Some fucked up thought process to orgasm...

What wouldn't you want to lose?

I'm about halfway through The Bonesetter's Daughter, a novel about Asian immigrants to the States haunted by the traditions of old world China. LuLing is an old woman, stereotypically grouchy and critical, who's daughter Ruth is trying to figure out what's reality and what's a false memory as her mother slips into dementia.

We always think about how terrible it would be to lose our mind, or how hard it would be to lose our ability to use our legs. We obsess over losing our toned physique and get anxious about losing our place in line.

What I don't hear people contemplate is the loss of orgasm.

But wouldn't that be something you'd figuratively die to have again if it hadn't graced your lower extremity in some time.

I don't spend much time reading erotica to know how close some writers have gotten to explaining that pinch of pleasure. And it seems that I never remember to think while in the act "How would I describe this eloquently?" which would most definitely not help the journey to the that coagulating effect-the moment where the two bodies stop working as waves rising and falling and become a gunk, a semisolid mass, lying still with an exhale.

And it's hard to recreate that feeling without the actual feeling.

But an orgasm is sometimes the only way I can get motivated. It's that little break, hips grinding hard over my hands, when a project is staring me in the face, walking from one room to the other--I need a snack. I'll turn on the BANKS station on Pandora. Now I need a cigarette. Ok, I'm comfortable laying propped up on a bunch of pillows, but I could use some water. And some times I work better at the table in the kitchen. But now I need to grab my charger.

But if I just lay face down on my lilac sheets and think about the hottest man alive telling me to sit on his dick, about ten minutes later I can usually jump up with beads of sweat on my forward and get down to business.

It seems to work pretty well for others in calming insomnia.

The blog post linked above is written by a new friend I met on Tinder. I had just spent the last couple hours reading through his work on my small mobile phone screen at 1 am, bedroom lights out and trying to stop my brain from wanting more.

I decided I'd take his advice and... Is there a classy way to say masturbate?

It took me a bit longer than usual to get off that night, probably because I was still thinking about Guacamole. Guacamole, two guys fighting with erections, masturbation, "maybe I'm not a writer after all," The Florist, eating balls, Gary Oldman...

There we go... Gary Oldman. He'll work.

And then... "What if I lost my ability to get myself off? In my current slump I'd be pretty uptight."

And then... I'm laughing out loud.

My stomach contracts moving my hand away from the clit making it hard to keep the friction I need. I'm drooling on my pillow as I think how utterly absurd it is that I'm thinking about writing, turning over the idea of blogging about the loss of the ability to orgasm, while I'm trying to orgasm. And then more laughing.

Just STOP brain, god dammit. Think about Filipino dick. Filipinos... Asians... Stereotypes aren't always true... Harvey... No, true... Carlos... Not Asia, but true... Filipinos, Filipinos... Rama from Raid... Ooooh yes... Martial arts... Blood... He couldn't possibly have a small penis...

Nope.

Yep. Yeeepppp.