I am both too hot and too cold, restless, agitated, exhausted. I stare at the ceiling and try to track my thoughts, aligning them one by one against the sliver of light that beams across the painted plaster. But the brightness distracts from the otherwise dark, and in the dim, the jumble of bedclothes strewn around me seem a physical manifestation of my disordered brain. Pillows and blankets call to me for straightening out, for attention to comfort, and my body does the same.
My skin is tight with agitation, my nerves a jangle of anxious apathy.
I know what I need to do – and ‘need’ is exactly what I’m dealing with; a need for release, both psychological and biological – but what once was a quick and simple cure-all ritual for these kinds of nights has become a minefield of potential distress, and I find myself having an internal dialogue in an attempt to overcome my reluctance.
Me: Make yourself cum. You’ll feel better once you do, and your body will thank you for it. You might even get some sleep.
Myself: Yeah, I should… But nah, though.
Me: This is not working. You can’t stay up all night. There’s no reason for you not to get yourself off. Make yourself cum.
Myself: But it’s such a lot of work. I’d rather just not.
Me: It’ll take five minutes. This is a normal, healthy, physical need. It’s not like you to ignore yourself like this. Make yourself cum.
Myself: It used to be five minutes. Now it takes a lot longer. I don’t feel like all that effort.
Me: Since when is an orgasm not worth the effort? MAKE. YOURSELF. CUM.
I flip back and forth, tossing and turning, the static under my skin increasing with every brush against the sheets. I squirm and tuck, curling into myself for warmth, only to stretch my skin away from itself when it overheats. My cheek is marble, my arms are ice; my fingers are flames, my belly fire.
I don’t know how long this goes on – time has no meaning when you’re wide unawake – but go on, it does, until finally – FINALLY – I discard my clothes, shucking them with a sough, and kick my legs open into a splayed spread-eagle. My fingertips seek the plump swell at the apex of my thighs, parting pouting lips with gentle insistence. I am both tentative and tenacious, the coaxing demand of my hands both blessing and absolution.
And as I relax, muscle by muscle from neck to toe, releasing from tense uncertainty into languid acceptance, I discard my worries – What if I can’t? becoming You will. – alongside, every exhalation bringing deeper calm while my fingertips swirl, until the familiar turbulence storms within, and my nerve endings alight, stirring and straining with contented pleasure.
The tremors in my knees echo the trembling in my swollen clit, the muscles in my thighs lifting just enough to begin their telltale quake.
I smile to myself, feeling it now – the tightening slick, the swell, the razor-sharp not-pain of finding my edge, of riding it hard, of not-quite-dropping over – and I run my fingers along my slit, reveling in the Almost There.
I have lived a thousand nights like these.
I will live a thousand more.
It’s a reassurance, a wish. A promise. A remembrance, a future fantasy.
And with the thought of blurred pleasure centered in sharp focus…
I stop chasing my orgasm…
…and let it cum to me.