Moan: Anonymous Essays on Female Orgasm by Emma Koenig

Author:Emma Koenig [Koenig, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Self-Help, Sexual Instruction, Social Science, Feminism & Feminist Theory, Women's Studies
ISBN: 9781455540556
Google: bWqLswEACAAJ
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2018-05-22T23:55:37.547263+00:00

“Sex in my early sixties came with the agreement that it just didn’t matter if either one of us had an orgasm.”

How to make me come—if you insist

Oh sure; orgasms can feel sooo good. I remember the good ole days of simultaneous orgasms with the men of my youth. I remember those as the best. After that came the days of taking turns: he makes me come and then he gets to come. That worked; especially if we had intercourse; then I could come again. Sex in my early sixties came with the agreement that it just didn’t matter if either one of us had an orgasm, “We weren’t making babies, after all.” (I know, it makes no sense.) So we would have sex for quite a long time, stopping for rest periods and going back for more. It felt really good. Sensations would get stronger, ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod I’m almost there almost almost…I could be in that almost state for a really long time. I might come or the arousal might just…wane. Sometimes we just kept at it until we were too worn out to continue. But it was a shared intimate experience, fun and oddly satisfying.

Does aging mean that the excitement of new-relationship sex wears off more quickly, or am I just faster to lose my illusions of romance after all these years? It did start to get a bit boring and I found myself considering having sex as a sleep aid. Then there’s sex as brain exercise. When, in my mid-fifties, I looked into the eyes of my adored and adoring second husband and told him that I really didn’t think I was going to come that time, he answered that I “must concentrate, darling.” Ah, I thought: I have to concentrate to come! Otherwise I am disappointing him. And I really didn’t want to do that. So I devised strategies to divert myself from the sense that it was a task: sexual fantasies, often with what would seem afterward to be humiliating scenarios. It is my opinion that feeling acutely embarrassed in a fantasy during sex sends the blood to important extremities; the clitoral equivalent of red ears, which leads to engorgement and kaboom.

The business of having sex now that I’m in my late sixties entails a lot of acceptance that a) I’m often just not turned on enough by my current partner to initiate sex, and b) this partner’s erection is not that hard, or doesn’t stay hard, or is just not going to come, so sex is going to be mostly manual.

Five years ago, after having been on my own for a while, I loved my personal orgasms with my mechanical sex toy. No serious concentration required. No worrying about whether he is getting tired or bored with trying to get me to come. And blissfully, no additional activity required after my vociferous release; just relaxation and sleep. Now, even using my really cool vibrator can seem like a chore; the orgasms seem perfunctory, coming too quickly and over too fast.

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