Girl On The Male Orgasm:
In a recent chat with a girl friend, she was describing her intimate night with a boy she was interested in. She used the elusive phrase, wehooked up, which I took as having sex. So you had sex? –No. So you gave him a blow job? –No. So what exactly did you do?
It turns out, their night was filled with kissing and handholding. All that was missing was the shared long string of spaghetti linking them into a kiss, an overweight Italian man singing with a tiny juxtaposed guitar, and a nudge of a meatball. So how did you decide to, you know, finish the night? Her silence and confused look caused me to have a momentary freak out: Am I a slut? Because a hookup without a male orgasm doesn't seem like a hookup at all.
I will literally do anything to get to that end goal, besides from the socially despised hand job (because I know I will never be able to give you a hand job like you can). Bouncing back and forth between a blow job, sex and maybe a quick up and down of the hand in between, just to finish you off.
There is the unknown element of the buildup to your orgasm. While I can feel my own start in waves at the base of my spine and slowly inch its way up to my head and down to my toes until I hit that deafening moment of hot tension and release, I'm never quite sure when you are about to come. Just like a Swiss mountain climber, I start at base camp, know when I hit the summit, and will yodel like crazy at the top, but you seem to ride steadily the whole way through, only sometimes giving me a quick verbal warning right before you blow.
At the same time, there is also an element of pleasure in someone else's orgasm. It is a place that I brought him to. Whether or not he could have done it himself with the simple Google search "Scarlet Johansson boobs". That look on his face right now, that whimpering—I am responsible for that. I would like to think that his orgasm is different with me then it is with just pure fellatio or anyone else for that matter. For with the female orgasm, there are so many different types of orgasms. And my orgasm changes in both intensity and emotion with each guy (or new toy). I honestly have no idea whether it is the same way for men, but I romantically, and perhaps ignorantly, would like to believe so.
And for a moment during that orgasm there is pure vulnerability. There is something beautiful and so simple in the idea that we can get each other off. In a world where we increasingly rely on external pleasures, from internet and television, to food and porn (and to my forever-long favorite combo foodporn) my prehistoric hedonist emerges: we are doing the same thing that has been done for thousands of years. We can create new emotions from an intrinsic pleasure that does not derive from calories, alcohol or joints. During those moments when your eyes shut, when you whimper and tilt your head back ever so slightly, so raw and so vulnerable with me, I cannot help but think that the ride was worth it.
The male orgasm is not a particularly difficult one to conquer, as long as one can avoid chaffing or lock jaw. It is the end goal and whether I have one, or end up pulling my best Meg Ryan impression in When Harry Met Sally, becomes just a detour along the way to our final destination. In short, my personal orgasm becomes obsolete in the long run. There is no biological end when I come. The night ends when the guy climaxes. Besides from the biological repercussions, I have it imprinted into my mind that the finale is the male orgasm. The fireworks. It doesn't matter how many times I come (or if I even come at all). As soon as Old Faithful blows, it's bedtime. In short, I'll have what he's having.
Male about the Male Orgasm:
Freshman year, my friends and I called it squirrelling. When a Wednesday, Friday or Saturday night came around we would ask the same question, “Are you squirreling tonight?” It’s, perhaps, not too clever a pun, yet still, all squirrels have to get their nut.
This type of mind frame has an interesting effect on any night of going out; nights are judged on a binary scale, you either get your nut or not. It’s the type of game, in which even the hall of famers only succeed three out of ten times. It’s the type of game which leads to a lot of sexually frustrated games of 2AM drunk FIFA.
But it has a funny effect on the mindset of sexual success too. It places emphasis on the front side of things; once you’ve gotten to the point of hooking up you’ve somehow already won.
But if the average male mind works anything like mine, despite what the ‘squirreling’ mentality seems to indicate, the actual act of having sex is emotionally stressful as well as fun. What confuses the situation is that the source of these somewhat conflicting emotions stem from the same phenomenon—the inevitability of my orgasm.
See most men are very familiar with their own orgasm; they know how to give themselves one. They know how to make it happen quickly. It’s the type of thing that’s often a means to end—a de-stresser during finals, or a substitute for advil PM. We know how it feels, what it looks like, even where to strategically position the tissue box.
What men are often less familiar with is how to postpone that gratification. When our orgasm isn’t a means to something next, when the fleshy intimacy is what we want—what the goal is—we have much more trouble interacting with it. We want the intimacy, we want sex, but in a way, the orgasm becomes the enemy; the thing which means I’m ready to fall asleep and she’s looking for more.