I think about wanking a lot. Hell, I dream about wanking pretty constantly, when I’m not either having vivid sex dreams or utterly terrifying nightmares. Funnily enough though, I never quite get around to actually doing it.
The inner monologue goes verily thus –
Libido Brain : You should totally have a wank.
Me: But nah though.
LB: That’s not an argument, mate. Come on. Indulge yourself. It’ll relax you. It’ll make you feel good.
Me: So will a nap.
LB: Naps do not lead to orgasms. Wanks do. Go on! No-one around, you can be as loud as you want. You can even get the Doxy out.
Me: BUT. NAH. THOUGH.
LB: OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
It’s a very, very tiring interior monologue. It happens pretty much every time I have a day off, in that blissfully quiet time where the house is (almost) empty and the morning is full of unknown wonder/a to do list the length of my arm. Unlike my boyfriend, I have a pretty fluctuating schedule. So at least once a week I find myself alone in the mornings, and in a prime position for a long, indulgent wank.
And the other day, miraculously, that interior monologue vanished in thin air. I wasn’t just thinking about wanking, I was actively getting the Doxy out (because a lot of my filthiest wank fantasies – by which I mean fantasies in which I am actually wanking, not ones I have during a wank – the Doxy features quite prominently), fluffing cushions and settling in a prime frig position.
It’s the position he likes me in when he’s going down on me. He kneels at the side of the bed, I lie in front of him with my legs open and resting on his shoulders. It’s this image I hold onto in my head (the actual wank fantasy) as I crank up the power on the beastly toy. The freedom of doing a Spinal Tap and cranking to eleven, quite frankly, is intoxicating. The roar, the buzz, the mild freaking out when I remember that the Doxy can go really fucking hard and maybe I should turn it down a notch anyway lest I get a whole new type of wankers cramp.
But I manage to take it to a reasonable speed. And I try to ride the wave for as long as I can, riding the soft head of the toy and losing myself in the fantasy of his tongue working its magic.
The arousal builds at triple speed. I can’t ever last long with the Doxy. It is just not physically possible – it’s so maddeningly intense that I am grabbed by the collar and pulled towards my climax. It doesn’t take me that long to get to the very edge of pleasure, and I am prepared to fall hard.
But then I don’t. My orgasm fizzes out, like a firework that changes its mind as it’s going off. It takes me seconds too long to figure out why – as I snap out of the haze and back to reality, I have to keep myself from facepalming.
It’s me. I’m why. Because I have somehow managed to grab on to the Doxy so hard that my fingers slid straight onto the OFF button. I am my own coitus interuptus. Doxytus Interuptus, if you will.
Grumbling, I sit up, pull my trousers back up and go to unplug the toy. In the end, it does turn out to be a nap that makes me feel good.