Early in our relationship, I christened Charlotte the queen of orgasms. Partly because she has so many, because she has (had) so many for me. Partly because she agreed to do a bit of orgasm-gathering for me on this blog. Unfortunately, that latter project never really took root. It was an early example of Charlotte’s “good-girl eyes” being bigger than her “good-girl stomach,” or rather, her desire to say “yes” exceeding her actual willingness to work, to deliver.
This is by no means a complaint. Charlotte and I approach a year of dating, and so far, it’s been a wild, fun, if not infrequently maddening (to each of us) time. Charlotte is delightful, sexy, curious, open, vulnerable, eager, and fun. She is not, any more, compliant. No matter. The solution to that is simply for me not to ask of her. Or to ask less. So I’m working on that.
The other night, though, Charlotte – Charlotte who has come for me hundreds if not thousands of times – offered something she hasn’t in a while: to come for me.
I accepted her generous offer.
Her orgasm was, characteristically, quick, loud, hard.
After, I asked her (knowing the answer), whom she had been imagining, what she had been imagining. I think I once previously expressed to Charlotte my wish that, when she comes for me she come to me – that the orgasms she has for me and shares with me feature me not just as their beneficiary, but as their inspiration. I know, though, that if this is my wish, I must remind her in the moment, because her default is to imagine herself being fucked when she gets herself off, and though I’ve fucked Charlotte a bit, my fucking doesn’t hold a candle to some of the fucking she’s done, she’s collected, in recent months. (I’m not knocking myself: I have my talents. Fucking just isn’t really one of them.)
Of course, I can’t police Charlotte’s thoughts or her fantasies. She may well, next time, tell me that she’s thinking of me while her mind focuses on, or drifts to, one of those fuckings, some of that fucking, by other guys. No matter. I’m not interested in policing her thoughts and fantasies. We all have our minds drift from time to time during sex.
Somewhere else on this blog I wrote that, when I’m getting a blowjob, I often journey nostalgically through past blowjobs in my mind. Not as an escape. Not as an alternative to what’s happening in the moment. But as an addition to it. I don’t always do this. I do often do it. I never problematize it. So, should Charlotte’s mind wander? That’s ok. I just want the courtesy we all give our partners when our sex is in person: we devote our attention to our partner and allow them to believe we are thinking only of them.
And, we try to make ourselves be the center of our partners’ experience as well.
So. While you may hear this orgasm, you will not hear the next one she has for me. You won’t hear it because it will have too much identifying information. Her voice: at the beginning, as she tells me how she’s going to get herself off, and what image she expects to conjure (she’s already previewed this for me: she said she will “think of when [I] made [her] orgasm so hard [she] thought [she] was going to go blind”) as she touches herself, as she keeps me informed in real time; and after, as she thanks me.
That orgasm, you won’t hear.
But this one? It’s all (y)ours.