Sweet Nothing

Open a new tab on your browser. Google ‘hands free orgasm'. Scroll through the Pornhub links and tantric sex instructions until you find an account of a personal experience. I couldn't. So here's mine:

What ever happened to the 90s heartthrob Josh Hartnett? I saw the trailer for Halloween: H20  on TV when I was a preteen and bam! First school girl crush. Those brown eyes, skater boy haircut and perfect jawline soon became a feature on my bedroom wall. But as soon as those posters went up, they came down. The box office success of Pearl Harbour didn’t leave much in its wake for ol’ Josh. We forgot about him as he left the spotlight of Hollywood and back into the shadows of indie films and mid-western Minnesota. A few years after its low-profile release, I watched 40 Days and 40 Nights and three things crossed my mind: 1. Oh Josh! 2. Is it really that hard not having sex for 40 days and 40 nights? And 3. Maybe one day when I’m having it regularly, I’ll find out.

Nearly a decade later, it's February 28, 2017. The partner and I sit down to dinner and primetime TV. I wait until he’s almost finished to say, "So, I want to give up sex for Lent tomorrow."

He laughs, shovels the last of his rice in his mouth and looks back at me. "Oh, you’re serious? No… but…"

"We should probably do it now then," I say. "In case I don’t change my mind."

He carries me, honeymoon style, into the bedroom and shows me all the delightful sins my body was made for. We make the walls drip lust. I’ll miss this feeling, this energy, the taste of the kinetic air.

I prepared for this sacrificial cleanse. Internet history deleted; batteries from toys removed; a mental list of unsexy thoughts jotted; alcohol limited. I have dissolved my rational brain and thousands of years of evolution in many glasses. For me, the drink is that encouraging friend that pushes you to get some and if it’s awful you blame them, but if it isn’t you won’t admit they helped you get off.

I hate to say the first two weeks were an unexpected blessing. My mind was clearer, defogged of all the intrusive thoughts that detach me from the real world. It made the days and nights feel longer. I had pockets of free time that I didn’t know how to fill because sex is never just a quickie is it? It’s the foreplay, intercourse, afterglow, pillow talk, counting how much time you have left before the bugs crawl up your urethra and multiply, the post-coital pee and shower because let’s face it, the wetness and lube doesn’t just dry up, does it? Thirteen days in, my partner lays on the bed next to me. It’s that time on a Monday afternoon when I would come over and we'd have sex before the gym and dinner. This is before we broke into the professional world, obviously. He strokes my face and whispers a bunch of sweet nothings in my ear.

“Okay, gym time!”

That weekend I’m 6 drinks and 18 days in and getting fired up from a board game. On the drive home, I tilt my head back, trying to my make myself pass out but the throbbing is keeping me conscious. I don’t know who started it, but we’ve become vertical on the bed. Making out is okay by our own unwritten Laws of Lent, but not penetration. I’m flipped onto my stomach and bury my face in my pillow; out of sight, out of mind, but it doesn’t work. Two slips in so easily and the pressure is pent up inside. I arch my back so his fingers reach that spot.

“Stop,” I groan. I press my face into the pillow again and internally scream until I tire myself out. 

On Day 23 I am weightless in a smoky room with red lights and obscure silhouettes. I can't see through the haze, but I feel more than one distinct touch. Long fingers, a little rough, on my face and neck; my partner's. The other, blunt but smooth fingernails grazing my lower back. I wake up on my stomach with my hand down my underwear. I distract myself with a long shower, but it was relieving, in a way, that my nether regions were doing something, anything, to let me know they weren’t adjusting to my abstinence. 

Thirty-one days deep I welcomed the drink as a therapeutic escape, and so did my partner. He sat upright against an alleyway wall, clutching his stomach while our friends went back inside the bar to find his wallet. No luck. Tensions peak.

“I’m not going home,” I say. “Why did you have so much before midnight?” I knew why, but wanted to push his limits, to see if he’d grab me, shake me, ask me in a rage why I was depriving him of sex. He ignores me instead.

“I’m not going home,” I say again. “I’m calling your brother.”

Profanities roll off his loose tongue smoothly, but I’m too busy fumbling in my bag for my phone. I squint and scroll as he’s slurring words I don’t remember. I call, trying to keep the normal flow and pitch of my voice. I wait until I see the headlights of the car up the main street from the alleyway, but I don’t say goodbye. I go back inside the bar acting like we sorted our shit out, but the regret hits me harder than the shot someone gives me. I down a couple more drinks, dance, pretend, and fumble for my phone again in a brisk parade to the bathroom. I pee first then call him once, twice; more than I should have to.

“Answer! Just answer!” I hit the wall. I try again; straight to voicemail now. I let my arm fall by my side and my eyes fill up. I’ve lost sense of time, staring through the crack of the stall and half listening to happy drunk girls. My phone rings. It’s my best friend.

“Hey,” I say. I sniff but he doesn’t hear it.

“Hey, where are you? You’ve been gone for ages!” he says.

“I had to – had to wait to pee,” I lie. “There’s only two toilets in here. I’m coming now.”

I check myself in the mirror and shrug. The bar isn't well lit and my friends are fixed on karaoke. Another friend meets me at the bar.

“Are you okay?”

No!

“Yeah fine. Are you getting a drink? The bar guy is alright...” Sorted.

A decent guy found his wallet and returned it. Call it Karma, we promised to not drunk argue again and ride the mere week out. We went to work, we trained, we ate dinner, we went to sleep. There wasn't tension anymore, just a simple routine to last the week.

On the last day of Lent we were at a party when it ticks over midnight. We back into a corner for a celebratory make out and grind. I want to ask the host if we could use her room, but she was giving me the look over his shoulder. I smirk and tell him to let go.

I go home alone, somehow. We thought it was best to have our revival fuck tomorrow when we're sober. My rational brain is shutting down, while my vagina lags behind still at the party.

I collapse on my bed, hoping for heavy eyes, but sleep has been pushed off the top of my needs. I roll on my back and unbutton my jeans; no, I can't. I convince myself I'm wasted and alone, it'll just feel like empty static. I roll back over to my side. I try to close my eyes but I'm stuck on this sick cycle carousel. A tingle down there throws me onto proving ground. Not now. I lay still, holding my breath and stiffening my muscles. I've edged before, but not like this. I feel a whirlpool forming and it won't let up. I beat another surge, but the next one is a tidal wave. My defences don’t stand a chance against such a swell. I lose control of my senses and let it pull me under it's heavy currents. I’m consumed completely for that moment unmeasured by time, but by ebbs and flows.

I am spit out the other end, forgiven and protected, and everything is still. I dare not disturb it, mostly because I am crippled with fear.

I don't know how I got here, but I've anchored my return with a rapid pulse and shallow breaths.