I put my phone down and roll over onto my back with a sigh. I’m wearing nothing but the soft towelling white robe the hotel provides and so it takes no time for me to touch my bare flesh once I slide my hand between my legs. As I often do, I flinch as I feel many contrasting things: the warmth and smoothness of my skin, the too-raw and too-exposed fragility of my most intimate flesh. I don’t hate masturbating, but I don’t love it either. It’s a means to an end, like brushing my teeth or moisturising my body. A ritual that brings with it a certain sense of satisfaction, but not one that overwhelms me. I can appreciate it for what it is – an act that has a certain goal in sight – but that doesn’t mean I look forward to doing it or want to do it any longer than I really have to.
Unfortunately, because I don’t have my vibrator, it is going to take longer than it usually would, and when the tip of my index finger finds my clit, I wince again but I also hear my breath catch in my throat. And I feel the tingles that tighten that tension in my core. I start to make small circles with my finger, and I lift my arm and place it over my eyes. If I can block outthe artificial light of the hotel room, if I can mute some of the awkward awareness I have of how this looks – me lying on a giant hotel bed, rubbing away at my most private body part – then maybe it will happen quicker. If I can just stop those self-sabotaging thoughts that taunt me as I rub harder and faster.You’re not a real asexual if you masturbate. You’re not the voice of the community you claim to be if you need these dirty little orgasms to ease your tension headaches and anxiety. You’re not being consistent or true to who you really are by touching yourself like this, all needy and desperate.
I’m desperate for release,I want to yell back.I’m needy for relief, to feel better.I may even be able to nap for an hour or so, if I can just get rid of all the pressure in my body. If I can just…
“For fuck’s sake, come on!” I call out to nobody. My arm is still over my eyes so I see nothing but darkness through my closed lids.
I wish now that I wasn’t asexual. That I could tap into any number of fantasies with somebody or people who could get me closer to the place I want to be. I wish I could just think about a certain someone giving me a suggestive look, or taking their top off or whispering ‘good girl’ in my ear like they do in the romance books Ma lends me.
But I’m not built that way. Instead, I think about how much better I’ll feel when the orgasm is done. I think about how much looser my body will feel and how much emptier my head will be. And yes, I also think about how good the orgasm will feel, albeit for just a second or two.
I focus on this and not on the way my fingers are sliding more now, slickened by the increase of moisture between my legs. It’s another contradictory experience; I like how it makes my skin feel slicker and easier to touch, with less uncomfortable frictions, but it also always feels a little bit like a betrayal, like mybody is trying to tell me that it wants me to do this more, like I’m enjoying it more than I should.
But still I rub, feeling that build-up of tension intensify as my nipples harden and my back arches off the bed. I use my other hand to grab the sheets I’m lying on, making a fist around them.
“Yes,” I say when I feel myself jump over what feels like the final hurdle and I know my climax is imminent as long as I keep rubbing in this rhythm that is working and I can stay focused, keeping all the negative thoughts out.
I deserve this,I tell myself as I hold my breath and fixate on keeping my finger moving and my pussy clenched tight, waiting to feel the release just as much as the rest of my body.Orgasms don’t make me less asexual,I tell myself.I’m allowed to feel pleasure. Masturbating is healthy. I deserve to feel better, to relieve my stress and to make my body feel good.
And then I feel it. The snapping of the rubber band that was wrapped too tight inside my core, and with its breaking, it undoes all the other tension in my body, unravelling parts of me that I didn’t even know were taut and tense.
I breathe out slowly as the short climax peaks and then eases. I take in deep breaths and try to elongate the small high that washes over me. As I suck in slow inhales, I will the tingles and sparkles to reach every part of me, and I have some success, feeling a lightness come to my head and a looseness move my chest in and out, and my shoulders back and down into the bed. My limbs feel heavier than they did a minute ago but in a good way, in a way that suggests I’ve surrendered some of the pressure that was coiled up inside me and now that it’s unravelled I’m finally able to sink back into my body.
I remove my hand with just as much relief and stretch out my body, hands up against the headboard and my toes extending and separating at the other end of my body. It feels good. So good. I stay like that for many long seconds, much longer thanthe orgasm itself, but that’s the way it always is. My climaxes are always short, but the relief that follows sticks around a lot longer, thankfully. I just wish I could have that release with a click of my fingers and not all that bloody work.
I bring my hands down and brush away some of the hair that has somehow landed on my face. As I do, I catch the scent of myself. I’ve smelt it many times before, of course, and I don’t hate it as such, but it normally makes me itch to take a shower as quickly as possible. But today, I’m feeling unusually curious. I recall a conversation Arabella and I had years ago, when we were in our late teens and first discovering sex and physical intimacy with other people. For me, it was a horror show of feeling so much pressure to do the things Arabella and other friends were doing, but in the moment I would hate every second of those encounters with boys I barely knew, but considered physically attractive enough to be associated with. The way they grabbed my breasts, the way they pressed their erections against me and the way they… did more than that. I shudder at the memories I have spent so much time and energy on burying and focus on that conversation with Arabella.
“Have you ever tasted yourself?” she’d asked out of nowhere, as we unwrapped our pointe shoes after a ballet lesson.
“What?” I’d responded, confused.
“You know… your pussy juice.” Arabella at least lowered her voice.
I’d grimaced at that, and shaken my head so vehemently it made Arabella laugh. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Well, because Connor Bryant went down on me like, three or four times last night. Told me I tasted like heaven and I had to know what he meant.”
“And?” I’d asked, suddenly just as curious as I was horrified.
Arabella had shrugged. “A bit weird. Like fresh fish and chips at the beach on a warm summer’s day, but also with your favourite fizzy drink in the mix too.”
I had pushed that conversation into the same box I shoved all the uncomfortable interactions I had with boys, and later men into, but now I’m intrigued.
I bring my right index finger directly under my nose and inhale deeper. It’s a strange smell; a little earthy and airy, a little salty, and maybe a hint of sweetness. And as I place my finger on my tongue, I find that that’s exactly what it tastes like too. Weirdly, Arabella wasn’t a million miles away from the reality with her description.
“I mean, it’s not terrible,” I say to myself. I still can’t really understand why someone would want to “eat it” as they say, but I guess there are worse things you could put in your mouth.
Like semen. I shudder again. And this time it’s so big it prompts me to get up and go take the shower I now crave.
I take my time in the bathroom, lazily washing my hair and my body. I am also languid about how long I take doing my skincare and blow-drying my hair into the long waves I’m famous for. I also spend a bit more time than usual on my make-up, trying out some new shading and contour products that I was gifted, and I decide they’re good enough for a review. Getting dressed happens much quicker considering I had today’s travel outfit already planned and ironed earlier.
As I spray perfume on my clothed body, I look up at the mirror and instantly, I can see how much better I’m feeling. It’s not just my make-up or myfeck me,close to flawless hair, it’s the softness in my jaw now I’ve stopped gritting my teeth. It’s in my olive-green eyes that now sparkle a little when, first thing this morning, they looked dim and dull.
“You scrub up alright for a lonely spinster,” I tell myself and I smile at my reflection.
Maybe I really will get better at this being single shit. Maybe my hopes and dreams for a romantic relationship were just a temporary phase after seeing Jake and Rami’s movie-like reunion. Maybe if I change a few things in my work – like a new agent, new emphasis on issues I’m really passionate about – I will find more fulfilling purpose in life.
I don’t know why this has me thinking about Loncey, but it does. I look at the digital clock by the bed. I’m already half-packed and there’s still an hour and a half before I have to leave for the airport.
