Disgruntlement

I feel cheated.

Bereft.

Frustrated.

Annoyed.

And a bit chastened for having taken for granted something that many vagina-equipped people have difficulties with.

I want orgasms, dammit!

Specifically, I want orgasms like I used to have; uncomplicated, plentiful, easily-induced, pleasurable. Numerous. Blissful.

I’m the bratty kid that’s had their best toy blown away in a hurricane, throwing a tantrum at the weather because it was mine and I want it back.

Now I’m grit-jawed, clit-sore, soaked with fruitless sweat and snarling with unfulfilment as I grind myself onto toys at their highest power settings. Focus with sniper’s concentration on a target that has suddenly become outrageously elusive. Finger tightening on the trigger, slipping off again.

I chase tendrils of quicksilver through my viscera; if I can snag one and hold it tight enough, perhaps I can trace it back to the motherlode and form a critical mass. But each one seems to slip away along my veins, shy skeins of precious metal eluding the miner.

More toys. More extreme, brutal fantasy. More time, more focus, more effort. No reward.

Another try? Or give up, stomp about, curse a bit and have another go later?

Later; further wriggling, jabbing, pounding, cussing, wanting it too much. Desperation taking the place of arousal, I want to come, dammit! Dammit to hell!

A mental glimpse of gear teeth failing to catch, flames guttering weakly among damp kindling.

Not helping.

When perseverance pays off, it builds to a bitter treat. Enormous, all-consuming, searing, sickening; wracked by shuddering earth-tremors, neurons firing in a blaze of supernova glory. Shocking, like a slap to the face from a dear friend.

Like martyrdom; alight and screaming praise to an uncaring god from atop the pyre. Stinging-sweet venom etches victory across my loins.

It leaves me hollow and drained, resentful, nauseous, tearful. Nine seconds before, I’d have paid any toll for my passage, but as the blaze of arrival diminishes, I find myself grubby and exhausted, marooned on bleakened terrain. I feel…bereft.

Maybe it’s a lesson, perhaps something about perspective. Not a happy ending; a caution.

It’s an opportunity, I tell myself, to re-learn the journey. Sulking isn’t going to help. Other motivational stuff like that, and it sort of helps. On the bright side, at least the writer’s block is beginning to dissolve.

Might have a wank to celebrate that…