But sure enough, it builds up again. This one takes me by surprise. “Oh god, I’m cumming,” I announce it this time. You get an excited sparkle in your eye as you take me back over the edge, not stopping until I can’t take anymore, and I melt into your arms like pudding.
We take a shower afterward, before going out to eat, and I can see our reflection in the mirror: you behind me with your big arms wrapped around me and your strong hands fitting right over my breasts, me beaming and glowing like I never have before. When it rains, it pours, I think — which is a wonderful thing when it’s raining orgasms.
Now that you’ve figured out what makes me tic, you want to do it every morning when we wake up and every night before we go to bed. I don’t stop you. You never ask for anything in return, though I sometimes initiate it. I don’t tell you my secret, but one day, over drinks, I admit I’m self-conscious about making you do all that work. “I don’t care if my arm falls off,” you say.
As we figure out what works, it becomes easy! I can’t believe I thought this wasn’t possible. I’m elated to know that I’m not broken. But it’s not just me I have to thank. We’ve reached this point together, because finally, I have someone who cares so much, he won’t stop until his arm falls off. You’ve given me lots of orgasms, but you’ve also given me much more: you’ve given me your love, your care, your attention. You’ve given me yourself.