The colors dance behind my eyelids in bursts and swirls, splashing across my vision in vibrant variegated hues. They overlap and spin, spattering their motley array of vivid brights and fade-in monochromes until, in the imbrication, an abstraction forms.
Joyous saffron, streaking upward in xanthous delight: head high, arms outstretched, this joyous abstrusion – she, me – leaps across the stage I have created in my mind against the backdrop of pleasure that is my person.
My fingers lead, my body follows; plié, lift, twirl ~ press, bow, repeat.
My clitoris the instrument, my hands the prodigy.
Fingertips setting the tempo, I alone determine the dynamics. Pianissimo crescendos through to the repeat then begins again… and again… through each movement. Cut time, three-quarter waltz, invention precedes fugue, and all the while my heart – a metronome – beats erratic time against my pulse points.
I, the maestro in an orchestra of one.
A sonatina solo performer, I – alone – am the principal dancer in this ballet.
The chromaticity intensifies along with my touch, pressure against my pubic bone lighting each tincture to iridescence. Streaks of color firework through my vision while my fingers paint their music, leading my body in this choreographed carnality.
my body bows, and I am awash in the pleasures of this dance, luxuriating in the breath-shaking focus of release, saturated in the chromatic glow of the aftermath.
And before the curtain drops over the final explosion of color and light, I smile in appreciation of the dance, knowing that I alone am both conductor and danseuse in this self-indulgent delectation, and I relish the final glorious golden leap over the edge into bliss.
Sometimes an orgasm is like a teetering fall off a high cliff, a nearly accidental plummet over an unsure edge.
But other times, it is an intricate ballet on a high-peak stage, and the only way to tumble down into the unknown sure-thing of tumultuous pleasure is not to jump…
…but to jeté.
The photograph above (which does not even remotely do justice to the vibrant beauty of the piece) is of an original painting I own, displayed in my home, titled Jeté.
I am often asked what I think about while I masturbate or what is going on in my mind as I approach orgasm. While it can – and does – vary, the most precise description I can give is to point you in the direction of this color-saturated abstract, and say: THIS.