I remember like it was yesterday when I officially became a New Yorker: stampedes of students shuffling en masse into assigned dorms, me with everything I brought to start life's new chapter densely packed into twin duffels and an oversized Glad trash bag. Manhattan has been home for a long time, and it will always have a 24-karat-gold key to my heart. But its name is currently synonymous with "epicenter", and in the midst of current events I’m proud of the extraordinary collective power of New Yorkers to participate in solidarity, further proving that this city inhabits the toughest people on the planet. Nonetheless, as a good citizen trying to do my civic duty of self-quarantining, there are some unforeseen side effects on a personal level as a bonafide bachelorette that I'm certainly not used to.
For me, masturbation is a utility in its simplest form. The benefit I derive from it can be measured, assigned a fixed value that's relatively tangible and calculated into my routine:
• Morning-post-workout session = clarity and laser focus that provides a jumpstart to tackling my daily agenda
• Evening-before-sleep session = relaxation and tension relief from likely a very long day
• The-odd-afternoon session = oxygenation to combat "brain drought" hurdles
It's a form of release that is exactly that -- a release that is simple, singular and not conventionally compounded. A sexual experience with another person is quite the opposite. That's because every experience is democratically unique, never the same even with the same person, and not binary in the sense that masturbation is. Sex with a partner (despite the varying spectrum of quality) has lasting hedonic effects that can bear psychological fruit for days, weeks, months, or even a lifetime.
Circling back to now. We are all here in a shocking albeit temporary situation and the world seems flatter in more ways than even Thomas Friedman could have postured. Self-isolation to a large extent isn’t difficult for a lone she-wolf like myself. But I feel the pang of stir crazy when I’m starkly reminded of my physical cravings via the sexual instinct equivalent of a knee-jerk reaction after being deprived of the ability to satisfy them. Flesh-to-flesh pleasure nourishes me almost as much as intellectual stimulus or monetary capital infusions. It's not as personally valuable, but definitely more instantaneous. So that begs the important question: when can we receive a "bailout of sex"? I miss touch. I miss pressure and friction. I miss letting my libido explore its deepest Freudian vectors. I've never taken those simple pleasures for granted in the past, but the valves have also never been turned off. As my GLR friends will attest, the intensity level of my carnal desires would certainly be a data point clustered around the apex of the bell curve. Bad pun, I know.
What I miss, I’ll soon have again. In the interim and for the sake of flattening the distribution on behalf of the public good, I'll resort to replaying those encrypted iterations from my sex memory-hard drive...
(An excerpt from GLR’s composite of memories)
I miss straddling you between my thighs while my hair cascades down, strands so long that they tickle the lower part of your chin and chest as I dip my face towards yours to plant a deep kiss. You always tell me that I kiss almost forcefully, incited by a passion one would assume is reserved for a lover prior to a doomsday moment. I miss your hands firmly grasping my tight ass cheeks, spanking me gently then gradually more intense as you simultaneously suck and lick my nipples. Of course, you remember how much that makes me wet. The tip of my tongue caresses your Adam's apple, then my lips draw a path from the bottom of your neck up to your ear, tongue-circling this erogenous zone. You weren’t even aware that this was a turn-on for you until I did it on our first date -- and now you can't get enough. I feel you grow, firmly pressing against my inner right thigh. This makes me incredibly anxious to give it a proper greeting. I land a soft peck on your lips coupled with a seductive wink as I slowly and generously kiss my way down your chest and stomach. You’re rock hard and throbbing. You're watching me with palpable intensity, we lock eyes as I wrap my mouth around it. You let out a prolonged “Oh my god...” as your head dips back, overwhelmed with pleasure and trying so hard not to explode. You know that I prefer to take my time and with concentrated focus. My tongue and lips assisted by my perfectly manicured hands make sure every centimeter of your precious cargo gets its fair share of attention -- from the tip, to the lower shaft, to the plump sacks below... around and around again. Your fingers lightly brush my face so I release my mouth's tight grip to suckle them while my hand continues to massage it -- so incredibly wet and slippery but I manage to stroke with the perfect amount of pressure and fluidity. Your smile is mischievously boyish as you quip (like you always do in this moment) that I’m the “fucking best ever”. I try to keep my excitement in check while deep-throating but my enthusiasm starts to accelerate to a velocity that compels you to quickly grab my arms and implore me to stop because you "don’t want to cum just yet". I slowly make my way back and vigorously latch my lips with yours, licking and kissing the side of your neck as I whisper after a tongue-twirl in your left lobe: “I need you inside me, baby..."
Be healthy. Be safe. Be vigilant. See you soon, lovers.
...and thank you* for being extra amazing to me during this global struggle!
(*you know who you are)