A poem for today, to begin with.
(Thanks to my dear friend, the divine Miss M, who sent this one to me today just at the exact moment I was about to start hunting for it…
‘This is for every man who licks’
This is for every man who licks
his shoulder during solitary sex,
rubs his beard against the stripey
deltoid muscle or bites himself hard.
This is for the woman who at the body's
buffet touches her breasts one at a
time then reaches for the place
she has made as clean as Mother's kitchen.
Masturbation should be as exciting as any
heavy date: have a drink first, lay out
some poppers, open that favorite book
to the most shameful passage because
without blessed shame nothing is
as much fun.
And please don't jump up afterwards
and rush for the washcloth like all
the relatives were on the porch
knocking, their hands hot from
casseroles and a cake with God's
name on it.
Rather lie there, catch your breath,
turn to yourself and kiss all the nimble
fingers, especially the one that has
been you-know-where, kiss the palms
with their mortal etchings and finally
kiss the backs of each hand as if
the Pope had just said that you are
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
Today, I did, in fact, jump up afterwards and rushed not for the washcloth but for the towel — not out of shame but because I was about to be late to meet my friend for coffee. Could I explain to her about my shaking hands, the flush across my cheeks, the grin that lives in my belly these days? (Turns out I could, but that came later, after squatting down on BART to scrawl in my notebook, to write out a draft of this post, after rushing down Market St with the words (just the words, mind you) still staining my fingers.)
This morning flowed like most of my mornings have for the better part of this year:
- wake before the light
- make tea and write my morning pages
- take Sophie out for her walk, then prepare both her breakfast and my meals for the day
- get in the shower for the daily ablutions (it’s fun how anything can become a euphemism)
- dress and get out of the house as fast as possible so I can make it to work not too late.
This morning I almost didn’t even try. Coming has been hard and taken a long time recently–
(these words, these damn words — hard, long time – perfect in some erotic contexts but never right for woman’s orgasm. Sometimes I hate how many times I read P. Califia’s “Taste of Vanilla,” how I’ve internalized that sense of being too much work, no matter the fact that none of my lovers have ever once complained. It’s all about what lives inside. Guess who did complain that I took too long. Guess. Right — and stepfather-rapists shouldn’t get to complain that their stepchildren are taking too long to achieve orgasm during their sexual assaults, should they? Isn’t that the epitome of adding insult to injury?
We’re going to get to the language part. Promise.It’s time for some rethinking/transformation there.)
–and it was already just about 7 when I got in the shower, and I was supposed to meet my friend at 8. In the city. Did it make sense even to drop down to the porcelain after my quick shampoo and wash, to taunt myself open, just to have to leave all throbby and unfinished?
~~ ~~ ~~
Here’s a fun tidbit I just found on the Men’s Health site, from an article called 10 lessons about the female orgasm:
Oh, and studies show that it takes 15 to 40 minutes for the average woman to reach orgasm. Going somewhere?
(Ok, yes, Men’s Health. And, you’re right, there’s the dreaded “studies show” — we would like to know which studies, wouldn’t we? But still: 15-40 minutes for the average woman to reach orgasm — and I’ve been feeling like a bizarre outlier in the world of girl bodies and coming? Why have I never thought to look up this detail before? Why didn’t I pay more attention in SFSI training?)
So, then, what the hell is this ‘too long’ business about, anyway?
~~ ~~ ~~
This morning, I managed to be out the door by 7:30, throbby, yes, and having come — having come, almost certainly, in under ten minutes. Something moved fast and together for me today, surprising me; something in me was ready. A reward, maybe, for having actually written what I needed to write (morning pages that were emotional, complicated, connected), who knows.
The fantasy today was one of the under-pressure ones: we’re in a bathroom at a club or a party or a closet or a classroom (I know) or some other situation where someone might walk in on us soon, or there’s another appointment in a few minutes or someone’s looking for you or someone else has to pee so we need to get out of the goddamn bathroom and you’re not going to quit whatever it is you’re doing to me until I come, so either I better come fast or else get ready to get watched by others while I do come. Sometimes I come fast, hard, laughing — sometimes it takes a bit longer and I get to have those strangers watching. Either way it’s hot — and it worked.
~~ ~~ ~~
Yesterday I was sure I was only going to come slow this month (or, let’s rephrase that, mid-average) — around 30 minutes most days — and then today I had that stretch of certainty that I wouldn’t be able to come at all.
So now I’m being invited to be less and less certain, and am feeling grateful for how my body works, for how it surprises me when I just ask for what I want — even from my own self! How about that for some radical self care on a Friday morning?
What’s your body story for today? What are the ways you are allowing yourself to be particularly blessed?
Be easy with you and your body. Thanks for reading — come again tomorrow!