Despite having a standard number of notches on my belt for a man in his early twenties, I have never actually cum as a result of any external assistance—not even once. If I meet you in a bar and you decide on coming home with me, you can jack me off, suck my dick, ride me like a bitch in heat, or even stick it in your pooper, and I can guarantee that you won’t shake so much as a thimbleful of effluvia from my impressively sized yet pervasively stubborn manhood. You might give me blue balls, but that’s cool—I can take care of that once you’re safely in your cab and I have the place to myself again. It’s almost worth getting vasocongestion for the slow-release pleasure of alleviating the pain by blowing a load; think putting an ice pack on deep bruising or an explosion in reverse.
I have had professional insights regarding this sexual malady but no confirmed diagnosis as of yet—despite my efforts during research, there is no set medical term for someone who can’t get off through fucking or foreplay. “Autosexual” is the closest definition I can find, and even that doesn’t cut it, as it describes a person who can only enjoy their own touch. I love having sex for the excitement and spectacle of tearing somebody’s clothes off and obliterating the outside world for an hour or two, ravishing them while watching their eyes roll back like a pillhead during a triple-dose climax. But I can’t cum. Truth be told, I can barely even feel anything—enough to keep a hard-on most of the time, but essentially having sex with me will be all about you, whether I like it or not. As it happens, I’ve learned to like it; in fact, it’s probably one of the few areas in life where I’m genuinely unselfish.
During cognitive behavioral therapy for my OCD (yeah, I actually have it, I’m not one of those attention-seeking dipshits who thinks that liking your sandwiches with the crusts cut off is a serious psychological disorder), my therapist told me that this inability to erupt was likely the result of overthinking. I disagreed; sure, like anybody else after a few weeks of fucking someone I become familiar with their body and find room to let my mind wander. But the first time we do it, my head—along with the rest of me—will be fully in the moment and I will melt into the act in such a way that time disappears and reality takes a sidestep, reappearing only once you’re flushed in the face and breathless and I’m sitting there thinking, “Holy shit, I can’t wait until she leaves so I can ruin a couple of Kleenex.”
I wonder if there’s a support group for people like me, but I doubt it. The whole thing would probably just descend into one big fruitless orgy, and I have a hard enough time with just one other person in the room.
An ex of mine became so frustrated at what she perceived to be her own shortcomings (heh) that she’d encourage me to masturbate in front of her, working myself to the moment of truth and then blasting her right in the face. I’d lie there on the sofa, strumming away at my member while thinking about virtually anybody besides her (no disrespect to the girl, but come on, you’re right there), and after what seemed like an eternity I’d hit pay dirt and give her an alkaline facemask. The whole thing was kind of sweet in a sweaty and bizarre kind of way, but I couldn’t recreate it inside of her. Who knows? Maybe I’m gay, though my total lack of interest in exploring that possibility undermines the idea somewhat.
Friends have told me that I just need to find the right person, though as previously stated I’ve sampled a decent assortment of female genitalia and I can’t quite imagine what it is they have in mind. Who is this magical woman that they’re thinking of? Does she have four independently flexible pussies that sing encouragement like a barbershop quartet? Does she lactate liquid epimedium and sweat psilocybin from every pore? Are her tits so magnificently pert and symmetrical that a man could shoot his wad just by looking at them?
In my mind she’s something between a blue-skinned Hindu goddess and a Latin American porn star, but I’m unlikely to find such a specimen in Stratford Westfield; the closest thing available there are some of the better-looking Muslim women, and I have enough problems in my life without having a fatwa issued against me.
No, it looks like sex will remain a Sisyphean struggle for me where cumming is concerned. I’ve learned to accept the fact, as there’s little I can do about it short of consulting a sex expert (and those people give me the willies; I’m not the first person to notice that they’re always the most unsexy people to look at), but nevertheless I soldier on, drifting between women as I search for the Liszt of lady lovers, one who can orchestrate my orgasm and bring my body to a natural crescendo.
If you’re a guy with similar issues then you should try not to feel too bad, because you’re definitely not alone. If you’re a woman, don’t beat yourself up either, because it isn’t your fault that you aren’t cutting the proverbial mustard—that is, unless you’re deliberately withholding his orgasm through some sinister desire to cause him pain and frustration, in which case you should be tried for crimes against humanity and forced to jack off circus clowns until you’re waist-deep in multicolored semen.
Holy shit, I think I feel my dick twitching; time to go and take care of business.