A Lesson in Self-Love

My first orgy experience made me realize something rather humbling: I needed to go back to the drawing board and relearn how to masturbate. For years I’d never taken the act of getting myself off too seriously. For starters, when I got around to pleasuring myself it was usually because I was rabidly horny and there was no one around to ease my pain. What’s worse, my candy-coloured German vibrator worked as effectively as any Teutonic piece of machinery. My routine was always the same: Out comes the Candyman at the highest possible setting, and within less than a minute I can feel my clit melting and my pelvis convulsing wildly. The result? I had become lazy and impatient – so much so that not since my salad days had I bothered to explore my pussy.

You may be asking yourself: If you can get off that quickly why mess with a good thing? Well, the lovers I've had really enjoy going down on a girl and making her come on their faces, and I’m just as eager to oblige anyone who is that keen on making me squirm and moan. The trouble is I'd reached a point where I couldn't have an orgasm even with the most savvy and dexterous tongue working me over. It took a woman’s touch, during the most overwhelming sexual encounter I’ve experienced so far, to bring me back to the origin of my world or, should I say, to my pussy.

The details of how I ended up in the thick of things with four hot guys and three delicious gals I’ll leave for another time; what matters is that this one buxom brunette wasn’t shy. While I was on my back with my legs in the air getting pumped by this bad-ass Mediterranean dude, she spat on her fingers and rubbed my clit. Aggressively. The effect was tantalizing – similar to the tingling sensation that borders on discomfort when my G-spot gets stroked jut right. It was a revelation – no toy had ever produced a feeling of that kind before. At the time I was too excited to get off, but a couple of days later, when the shock of having participated in my first group sex session wore off, I got to thinking. Or more like obsessing.

Driven by an urgent need to explore that sensation more closely, I recalled something I learned in high school about scientific methodology: To prove any hypothesis, you need to reproduce an experiment several times with the same variables in play. Otherwise, the desired outcome is considered a fluke. Since I was looking for a sure thing, I needed to try again… and again… and again…. Lying on my back, legs spread wide, I fingered myself to leg-shaking bliss three times in the span of half an hour. And each time my pleasure grew increasingly more intense, like the mad crescendo in Ravel’s Boléro. When I could feel my sticky sweet cum dripping down my ass, I knew I’d scored an A+ on my experiment.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not knocking toys. Vibrators can be a lot of fun, so long as you don’t use them as a crutch. According to my field research though, there’s no substitute for the real thing, whether it be someone else’s or my own fingers working my clit.

Note: An earlier version of this post first appeared on Peeperz.