I laugh at lots of things, it’s true, but often when I come I really can’t help bursting into giggles, and I keep going for some time. Laughing, not coming. Dammit.
(I don’t think the laughing I did when I read the descriptions counted.)
It’s not consistent. Sometimes I’m just a plain old level one or level two girl. But why levels at all? Isn’t it enough that there’s so much stress put on reaching orgasm in the first place? Sometimes, no matter how hot and bothered you feel, your body just doesn’t feel like co-operating. As long as you’re enjoying yourself, shouldn’t that be fine?
I would have loved to be able to orgasm at any level – from the gentlest tingly sigh, to the rollercoasters that have me apologising to the neighbours while in hysterics – but for years it just wasn’t possible. For starters, the aforementioned drugs made it difficult; my self-image and psychological baggage made it nigh-on impossible – and the pressure from well-meaning boys who were not going to stop until I managed it sent any remaining slivers of a chance running for the hills.
Pressure is not sexy.
I can just imagine a whole new generation of Cosmo Girls already worrying about how it’s not just their right but their duty to have orgasms, now concerned that their sneaking-up-on-you and gently-relieved-like-when-you-take-off-your-bra orgasms really aren’t enough any more – fact why are they even bothering?
There are lots of different types of orgasm. Some even manage to be not completely enjoyable. But an orgasm is, arguably, an orgasm, and aiming for a particular type or categorising them takes some of the joy out of them – unless you’re so seriously into stats not being able to score every moment of every encounter with yourself and others has left you feeling incomplete.
Come, don’t come. Laugh, cry, shake uncontrollably, or just breathe a contented sigh and roll over. As long as you’re enjoying it, as long as you’re doing something you want to, it’s all good.